Words

Words are sometimes literal, metaphoric or invisible; they have texture, feeling and sound. Most people do not realize that words breath as individuals do and if you observe, you may even feel their breath. Sometimes they are jumbled up, sometimes they are different from the effect they have, and sometimes they mean nothing close to the way they sound. Words amaze me, when they casually fit in one mouth and are uncomfortable in another, or when they surface suddenly and make a sound that is familiar to a fragrance.

Recently, I unconsciously squirmed when I heard a man say 'I will ping you', or 'Tinkle me when you are free' - the words Ping and Tinkle don't sound weird otherwise, but from a man (with a raucous voice) they sound funny - almost like they had gender preferences. Maybe words do have gender preferences.

Words are also elitist and denote a certain temperament - like the words cantankerous, moribund, absolution, obliterate, ophidion, penumbra, runic or simply the word waif. Often in the Monk's text I find words that sound like vespers warning a dying sun - daring him a revenge - “deviant humor ventures forth, unassuming koalemos in unfortunate range”. Or Wasabi's, following of the fundamental meaning in the word fundamentalist - or my usage of the word chauvinist. Talkathon treats words like doodles on a page - and in ways they turn out to sound and look interesting. She would write something on these lines - 'What was once when, then they forgot when, why, which, how, and everything became what - I am tired of the 'what' in USA.' Or the way Mush writes - 'Can a man ever challenge his future without reclaiming his past? Can glory ever come to a fraught mind? Is this why Alexander failed? I ask you if you can forgive my smelly socks and my unsavoury stew?' Like the paradox laden Black Pearl's work , “I stand strong on weak knees.” Or the love element in every sentence that Drama King weaves - 'the love is in the loathing my dear, I want to burn, burn, burn - par ab intejzaar aur sahi (however there is still some time for that).

The word unconditional is attached to one abstract concept - love, and another process - rearing.

Language is often like a river that takes the qualities of the land it flows on. It moulds itself according to the terrain, words come to life and disappear. They form and move into oblivion, and finally they take on a different meaning altogether. However, the text is always a little less important than its context.

The word separators wheel power, actually 'separators' wheel power. Power lies with the hierarchy, hierarchy decides the base, the base decides the super structure and the super structure decides the codes of a language, which in turn decide facts, truths and popular realities; moulding history, myth and culture.The separator is a stupid long space bar, a forefinger's space between clustered letters.

The separator is no larger than an inch of space - empty space, that holds ransom an entire body of work.

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Language
A, aa
La
Lang
Gauge
Language
Languish
Anguish.

Stolen
Borrowed
Fused

Language
A scream
A silence
A voice
A meaning

Langue
Parole
Gross;
language double crossed.

Formless, spineless
Repressed, aggressed
Words.

What was –was, is – is
Can be…would be
Maybe…must be.

Language
Can’s
May’s
Must’s

Voices, words, meanings
Language: one’s identity.

I
Dent
Ity
Entity

Ity’s, Ism’s, Question marks.

Language--- claustrophobic
--- Anarchic

Hermo, Hetro, Homo, Trans, Bi: Hinglish
Lan(g)uaged

Borrowed
Stolen
Fused

Language- scent of black earth in white snow

Space. Time.
Chance. Power.
Politics of Power.
White, heterosexual, pure-bred, capitalist, hegemonic words…

Ah!
Anguish
Languish
Language
Gauge
Lang

Our tongue:
A double edged sword.
Mother tongue---father wars
Father tongue ---mother land.

Mind, a dumb dadaist.
Used, clichéd, hackneyed,
Language yours and mine.

Like a stray set of alphabet on a deserted page
Blank in a mob is language.
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I miss PIES - I want to go back to class :(

Not Just Images

Every image has a story to tell. Every ray of light was waited for to be captured in order to make the image immortal.
These are some of my favorites - by very talented photographers.

Credits: Ankur Aras, Annie Leibovtiz, Danilo Lex, Greg Gorman, Hans Neleman, Helmut Lang, Lillian Bassman, Micheal Grieves, Rafiq Ellis, Robert Freeman, Sam Abell, Tarun Khiwal, Tasar Qureshi and Zubin Shroff.

There are many more, just that I don't know them, yet.

Terrible Child

The monk called me that last evening – I can’t deny that I am not one.

however, when is the right time to give up your childish dreams, forsake the teddy bear, or stop reading romance? “Either you dream about the real world or live in it.” - Monk's ‘get out of the box and get real’ gyaan, made me reflect,in its most serious definition.

I have fought it ferociously for years now, a certain part of me never wants to grow up, never own responsibility, be needy and remain a leech – something in yesterday’s conversation changed all of that. Between espressos, the vacuum sucked me in, causing a lonely space that I am not sure if I could live with – but I knew I wanted to be friends with that confinement.

I am not Jaw- breaker and I can’t get away by saying, “U know me na, main asi hi hoon. I know it’s terrible and I hate it too but I am super needy and cribby. What to do, I love u na.” I can’t be that – I am not that.

If I am not that and can’t be happy with this – what is that I am seeking? I need to choose my side now. And as i did today morn, I only pray that I don’t do a bad job of it.

Yes, its time to shed this skin.

Too Much Text?

Moss made a comment that ‘certain people write too much on their blogs’. Moss is inconsequential in the judgements he makes because they have a tendency to evaporate, like a la Chameleon's. However, he teaches me two things – where to retain ones child-like nature and where to absorb your spiritual self (no, he is none of the above – but people teach you either way).

I was thinking, maybe he is right, we do write too much. Blogs are meant for short funny matters that amuse your readers, or so we think. For me when I wanted to write, I knew it would have to be what I have and being cursed with ‘honesty on paper’, there is little for my imagination to stray. For me a blog is your space – you may write, leave it blank or caricature the world on it – the rest of the guiding/preaching world can go fuck its self to an orgasm. Yes, you can curse as well!

weekend - taunts and touch

Something very weird is happening to me. It is happening and I am just watching from faraway – unable to decide whether I want it to happen or not. It’s a new feeling, a new experience.

Recent observation had me jumping on to my defence instantly – be it with the Crankyhag, Moss or even Androgyny. My vitriolic tongue spews counter attacks with unimaginable accuracy. For one, I wasn’t like this; secondly I am not too sure I like it. It goes against my principles of non-violence. And for propagating the same, I am seriously violent. I reflected on the way everything was happening and realised that I am unconsciously deciding what I want; but I am unable to convey what I don’t want. That frustration comes out in unappreciated smart-ass comments and physical violence against the people I don’t like. Then again, its not that I don’t like them – some of them are my closest buddies, colleagues and family – what I am unable to tell is that, “dear Soandso, this trait of yours affects me, it makes me uncomfortable and I think I am beyond ignoring it; so please refrain from behaving like that with me henceforth.”

Simple, ain’t it? I told myself that today. I had to figure out ways of telling them the same. I am not a bitch and don’t wish to turn into one either.

Another element in the weird-sphere is of touch. I have been a hug-n-kiss babe for a while now; apart from my profession, ‘the kiss on the right cheek (unless you have bad skin)’ drama was a part of me since college. I have aced the art of cordial hugs. Now, someone even trying a friendly touch gets me mad – I have become a mimosa plant. The way I cringe away makes me feel as though the other person is a bad case of psoriasis. There is zero humaneness, warmth or any friendly love in the casual shoulder hugs that I now give – and it’s not the people. I simply don't feel some people should touch me . Its like they will spoil something in me - I am afraid their negative energy will rub-off and I will be responsible for it.

It’s been a while that tears rolled down my eyes. Say probably a year or so. Today I finished the book and the moved to watching a movie on sorority. The rules were same: independence, happiness, courage, grab the reins of your life, respect your desires, stand by your decisions, live life, etc… the loss, gain and absolution of fears and hatred had me sniffing. Then came the boo hoo hoo - why are people the way the are and how can they be so cruel, etc... the usual drama.

Before watching the movie though, I had a random discussion with Childmom, who pointed to me that I have been erasing certain people from my life by avoiding them even in public. Well, I would agree, the other day I met the gang for dinner, Crankyhag joined us uninvited. Apart from the fact that I had to reschedule the tables, I decided to not converse with him for the lack of mutual subjects. Conversely, picked on me the second he sat. I was teasing Monkeybaby and he made unwanted remarks in intervals; finally I retorted and Wise capitalist gave me a dirty stare, as if I was the culprit! I wanted to smack her, but I didn’t want to screw my evening. I am here to have a good time and I might as well do that. I cut both of them out and concentrated on a fantastic meal with Con-artist.

As we parted ways, Cranky made another comment and that too before Wisecap, monkeybaby and childmom, I was on my best behaviour and returned it with a plastic ‘ya, right whatever’ smile. What pinched me was that my friends didn’t say a word. Next day morn, I pulled up Childmom for the same and she acknowledged her mistake, "km on everybody was there, what was the point of picking a fight. He is older to u na, ignore baby, ignore. And he means a lot to Chameleon, so forgive him. Ps. I can’t tell u how much he got on to my nerves; I had to spend my entire evening with him, before you guys arrived.’ Serves her good!

My question still stands, why have different faces all the time? I sent out a ‘please do not invite me if ‘he’ is coming’ sms to all. It was reciprocated with smilies, alright - whatever, you are over reacting, and I understand replies. This had to stop – so what if I had to be the one to start?

Beautiful People

For my Torch – who is leaving India in search of ‘interesting pastures’ Happy Journey, you shall find what you seek.

I don’t know anyone who does not like a pretty face, a figure enhancing dress, stunning heels or sparkling diamonds. Esp. in the metrosexual world is just as important to look good as it is to be bitchy. There is nothing wrong about it - we are greedy, selfish, superficial people, for whom the packaging surpasses the quality.

Is acceptance the first step to change? Now, not really. Acceptance is a way of comforting our conscience, accepting the satva with tamas. Being beautiful or ugly doesn’t improve the qualities within us. (The other day while walking down the platform, I brushed across a girl in a too obviously fake Versace; I was on the side of the train tracks and as the train approached I urged her to move in, and when she didn't I pushed her as the horn howled in my ears. She turned to call me a fat bitch just before I decided to turn around and apologise. I refrained, glared at her and called her an ugly mare with a fake Versace! I didn’t wait to see whether she was looking. Point is she wasn’t ugly or mare-like but I found her lack of civic sense, judgement and loose tongue - classless. I don’t think her looks compensated for those 45 seconds.)

But looks are very important and one often can get away with a smile. That gets me to befriending beautiful-looking people. A name in history is ‘Plastered face’; since childhood, we all have our knee jerks - mine was being fat, hers was being short and ‘not fair enough’. She pioneered in calling me names on being the fairest/ prettiest chick in class. Starting with chalk, flour, plaster of paris, albino, tube light, etc… needless to say we never became friends. But the colour bar scarred me for life till I entered college. I have crossed many like me; all of them were pretty but seriously flawed in their own way.

At the coffee-skimmed-milk parlour almost half a decade ago, Century slut claimed that I had the guys I wanted because Indian men dream of a ‘white cunt’ – "it’s the colonial hangover, you know!" I took serious offence to it then, coz it wasn’t the truth. I have since then dumped everyone who wanted anything more than what was in the offing. I have lost some really nice people in the bargain - they were left with large question mark and a ‘u don’t exist for me’ look on their face.

Then I met Torch. She was the only chick I knew my ‘all guy’ friend circle. When I saw her, I couldn't help but stare, she was everything a guy wanted, and everything a girl wanted to be. But Torch being tight arsed, eyebrow twitching, nasty remarks expert - was unapproachable. We sat at the same table and I smiled at her, she gave me her ‘what the fuck are u smiling at’ look but seconds later smiled back.

We have since been friends, and the kind that teach each other about life. On our last pajama party, her confession was a stunner, "K i hate to say it but you my bitch are the most beautiful chic in chicland - and I am so f-ing jealous of you.' Coming from her- it was the most insincere, fake but best compliment I have received under d influence of alcohol. “That idiotic smile u have, twinkling eyes and the happy look - compels one to smile back only to be on the safe side. You have been the best bitch I know, bloody bitch, I am so f-ing going to f- your case to not feel the vacuum” and she loves bitches!! The hugs after that were tight warm and filled with more wine screams!

Torch is the in model of the group. There is a bias - I am beautiful not because I look good, I had known that eons now. When in the bevy, I just wait for my turn as they pick out guys for entertainment tonight. Or wait for all the guys to finish staring at the gang and then turn to look at me. I often end up pimping them through the evening and land up alone on my way back home. (No i don't feel bad about it.)

They are pretty women, like d metrosexual genius is a pretty boy. He knows more about botox than most professionals do, he is not gay, doesn’t swing either! And he doesn’t go out with average looking women. (friends r exceptions, thank you!).

Today beautiful is being Gay and being Gay is in vogue. If u are gay, it is taken for granted that u have an amazing sense of style, looks and oomph. The editors of straight men’s magazines are gay; make that obvious- looking closet gays or single cynical men who haven’t had sex for a decade (in the least)! But they are termed genius; like a pretty face is just a pretty face; a gay writer is just good in the columns of fashion and gossip. I don’t deny any of that, but super straight men are also good at this game.

Torch being in the fashion business laughs at gays –‘they are poor souls – and the worse bitches. You can’t help but pity them – they are on no side of the fence and have to serve on both sides of the fence. Imagine watching a naked woman when you could almost puke at that sight or shave a straight model’s crotch. Also they have to follow the rules of being gay – they don’t have the freedom to be themselves. Once you pronounce yourself as gay, you cease to be everything else after that – including human!

That was my first on the other side of the fence perspective of gays. Torch had sensibilities that changed a lot me. One clear instance was after her first hard earned Charles and Keith shoe broke – she cursed, not cried. ‘bastards can't make shoes for humans, can they? She picked up her keds, and threw strappys in the bin – I was shocked, don’t u want to mend them I asked? K its just a fucking shoe, and it frigging hurts to wear it! It was profound, although it may not sound so.

I will miss all the ten min meets – the tight hugs, the ‘bloody bitch’, the smiles, the beauty treatments and most of all I will miss the classy bitch – Torch, have a great life. And don’t call me! Lol, I ain’t gonna cry.

Forlorn Vespers

The words are profound and so is my need. This is an aftermath of situation and a lost self.

I walk around with an infectious smile, “Babe, u are so crazy!” I smile and we crack dirty jokes. 'Let's go', he says, 'I have to meet her today, come with me.' I refuse, he doesn't persist. 'No, is your favorite word, is it not?' I laugh, pose as a queen and say good bye.

As I walk down Colaba, the NOs flash in my face, I cease to laugh/ smile/ smirk at passing people, vendors and kids. I sit at the Parsi bakery in Marine Lines and wait for her to come. It starts to rain, I relish the chai and look at the owner, who looks at the roof.

The book is travelling, to him this time. She lived in his apartment after he abruptly left. When she called me, I didn't know who she was or what she wanted; she uttered a name and I was there, and thats how we became friends. “ I read it, I couldn't help it. If it's any solace, I cried. I want to ask why but I guess it's none of my business.”

How did you find me?” I ask her, “From the office register, I just put two into two and gave it my best shot. You know he left in the night, without notice; the landlord was angry, but I had no place to stay, so I thank him!” She smiled asking for sympathy, my broken smile wiped hers away. He scribbled in it, we fought over it. He never let me read it. After one such fight, he text me that if I read it, I would not consider him 'much of a man'. I laughed and never asked again - certain territories were not to be crossed, he and I both knew that.

The book saddled in my hands for months, without the courage to read. I knew it would unleash something in me and trap me for ever and ever in a trench, never to be recovered. I didn't want to be a wilful slave, I procrastinated. When I read, it had his smell, I could place every moment we spent, every nod of his head that said - 'Nah, Nothing!', his feelings eloquently written. That was first time I knew a side of him that was weak, my hulk was weak. That was also the time when I discovered how beautiful I was to him. His verse, “Her Eyes Plague Me' made me cry, he was sexual and beyond the realms of my body. I remembered how he would hold my palms and pray, my tiny lean hands engulfed in two large cushions of flesh. Then there were the fights, 'Pope, she likes Pope. What kind of a woman likes Pope?' ' When she spoke of nudity and naked body, I wanted to jump off the window, it was embarrassing and she wouldn't stop.' 'My butterfly has no shame and it makes me more happy than ever. She is pure like the first melting drop from Gangotri.' I want to slip beneath her skin, it's safe there'.

I laughed and wept and returned the book to her, to return it to him. “Uski amanat lotaa rahi hooni, litchi ke chilke mere hain, woh beej legaya hai.” (I am sending his stuff, the litchi skin is mine, he took the seeds with him.)
She quietly let them be with me and hugged. “You know, he is very successful there, you should visit him. He doesn't keep well though and he doesn't paint anymore.” Tell him, 'I have grown fat and I don't paint anymore either.”

I am amorphous in your arms, I dissolve when my body is immersed in water. My foot-pad craves for your tongue and my mind for that kiss to quench my soul. I can't wander like this - I can't look for rain in a barren bazaar. The magic around me sublimates into nothingness - like an orgasm disappeared. The furniture around me shrieks, and I caress it to silence. The arch of a wooden sofa, the curve of a bottle, the circle of the glass mouth; I sit on the armchair and rock the invisible you in my arms.

I feel your weight, my breath deepens; you say, “Main agar insaan anhi hota toh teri mohobaat hota, tere rooh ki sadgi hota, teri julfon ki deewangi hota, tere haatho ka saaya hota, teri aakhon ki khamoshi hota, tere khawb hota, tere jism pe behti lehere hota, teri aawaj hota. Main agar insaan nahi hota toh... tera saaya hota.” ( If I wasn't a man, I would have been your love, the simplicty of your soul, your wild hair, the shadows that your hands make, the silence in your eyes, your dreams, the waves that feel your body, your voice. If I wasn't human... I would have been your shadow.)

A tear rolls down my left cheek, my fingers feel the strength of your spine. You look up to me and turn away - the words hold no good.

Years later, in a cafe I meet an acquaintance who you met on a plane to Paris, and asked him to remind me that if 'I wasn't human, I would have been everything I said'. “He looks like a ghost, completely lost, and he talks of you like it was yesterday.” I smile, he continues. “ He has sworn to never step into this country, he doesn't like B'bay anymore. The last time he came here, he stayed for three days and didn't get out of the damn hotel. I can't blame you, you were like the hills in Arunachal and he the rocks of Leh. It's too long a bridge to build, but I want to blame you.”

The other-side takes over and I walk away, he watches me go. Bangs his fist on the table, "Say a word for him, will you?" I turn to look and my eyes are tear pools; we look and he flops into his chair with a loud moan - "Allah, yeh kaisi ibaddat hai?" (Lord, what kind of a prayer is this?)
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Its important to understand that not everyone understands you. What is more important is to not hold it against them.

For T - who lived her entire life in a four-month romance, For DK - on whom the stars will shine. For R - Hope he is worth the wait. and For K - May infinite love be with you.

VOICES

1) While on the topic of DK's ex', “We used to meet really early, and I used to get her keema, brune pav with maska and chai from Cafe Paramount. We had breakfast on my terrace and it was so romantic - i can never forget those mornings! I don't know how come that bitch forgot about them.”

2) "7:53pm tears streamed down my face, sniffing in heavy traffic, in a cab, holding myself silently. Questioning my courage, 'can i jump off the cliff when i reach the apex or will i too cower under the cold pressure of things left behind?'

3) What do you think about people who do not believe in love, “I think they are missing something. It may not be the good part, but definitely the bad part. You know the bad part is actually pretty amazing!

4) "There are so many things I could write but never posted, emailed or blogged them. So many joys to be jealous of, so many griefs that I thought I couldn't live through. Things that my heart can't live with even today. Parts of me that will be buried for the lack of courage and empathy from others. The tender moments live forever, like 'the wet walk on a drizzling evening, saving my file and an aroused yet shy body. Or waking up from a mesmerizing book to find a pair of burnt copper eyes peering into my soul with unblinking certainty of an eagle.'"

5) "On racing straight to work - An irritated voice, “For god's sake have breakfast me with today, and dare you ditch me!" Now sounding cranky, "I don't want to eat alone, I feel like I am in New York and my parents are dead.” This conversation took place at 06:45 am.

6) "Woman - the magic you talk about, very few men understand, forget believe in it!"

7) "The constant springing of the word facetious - almost like an omen asking me to take notice." (Scarily, after years, I hear this word in a foreign mouth, where it doesn't seem to belong.)

8) At the gym, “The woman running beside me, was thin and ugly. Ugly is not the word, she was hideous and was making those faces - I was scared. I was scared that she was going to puke on me."

9) There rises a tumour in me - when you say that name. That name, my dear causes internal bleeding.

10) This hocus pocus about ideology gets to me - I mean how d f*** does the political situation in Russia improve my g*** boss?

11) C says, “Personal is political and vice verse - you must uproot patriarchy with women power.”
A says - “ yup C**T rulz! I want to see them flash - ;).”
K says - “ yes, my dear man-slut, you shall welcome your own end.”
C says - “ We have to destroy gender dividers, not wait for them to go extinct, K.”
A says - “Yes, K - i want to be destroyed, fanna, khak - all in bed. C tu sala loser hai, hamesha one track ;) .”
C says - "D*** head, Ask your girlfriend - who is the loser in her bed.”
A pounces on C - fist fight. K shouts - ' Cut it out guys'
A and C yell, “ It a man thing!”
K shuts up and leaves.

12) V at 11pm 1999 :- “India wins, we are such good buggers! I am so losing my job! I need a coke, hey F make me a joint. What the fuck, it's my dad on line, listen guys get my math paper. I am so screwed. Listen K, i love u and I shall be your bitch in prison. Get me some plectrums, babe. P please, i need that sex tape, i get lonely without u. I need a kiss, and i need a kick. And food, A tera khana yaad aaye ga, and i need to finish my notes. Can somebody buy me coffee?” All without a pause, without a reply. V left that night, flew out in the morning. He never returned, for either the coffee, the joint, the sex-tape or the prison.

13) "Dreams my dear, are often made of Glass, the second you compromise, you scratch it. And remember, nobody buys a scratched glass."

14) In the canteen, "Life is about laughing at oneself - the best kind of humour is, in insulting yourself - that way you cease others from doing the same."

15) "A gift is a gift, it maybe a curse or a jewel. But it is still a gift. If mine gives you allergy, thank me and leave it by the sea." - I did.

There are some voices that come and go - all the above were said in situations that changed my outlook at life. They are frivolous and very serious at the same time. Sometimes what is less important than when - but most of the time when doesn't exist.

Dawn at the Roseman Bridge.

It was almost midnight, floating in light sleep, my mind was glued on the infinite happiness that Robert and Francesca were experiencing (3rd time over). I wanted this moment to freeze; didn't turn the page, let their love last for that one extra night.

The alarm sang 'katra katra milti hai, katra katra jeene do, zindagi hai, behene do...' at four am, I knew it was going to be a perfect day! On my way out to the gym, Borivali station looked spacious, still warm though with handful moving around, dressed in work attire. Darkness was thickening around me, the morning fog settling, twenty minutes and it would be dawn - the photographer in the corner of my mind calculated.

I held that thought and pulled out the bookmark from the page. The setting and the emotion, I left last night, was waiting for me.

I had to turn the page - it was time.

The scent and words took over, I knew the storm was coming, tears would taste my skin quietly, probably with a little smile now. But not yet, not today.

I reached Bandra, stepped out feeling very heavy, almost sniffing but not crying. I was almost there, but not really there - this time around, I hadn't given in so easily. It felt silly to think that maybe I had matured in 'the reading', a little The impact of those words was similar but I had handled it well - till now. (Robert's letter could prove me wrong, any second).

The last step to the bridge, I saw a faint saffron line rising - 18 mins, two more and the Bandra east skyline will go peach. The color gradation was about to begin. I waited to see the sharp orange form, sighed as people hurriedly dodged me. I imagined how the orange would look from Banganga, and called Drama King.

He was on his way and relatively in a better mood. “I will be there mademoiselle, in just 3 minutes.” I prepared myself for his, “who wakes up this early, its an obscene time? It's not even morning! You make me do crazy things. I am so irritated, you know I am not a morning person. What the f***, my phone is naked, where is the cover, you vile woman, you ate it? It drives me mad. Mademoiselle, why can we not do this at a sane time, like eight or so?”

I decided not to scold him today, not get back or mock; i was going to bear his irritation, today would be different. Years later, when we will not have time for friends, - we would miss these early mornings, we would miss the madness! i would miss this crazy irritating menopausal Drama King.

As I waited under the blinking red light, the azaan ended. Sunlight started to wipe the moon out. Some vendors were cleaning their shop's footsteps; and far away someone was baking naan. The car halted in front of me, honking, signaling me to step in. He looked at me and exclaimed, as I lowered the music volume, “Oh, my god, mademoiselle! It's that book again! are you going to cry? I could give you my shoulder but your colored tears will ruin the white linen.”

His morning voice sounded like a big brass bell on a nubile reindeer in a winter sky - amused, irritating and ecstatic! I smiled and forgave the arsehole of a guy that he is!

The Militant, The Mimic, The Moderator and The Mute

Warning: This is not an intelligent post, just an observation.

At the lunangular Moss being his usual self, voiced 'social citizen's' concern over 'development'. This discussion went on to become a battle of rights and wrongs; aimless, inconsequential argument over topics ranging from commercialization exploiting the unpronounceable land, to activism of the paper tigers (a term coined by Androgyny, or it is said so) scared me with the burning rage I saw in Moss's eyes.

Black Pearl accused me of living in theories and as this discussion progressed - i found myself trapped - like in Shoba's class, in the child labour conferences, in the women's bill drafting meeting. It was a 'the cat is clawing on my door' feeling, and I didn't like it at all. Debates surge a different energy and provide a different high that stifles the clean space on a page. Moss was on the brink -- his lack of serious sensibilities towards 'real' issues, channelises his fury into the lower rung of pro-development advocacy: the gutters that will never breed any good.

Hypothetically speaking any social order constitutes to the four M's :

the Militant, the Mimic, the Moderator and the Mute.

The Militant is a human thought who believes in action for reaction. He is our malicious opportunist. Examples lay in policy makers, corporate lemon squeezers, arms market dealers, advertising industry gimmicks, multiple choice consumerism et. al. They are known to exploit the world at large by always taking more than they give. This zone of human thought is usually neutral of emotions and in it's loyalty does not belong to anyone or anywhere.

The Mimic settles in the lower rung; learning and multiplying from its nexus with the Militant. This group flowers on mutual profits (when on the same side of the fence). Religious fundamentalists, activists, social- governing bodies, pharmacy giants, media, etc... They are the face of the shining/ shadow side of the powerful militant; they interpret and display the core ideology for the masses. A quality prominent of this segment is a generous peppering of names, shallow knowledge of the core ideology and unreasonable conviction. They are the loudest cheerleaders or opposites.

The Moderate is often the furniture of the system. The active, affluent, educated form the group - the common bonds are the rising feelings of futility, different set of priorities, set goals to be achieved, and a desensitized skin. They are often found in the working class, or professionals who, swim in the ocean without befriending or antagonising the militant.

The Mute are the marginalised. They thrive on invisibility and are often buried under the shadow of the Mimic. The Mute as a group is fluid, it may be a group of oppressed communities, a negated religion, a destroyed culture or a language pushed into oblivion. Their stories are often told with great drama, however we do not see/hear them. And because they are Mute (without voice, power or information) they are at the mercy of the Mimic or the militants, and both exploit and profit from their empty status.
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The circle shall not change, it will move, the mimics will become militants, the moderates the mutes, the mutes the mimics, etc... the word progress comes with a baggage 'at whose cost', someone pays for all our comforts and luxuries and we do for someone else's too.

Choose your side of the coin.