Uruk Hai⁽¹⁾ defends Logic

Gajanana⁽²⁾, what's happening to the smart people?

We were watching 'Maria, Maria' by Santana, and there were a lot of black dudes dancing in the video.

Discussion:

They: Black guys are better dancers.

I: Yea, because they practice a lot, I guess.

They: No, black people as such have a sense of rhythm, naturally.

I: Yea, but that's because they practice. Becuase they grow up in an environment where they get time to practice, because they grow up in an environment where dancing isn't considered a waste of time, because they grow up in an environment where they express themselves through dance. An Indian guy who grows up in a similiar environment and practices his moves will move around pretty well as well.

They: No, no. I know an African guy who hadn't danced much, and whom everyone thought was like a lame dancer...but once day he danced like a god and all the chicks were bowled over.

I: I never said that people cannot be good dancers instinctively. All I am saying is that this trait will not be restricted to blacks.

But They just wouldn't accept that. Maybe it was because They wanted to claim superiority to the blacks in other fields, like intelligence, creativity, may be? They gave me example after example of black celebrities who were good dancers and non-black celebrities who were lousy dancers, some who had been to discotheques in the USA telling me how dance floors were totally dominated by black guys.They then went into statistics, giving me numerical examples about how Jews were better bankers, Blacks better runners, Indians better IT professionals and so on.

As if that wasn't enough, They started talking about how Brahmins⁽³⁾ were smarter, and at this point in time, I was chuckling, while they gave me figures of the number of Brahmins in NTU as proof of Brahmins being smarter. And all the time, the voices were getting louder and the body language, more aggressive. One of Them stood up and all, in an unconscious effort to intimidate me.

Now this was getting to be like being locked up in a room with a megaphone-weilding Goebbels, so I shut my ears and did what I do many a times when I am in an argument.

Cut to Thought Experiment:

Ashwin is 18 years old. He has just scored 95.33 on his HSC, and he is generally happy with himself. All those hours of slogging in the night have paid off. He can see his mother smiling, red faced in relief. As a Brahman [tathakathit⁽⁴⁾] it was quite imperative for him to score high. He was feeling really proud of himself, looking at his hard earned marks on his sheet. His friend, Atul walks up; he is an OBC⁽⁴⁾ [tathakathit], and asks,
"How much did you score?"
Pat came the answer, "95.33, man. You?"
He shrugs and replies, "92.5. Good marks man, but then again, Brahmins are smarter..."
Ashwin looks at him, incredulous, "Dude, I slogged my butt off on this one. Don't you say to my face that these marks are because I was born with some smart gene, ok?"

Cut back to Discussion.

By saying that black guys are better dancers naturally, you are depriving the black dudes of the hours of practice that they put into devising new moves that rock. By saying that Indians are naturally better at mathematics, you deny them the glory of the logical mind that they mould over the years of learning various theorems and co-relating them. By saying that black people are naturally better runners you are discounting the many gruelling workouts that one has had on the track.

By attributing anything to a person's affiliation to a racial, national or religious demographic you are insulting the person's efforts, creativity and his individuality. You are belittling his achievements as something that had to be expected in lieu of the person being from a particular racial, national or religious background.

I found that offensive. They said that they would be fine with a person saying that they were good at computers because they were Indians, as opposed to because they had taken more interest in computers at a younger age and had shown a voracious appetite for technical manuals. Shame, shame.

Glossary :

(1) Uruk Hai - Militant Orcs in JRRT's novels, a slur that a close friend has coined, dedicated to the alleged Puneri⁽⁶⁾ in me, I suppose.
(2) Gajanan - Elephant-headed Hindu God, considered smartest amongst all the gods. [larger brain-body size ratio]
(3) Brahmin - Priestly class in the Hindu caste system, claimed blest with superior intellect sans proof.
(4) tathakathit - Literally, "So called".
(5) OBC - Other Backward Castes, I would say they lay in the twilight zone of the elites and the commoners of the classical Hindu society.
(6) Puneri - A person who calls Pune home, and home, Pune. I don't, it's a misnomer.

People, people...

I know you will hate me and all for this, but I have been a crafty brouny and have tricked blogger into redirecting it to my netfirms site. Therefore, you may use http://onkar.blogspot.com to access my website again.

Before you all start celebrating as such, let me remind you that you'll have to tolerate a itsy delay of about half a second if you access the blogspot site. If time is money for you, access the netfirms site directly.

Onkar

These crazy American signs that the government is using to tell people what to do in cases of terrorist attacks are more likely to confuse people than to prepare them: I am posting some of my favourite ones.

If you are sprayed with an unknown substance, stand and think about it instead of seeing a doctor.

If you spot a terrorist arrow, pin it against the wall with your shoulder.

If a door is closed, karate chop it open.

If you lose a contact lens during a chemical attack, roll on the ground and cry like a baby.

Use your flashlight to lift the walls right off of you!

--== Jagjit Singh and�Abhijeet met Deputy Prime Minister L K Advani�on April 3 to demand�the government ban Pakistani singers from performing in India. ==--

All right! This is just the beginning. The idea is to bring Pakistan to its knees by encouraging countries to isolate Pakistan by taking a "with us-against us" stance a la U.S.A. and Israel. The dual-citizenship programme should be initiated soon, hopefully.

I must admire this gesture. My heart is with the Iraqis here. I hope for an American victory, but not without a huge loss of life and morale. Maybe it is time the Americans won a war on blood and guts, like men. Like men.

We argued about this before,
and the story is thus told;
when a gaggle in hall five
is just unwilling to fold
up.

Talks of topics versatile
amongst peals of joyous mirth;
as young men in the prime of
youth recognise they're worth-
less

as conversationalists when
they seriously want to be,
that the concept of the idle
poor had just passed completely
by me.

We talked about casual sex,
lascivious, in the near Indian
future, and how these changes
in society weren't of sudden
nature.

Of the presence of God supreme;
it was a dicey pulp, because
having your cake and wanting
to bite more than you could
gulp

is just ungentlemanly, I say;
sitting on the fence is just
being indecisive; that's costly
today. But matter's could be worse
than

one thinks, for hypocrisy is
the sister of indecision
and follows him 'ever he goes.
Though it gives for fun
and games,

it never makes for serious stuff.
So my friend, be just and fair,
make up your mind, crystal clear.
If you believe, then have no fear,
for

He provides. Else if you don't,
then denounce it, here, now,
lest you wish to come to the party
with karmic baggage in tow.
Do you?

The final score didn't matter,
actually no one knew, but flying
around and chewing gum was too
much ass-work to do for a thing
inanimate.

Bushy: Well, Condy, it seems like I've done what my old man didn't have the gall to do.
Condy: Well, there remains the issue of humanitarian aid and restructuring Iraq.
Bushy: Make sure all the contracts go to the American companies.
Condy: No, we are talking about the humanitarian aid that is flowing in freely from other countries. The Iraqis are pissed because we are not able to safeguard the supplies, and they are being looted by thugs and like.
Bushy: Damn those British, why did they have to play football and lose, that too to a local team? Aren't we much better at football; I didn't even know the British started playing football.
Condy: Well, Bushy we'll leave that for some other time. I'll tell Tony not to let his boys lose face in wake of Baghdad still not being in our control.
Bushy: Good night, Condy.
Condy: Sweet dreams, Bushy.

Please sir, go home, before you cause any more damage to us, and embarrassment to yourself. Oh, wait, you come from a culture devoid of shame. Anyway, spare us the pain. This is not an Iraqi sentiment, by the way.

It was morning. The foliage around dhanvantari hospital made it inconspicuous to the outside world. As the first rays of gold filtered through the netted windows, an old body on the rickety cot stirred. He called for water in a weak voice, but the nurse at this small town government hospital was too overworked to attend to patients that weren't in any real danger at a moment's notice. He swallowed a generous lump of saliva and looked up at the ceiling. He could not move. He had not been restrained; it was just that his lower spine was severely crushed. He did not know that, though, he was drugged, and the pain did not register.

He looked at the flies dancing overhead, and he wept. His daughter was driving him back from a concert, it had been great. His daughter, the light of his life, she was following in his footsteps, on her way to be recognised, just like her father. She was his life. Now he did not know if he would play again. That was not his worry, though. His daughter, his Anu, she was his only worry. She had her life ahead of her, and she was well on her way to make it.

A small woman tip-toed silently through the door "Anu, where is she?", he asked. She did not pay attention to him, busily writing on a pad. "Where is my daughter?!" he raised his voice, flailing his arms. "You must be still, sir, you are not fully recovered yet." she proceeded to undress him, sponging his torso. "How did I get here? What happened?" he asked, politely, smiling at the woman with his grey eyes, with all his geriatric congeniality. She smiled back. She was a middle aged woman, married, he could tell, from the mangalsutra, with sharp features and a dark complexion. She would have been quite fetching in her days, he imagined, and smiled to himself, but his thoughts were disturbed by her narrative.

"....and she admitted you yesterday night. She said she was your daughter. There are many car accidents these days. People are always in a hurry to get somewhere, and all these zippy imported cars. There was another accident yesterday night, not far from here, poor girl; she did not get help on time. The doctor said that the cause of death was loss of blood. What a beautiful girl, wearing a nice white salwar. What a nice car she was driving, a lovely red Opel with...."

He did not wait for her to finish. He was choking on his tongue, his throat was so dry. It was his girl, it was his red Opel, he screamed, but the nurse calmed him, "sir, sir" she said, "you must relax, it must have been another crash, your daughter brought you here. How can she be dead?" she tried to rub his forehead to calm him, but he kept shuddering, "my daughter...white..white salwar...red car.." she rang for the doctor. He was babbling incoherently, his eyes covered with tears, by the time the doctor arrived with two ward boys. He was sedated, and the nurse went to the next ward. It was too much of a co-incidence, she thought.

Hours passed.

A small figure with wiry hair and a black dress entered the hospital silently. She smiled at the nurse. The nurse smiled back, but she had her apprehensions now. Coming to think of it, the poor dead girl looked more like the old man's daughter than this Christian looking girl. She followed her to the old mans room and strained her ears hard.

"Hello daddy."
There was long silence.
"You are not my daughter."
"That is what you have always thought, haven't you?" she could sense some anger in the girl's voice.
"What are you talking about?" the old man's voice was incredulous.
"I am talking about the little girl whose father you could never be, neither did you want to. I am Sue's daughter."
"Oh heavens...where's Anu?"
"She's dead." the nurse gulped. The old man was right. She felt miserable for him.
"You let her die, didn't you? You..." she could distinctively hear him sobbing now, but she was too afraid to enter, the silence was frightening.
"I wondered about why my daddy left me alone when I was a child. I always waited for him to come, but he never did. I must go now. You should rest. I brought your guitar, it survived the crash, miraculously. Mother always said that you loved it like your own child."

As she heard sharp footsteps walking towards the door, the nurse pretended to be reading a chart as the girl walked out of the room. Her bosom was heaving, her eyes were moist, but she was smiling, a smile that made the nurse feel a deathly chill at the end of her spine. Not having the heart to face the old man, she took the rest of the day off, delegating her duties to the student intern from the city, who were working there as part of their course.

When she returned to the hospital, a pall of gloom had cast over the entire building. The coroner's van was standing outside. A man had committed suicide. The cause of death was loss of blood. She did not have to ask.

Who the hell are they to question our policies?

Or is this just the first step in 'making' India party to having U.S. troops on Indian soil to fight Islamic terrorism? Those who read Miss Bhosle's powerful article might have switched sides* based on the Savarkarian principle that she so simplistically expounds, but I personally feel that no one is India's friend right now. So our bumbling grey-haired and dove-brained politicians have to be cynical about every hand of friendship that the U.S.A. extends.

Suffice to say, we simply CANNOT afford to have a Congress led coalition at the centre, however screwed up the BJP and its allies may be. As the Chinese say, we live in interesting times.

*this is because according to pea-brained bush, if you are not with him, you are against him.....

Lyki Aprilli [April Wolves]

[Scene One: Cypher's room. Ojay is on Mave's comp. Cypher is on his, with his monitor-mouse-monitor thing going. Charit barges in.]

Charit: Man, I totally buggered Vinay. He did not read the whole article.

Cypher: So he still thinks that the Indians are getting the World Cup? LOL.

Ojay: Let's start a SARS scare. Tell people that 4 guys in hall 5 were diagnosed.

Cypher: Yes, yes! You can tell people I have SARS.

[Onkar proceeds to tell Ipsh that Cypher is suffering from SARS. Ipsh is too dazed/drugged/tired/psyched to answer. She mumbles something]

Charit: I am sms-ing the Dude, Photon and Mave. [does so. Ojay's phone rings.]

Ojay: Yea, Dude. It's true man, he was puking and all, and had a fever. I am at the MC. I am not sure it's SARS yet, but the doctor has asked all the people who were in close contact with him to report to the MC, just in case.

Charit: Mave has replied with a "Fuck you", No reply from Photon, must be sleeping.

Ojay: Dude seems to have bought it. [Charit's phone rings]

Charit: Yeah, Dude. Of course it's not an April Fool's trick. Would I joke about something this serious. Ok, come over to the MC.

[Ojay chats with Vinay on MSN, laying the plan down. Mave walks in. The plan is explained to him. Phone rings again.]

Ojay: Yes, Dude. I am in the MC, I was chatting to Vinay from the computer room. Anyway, I'll keep you posted. They are asking all kinds of questions.

[Mave's phone rings]

Mave: Yes, Dude, Ojay called me. I am in my lab, but I am heading to the MC soon. Meet you there.

[Vinay rushes in]

Vinay: Oh, mother! He is totally buying it! He is talking about life and shit, man. Ojay, he is pretty shaken up. He is going to the MC with his passport and visa.

Ojay [grinning]: I guess we better tell him. I am calling him in another five minutes.

Mave: No, man. Let him go to the MC.

Cypher[nodding]: Let him go to the MC. [Ojay's phone rings]

Ojay: Dude, Cypher is out. He is negative. We are negative as well. No need to worry. Take it easy. [Cypher and Mave jeering noiselessly.]

Cypher: Why did you tell him? You spoilt everything.

Ojay: Come on, man. We can't take it too far.

[Cypher's phone rings, but he ignores it. Pretends to be Vinay, talks to Dude, asks him to come to the canteen.

Scene two: At the canteen, the Dude is literally crying in relief.]

Ojay: Shit, man. My heart was in my throat all the time Cypher was in the examination room. I started feeling the symptoms that weren't there. Scary man...

Dude: Yea, I guess. I am sure you were more shit scared than I was.

[The topic shifts to ghost stories, and people depart amiably]

Vinay: You should have told him.

Ojay: The crisis is over, the prank isn't.

Vinay: As you wish.

[In the evening, the Dude blogged about his near-death experience. Vinay adapted it for the masses and published it on his own blog.]

[Scene three: People are in the middle of watching 'The Animal House'. Dude barges in, hammers Cypher, Ojay, Vinay and Mave]

Dude: You jobless bastards! I have learnt my lesson! I am never going to trust anyone again.

Ojay: Dude, moral of the story, relax.

Vinay: Yeah, Dude, exam tension makes your brain work slow.

Dude: Fuck, man, I am an idiot.

Mave: No man, anyone could have been had. If Ojay had told me in person, I would have bought it.

Dude: Where is that bastard Charit? I am going to kill him.

Mave: Yeah. I got it when he smsed me. You don't report SARS cases by sms, you call!

Ojay: We were planning to screw Jat real professionally, but it had too much overhead.

Cypher: I am not going through all this shit just to screw someone.

Dude: Whatever guys, lets watch the movie.

[Everyone stares at the monitor. The curtain falls.]

--== Next, we will have how Photon was had. Check soon! ==--