Mass Murderers Running Amok

Indians and english don't mix. Period. I'm not talking about the British Raj of old. Not of atrocities that happened when our granpappies were wee-bitty bawlers in cradles fashioned out of their mommies' saris. I'm talking about Indians today and english, the language. Don't mix. Like petrol on water. Or black coffee and mango chutney. Nope. They don't mix. Like I said. Period. What irritates me no end is the fact that people around us murder the poor language like they are all psychopaths on rampage and there's no tomorrow. Like, "From now on, I won't do it." , or "Shuttupping him is sooo problem!". Really, I ask you! I've heard that the Spanish are very emotive and articulate, but we take the cake! We tend to say stuff by translating word to word from some obscure regional language. Not even the so-called teachers we had were better off. Actually, they were worse. I'll be wheelchair-bound and breathing through an apparatus before I forget "gems" like- "Pick the paper, throw the dustbin." "Close the window, air force is coming in." "Vents in the earth's crust get unplugegged (un-pla-jhu-good) by hot air." "He talking, you talking, everybody talking once once only!" These pearls were said by some of my high school teachers. We crib for a closer world. Advances in communication has bridged gaps. People interact with others halfway across the earth on a regular basis. Certain bright people have propounded the importance of a universal language for this purpose. In terms of number of speakers, Mandarin and english top the charts. But, english speakers cover half the globe in terms of area (one of the few real good things to come out of colonisation), making it ideal for the purpose. But, brainless worms we have for our leaders here campaign for "upliftment of regional languages" which are dead outside their own states. They want regional languages to be medium of instruction in primary schools (imagine that! Brainwashing kids when they are at their most susceptible). Sadly, they have succeeded partially. Lucky thing every successive government nullifies all the rulings passed by the previous one. There's still hope. I have no problem with other languages (I'm proud to admit I can speak 5 regional languages passably well). It's only a problem when it is used by crazed fanatics as a shield against progress. Good progress. That can only bring good to the world. The big picture. The big picture looks nice only if all the little bits that make it up also look good. Well, I was lucky to have parents who literally covered me with books to read all the time. Man, I'm proud of them! But, not a lot of people are that lucky. I've seen enough incidents on TV where Indians, representing the country on the international stage, invariably stick their feet in their mouths. The situation won't change unless people take literacy more seriously with a long-term plan in mind. Not my place to nag people to do what I think should be done. My ideas are half-baked at best. And I don't wear a Charlie Chaplain mustache and a swastika armband. Heel Hitler!

Night-outs and Friends

Its been long. Since I pulled an all-nighter. Decided to do it today. Tonight. No particular reason. Just. Its been so long that I can't remember the last time I stayed up all night. I used to do it a lot. Back in high school. Especially in 11th & 12th. We used to have sleepovers at one of the guy's house (that's what we told our parents. None of parents ever even came close to finding out what we actually did. Bless them all). The thing is no one ever sleeps at a sleepover. We took it a step further. Several steps further. Pretend to sleep till about 11 (waiting for whosever parents to go to sleep). Once snoring commences from the master bedroom, sneak out to the balcony of our room, climb onto the railing, reach for the branch of the neighbour's mango tree and we're out! Bikes wheeled to a safe distance from the house and then started. Freedom for the next 6 hours to do what we want. Empty roads to greet us. Begging us to accelerate. We oblige. Where to go? The beach (a favourite at any time of the day. Or night), The Gudde ( a hill with a cliff on one side. Brilliant breeze. Frequented by druggies and smokers during the day. And by crazy teens like us in the night. Last time I went to my hometown, I found the whole hill bulldozed to the ground and a poster of an apartment building put up in it's place), Holy Hill (a hilltop chapel with a 20 ft statue of Jesus at the peak), a highway dhaba, or just rip on the highways; we had loads of options. I feel like an old man reminiscing about his heyday. But back then, the city was a quiet place at night. Everyone, including the police, where they should be - in bed. Used to be a sleepy place with zero nightlife. Gave us ample opportunity to explore the city by night. Security was so lax we even got into the airport a couple of nights. Raced our bikes on the runway. Almost 4 kms of topspeed on the smoothest stretch of tar I've been on. It was exhilirating. Being on the beach was fun. Just walking along the shore. Trying to avoid the waves in order to protect our shoes. Reading and laughing at the weird boat names. Having mock fights with oars in the light of a cellphone. Finding road-repair equipment abandoned for the night was always a thrill. The number of times we tried getting a roadroller to start up in vain. We'd end up wearing the workers' hard hats and posing for photos astride the machine. The number of miles we've put in just cruising the highways at night, I don't know. I've lost count. Actually, I've never kept count. But, we used to go even into the neighbouring districts. A couple of times, even crossed the state border. Easily done 150 odd kms a few times. I remember once, we were tired out and were about 10 kms or so away from the guy's place where we were supposed to be sleeping, so we parked the bikes and put them on centrestand and slept on them! The best part of these long distance rides were the songs we sang. Out of tune. Off key. But with more joy than a devout Christian on Christmas eve. We said we'd always do it whenever a chance comes our way. Promised ourselves and each other. But like I said, it's been a while now. Opportunity seems to have gone about knocking elsewhere. Or maybe we've just grown apart. Each searching for something new beyond the horizon in different directions. Being in different places for higher studies doesn't help. And guys aren't very good at talking on the phone for hours with other guys. Whatever the reason, a night-out on bikes with those guys doesn't seem to be on the cards anytime soon. Damn! I'm getting all nostalgic and misty-eyed. Those were the days my friend, We thought would never end.

The Music of the Night

Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation, 
Darkness stirs; and wakes imagination, 
Silently the senses abandon their defences. 

Slowly, gently, night unfurls it's splendour, 
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender, 
Turn your face away from the garish light of day, 
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light, 
And listen to the music of the night. 

Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams, 
Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before, 
Close your eyes; let your spirit start to soar, 
And you'll live as you've never lived before. 

Softly, deftly, music shall caress you, 
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you, 
Open up your mind; let your fantasies unwind, 
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight, 
The darkness of the music of the night. 

Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world, 
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before, 
Let your soul take you where you long to be, 
Only then can you belong to me. 

Floating, falling, sweet intoxication, 
Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation, 
Let the dream begin; let your darker side give in, 
To the power of the music that I write, 
The power of the music of the night. 

You alone can make my song take flight, 
And help me make the music of the night. 

- Charles Hart

Bullshit versus Bullcrap

Its time I wrote something on my blog. High time. Not that I feel the urge to write something. The sudden prick in your fingers that are just itching to pick up a pen and scribble away to glory. No, I don't particularly feel the need to put something on paper or type something on this page. But, I have a blog. Some people actually take the pains to read through all the bullcrap I post. Bullcrap- nice word. Much more sophisticated than 'Bullshit' . Bullshit sounds so crude. Bullshit has to be said with a face tailor-made for it. You know, draw in your eyebrows together. Half-close your eyelids. Scrunch up your nose. Put on a nice sneer. Make your face ugly on the whole (not that some people need any effort to do that). Now say "Bullshit!", like you mean it. That's the way to say bullshit. Way too much trouble and expenditure of energy (you need loads of practice before you can get the right facial muscles to pull to ensure a really horrible face). But, bullcrap, you can say it just like that. "Bullcrap.", nice and easy. Keep a blank face. Just make your lips form the word Bullcrap. You could roll your eyes for added effect. There it is. You can't imagine a well brought-up gentleman saying "Bullshit!". That would be extremely ungentlemanly of him. Would be telling on his "breeding", so to speak. But, you can very well see in your mind's eye, a gentleman with a top hat and a tailcoat and nicely polished shoes, a monocle and maybe a stick; walking around Piccadilly Circus saying "Bullcrap, old chap!" to a friend's query about Chelsea FC being the favourites to win the year's English Premier League title. Hmmmm, I like what I wrote. I should come up with stuff like this more often. Its something I'll read 2 weeks later and think to myself, "What was I thinking?! Really! Bullcrap versus Bullshit??!!".