The heart of darkness [Book Review]

People who eat darkness: The Face of Lucie Blackman by Richard Lloyd Parry

The fate of Lucie Blackman is so intense, deep and unimaginable that perhaps even a book written about it does little justice to it. In 2000, a 21-year old tall, blonde, British woman decided to go to Japan, one of the world’s most expensive and populous countries, with her best friend Louise Philips in search of economic and job security and found herself working as a “hostess” in a night club in Roppongi district. Months after her arrival in a country so different from her own in culture, cuisine and colour, Lucie disappears under mysterious circumstances. Police investigations follow, under strict media and international pressure, until the killer is finally nabbed only to be convicted of every murder except that of Miss Blackman. There is no doubt about Parry’s rich and riveting story-telling technique that keeps you glued throughout the narrative. But it would be unfair to not acknowledge the Blackmans’ awful fate and trial that helped him in some ways by providing him with a story and plot replete with mystery, intrigue, darkness and horror. 

The story of Lucie Blackman isn’t unusual. It is her awful fate that stands out. There is always the lingering feeling of what would have happened had she not fallen into debt, gone to Tokyo, accompanied Joji Obara, the serial killer and rapist, on that fateful day. And that is what makes the story poignant to the core. The complexities attached with the Lucie’s job as a “hostess”, particularly in the context of Japanese society and culture is well-explained by the author. Lucie’s job mainly involved talking to the client and be simultaneously flirtatious with them, unlike what a traditional bar girl or dancer is expected to do. Pressured to get dohans—dinner with the client—Lucie was simply doing her job when she accompanied a mysterious man to his apartment at Zushi Marina, the man who would later be responsible for her rape, death and slaughter.

The pace of the police investigations that follows is almost as bizarre as Lucie’s fate. Undeterred by the amount of media coverage that the case garnered both in Japan and Britain, so much so that Tony Blair pressured the then Japan Prime Minister to look into the speediness of the case, the police did its work and did it well in its own slow fashion. Parry is openly critical of the Japanese police, not the people who run the system but the system itself that is so nonchalantly caught in a web of lethargy, complacency and complete indifference. Ironically, as Parry points out, Japan has one of the world’s least crime rates; a possible explanation for the police’s lackadaisical attitude, as he observes, is sheer lack of practice. The frustration of a missing case taking so long to uncover is conveyed well, inviting the readers to feel the same.

Narrating every minute detail about Lucie’s early life to her adolescence, Parry tries hard to sketch a picture of a woman who met such ill-fate. The story is narrated like a tale, except that the reader already knows what happened and what is possibly going to happen assuming that he/she was following the case and media’s coverage of it.  Ample space is given to her childhood, her years in Britain and in Tokyo, her mysterious disappearance, the police investigation and the courtroom drama that followed. Parry has been successful in generating a feeling of extreme annoyance and impatience while one reads through the novel, one of the many feelings the Blackmans and Ridgways might have felt when they themselves underwent the trauma. The author ensures that the reader doesn’t make any assumption and that is visible in the enormous amount of research, reading, observation and notes-taking that went in the making of this book.

As a journalist, perhaps Parry is expected to have reasonably good observational skills. However, the vividness of his style that describes the view of Tokyo, the night life on the streets of Roppongi and the colourful and extravagant bars and clubs adds a touch of novel-writing in his style. However, Parry has been careful enough not to write in a dramatic or melodramatic manner else the story slip into the oblivions of fiction. Right from the beginning till the end, the story remains true to the genre it claims it belongs to—true crime. And truth, as is narrated and absorbed, is stranger than fiction. 

The author has made a commendable effort to understand the psyche, if one may use the term, of Lucie Blackman’s killer, Joji Obara, the man who refused to confess and lived a life sans friends and companions. Abstaining from associating the term ‘psychopath’ with the serial killer and rapist, the author has described Obara’s history of sexual crimes in the most graphic manner. Belonging to the community of Zainichi, ethnic Koreans of Japan, and perhaps a victim of the historical strife between the two nations, an attempt to understand Obara’s life and the way he lead it is almost as impossible and unfathomable as understanding why he committed such crimes. 

It would be unfair to not mention Parry’s biasness, if any. Lucie’s father, Tim Blackman, was and has been collectively accused by friends, family and the media itself for being the “unconventional father”, for being so media-savvy in moments of private grief and withdrawal and for accepting money from Obara, to bury the case. Parry raises a significant point at Tim’s critics who label him as “immoral”, stating that one who hasn’t been through the kind of trauma that Tim and the Blackmans went through, will never know how to react and behave in such a situation. While there is enough credit in this, Parry falls short of any justification or explanation for Jane’s behaviour, Lucie’s mother accused of being possessive, overprotective and violently reactive of her daughter’s disappearance and death. Instead, he gives us quotes from Sophie, Lucie’s sister, who, from the very beginning as it has been stated, never got along with her mother.

Early on in the story, Sophie, a product of a marriage that went horribly wrong, makes a profound statement: “A divorce makes you question everything.” This sets the tone of the story and what is to follow; how much the bitter marriage of the parents is going to affect the trial that the broken Blackman family is going to undergo themselves. The dismemberment of Lucie’s body, as revealed later, ironically and poignantly, becomes a manifestation of the dismemberment of the family that forces desperately to be with each other with the knowledge that that is never going to happen. Lucie Blackman’s fate is disturbingly compelling. And so is Parry’s writing.

Disclaimer: Rough draft. Badly needs editing. Would appreciate comments.

Of feminism and being called a 'feminist'

Feminism is a tricky word. And from what I, as a woman first and a feminist later, have observed,  is that most don’t even know what it really means. They aren’t aware of its complexity, its various, often contradicting school of thoughts before they either use it or call themselves ‘feminists’. But, that itself is so rare that I’d rather acknowledge its presence than question its authenticity. More often than not, there is an undeniable level of hesitation, maybe even fear to accept that one is a feminist. During a discussion on women’s liberation and the empowerment of womanhood on the ‘occasion’ of International Women’s Day, I heard some very valid arguments and points being made by my classmates. However, every statement began with the following clarification: “I’m not a feminist but I feel…” or “I’m no feminist or believer of feminism but one needs to look at…” Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out the need to be aloof from this particular school of thought, when no one seems to mind being labeled as a Marxist, communist, socialist or even an atheist.

So, why is there this reluctance? Why is it so hard to accept (forget being proud of it) that one is a feminist? And no, this is not a case plaguing the men alone, who might throw open the baseless argument of being termed as effeminate by defending the rights of women, but women themselves who prefer shying away from being labeled as a ‘feminist’. The problem lies in the perspective. Being called a feminist is almost seen as being a rebel without a cause. Perhaps this is a consequence of the entire movement of feminism ,that began as early as the eighteenth century, now reduced to a state of dormancy and superficiality. Today, Women’s Day is ‘celebrated’ by inviting a few socialites and Bollywood divas in a “panel” to discuss what have we achieved over the years, in terms of women’s liberation and what still needs to be done. These women tell us how scary and dangerous they still feel in a 21^st Century India, to go out late night clubbing. What about the million other women who feel insecure 24*7 and do not even have the promise of economic affluence? Kalpana Sharma raises these crucial points in her essay Women’s Day Circus.

Most believers of any feminist ideology (liberal, socialist, radical, to name a few) completely overlook the factor that feminism comprises of both the sexes, and not just the female. If the intention is to liberate one, the idea should also be to deal with the other. The accusation, largely, has been that men have been responsible for the oppression of women. This is historically true. But one cannot oversee that women themselves are also to be blamed for their own subjugation, according to John Stuart Mill’s theory that holds true in almost every context, culture and country.

Calling someone a feminist seems to be like calling someone something derogatory. Like you’ve just been called a Dalit or an untouchable. And the irony is that the one who calls you that himself/herself doesn’t know what it means, what it demands and what it requires to be a feminist. In the true sense.To raise your voice about the plight of women on March 8 every year does not make you a feminist. Neither does blaming the men for every oppression women go through. Peace!

Of jobs and facing interviews

It’s been a long while since I blogged on something that’s been on my mind.




To be very frank, my mind is overloaded with a whole lot of matter (excluding the biological grey and white ones), from the worries of getting a secure job to the anxieties of learning how to boil milk—every problem, to my mind, is like a major Chemistry experiment. You can never underestimate the potential of its inference. Might end up burning the whole lab or might simply produce yet another pungent-smelling gas.


I have been occupied with a lot these days, related to journalism and writing in some way or the other, of course.


But what is worth remembering and typing about is my recent endeavor in an area I’m just beginning to get a grasp of—the job market in the media industry.


Well, my Masters’ course ends in a matter of days, after which, we are all hoping to get secure jobs. I hope to get one that will pay me well, give me immense job satisfaction, provide me with an opportunity to cover stories I would want to work on and keep me happily involved and busy (not necessarily in that order). Let’s not dwell on how reasonable or unreasonable my demands are for the time being and let me begin narrating my first experience of a job interview. How I survived it. How I cleared it. And more importantly, how I rejected it.


Our college Placement Cell works pretty smoothly and transparently. However, they expect the students to make their own decisions as to which ones they’d like to sit for. On one level, it’s a huge amount of freedom given to beginners and freshers like us, while on the other, for indecisive souls like us, it’s madness to choose and narrow down on the ones we’d really like to sit for. I hadn’t had a clue that there are so many media organizations existing in our country until I saw the job openings and vacancies in each one of them.


Until I stumbled upon one in a leading daily newspaper in South—The Deccan Chronicle. DC is on the lookout for feature reporters in Chennai, Madurai and Trichy. Or so the ad announced proudly. This seemed something for me to invest enough thought in. The newspaper seemed pretty OK, the job profile looked like something I wanted to do and the place to work seemed averagely decent to me. And hence I decided to apply. And got a call for an interview too.


That’s when my mind began to do the Jazz. An interview call. An interview that will decide whether you’re eligible to work under a brand called The Deccan Chronicle. An interview in a city that you have hardly visited. An interview that decides your future. An interview that can cause some serious mental damage if you screw.


It’s amazing how easily I can get pessimistic in my way of thinking and looking at things. Situations like these work very well in rekindling the nihilist in me. I went to Chennai, like my other colleagues, with the hope of impressing the staff there with my “honesty, dedication and commitment to work” (exact words from my CV that are mentioned under the sub-head “Objective”). So, they were on the lookout for feature writers, huh? I bet I have it in me. Or so I convinced my staggering soul.


They held a two hour written test before the Big I, which went surprisingly decent. I wasn’t expecting the same as I hadn’t been reading the papers for almost a week now due to various factors. But they asked layman questions like naming the chief ministers of particular states. Most of the questions were subjective (my area of specialty) and I almost smiled to myself when I submitted my finished answer script. To my relief and dismay, the interview was taken in the presence of each one of us—relief because I did not have to face the interviewer in a claustrophobic space shooting random questions at me (most common being “tell me something about yourself”. I don’t think I’ll be able to answer that even when I’m 80) and dismay because now we were all about to be stripped in front of each other.


Fortunately or unfortunately, my turn came in last. So, that gave me the chance to absorb the kind of questions he was shooting at everyone. On the flipside, the butterflies in my stomach kept on growing in size and number. While I was dealing with my moody stomach, I tried making sense of the questions that were being asked. Here are just a few. The answers were the ones that were going on in my head while my colleagues were being grilled patiently by the interviewer:


Q. If you were to write a bitchy article about Salman Khan and Aishwarya Rai, what headline would you give?


A: Huh? Excuse me? Bitchy article? Bitchy article? Bitchy article?


Q. What article would you write for a page entitled: “Bootylicious”?


A: I’m sorry, what? How the hell do you spell that and what do you write in it anyways? Spa? Hell! I need one myself right now.


Q. We were the first ones to cover Lara Dutta and Mahesh Bhupathi’s wedding. We’re known for getting the news first.


A. Wow. Really? That’s pace. No wonder, people don’t know a thing about the budget!


Q. We’re looking for lifestyle reporters. Which means we’d be more interested in knowing the fabric that was used on the bed of the hotel in which they stayed for the night.


A. OK. That’s it. I don’t care about that. And I don’t want my readers to care about it either. Why did I come to Chennai? What am I even doing here?


And then the sword hanged over me. He asked me what lifestyle is. Instead of saying: “Believe me, that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking the moment you said you wanted lifestyle reporters”, I ended up mumbling something about way of living life and food and clothes and accessories and such like. This crap seemed to impress him.


I came back thinking if I had known they’re looking for people to cover Page 3 parties, I wouldn’t have applied in the first place. Honestly, I have nothing against this kind of reporting and journalism. But I don’t see myself doing it. Maybe I might eventually do it after 10 years or so. But, I wouldn’t want to begin my career with lifestyle reporting. Now, if this is so easy to say to you—an unknown, never-met and virtual reader—I don’t know why I couldn’t say the same when I got a call again this afternoon inviting me to come to Chennai again, after having been selected. I ended up mumbling some random jargon about myself and my job requirements.


People in and around me are congratulating for having nailed my first ever job interview. What’s the point of celebrating something I know I do not wish to do? But I guess, if nothing else, I gained some experience about facing interviews. Although, the next time I’m called for another, the butterflies so committed to my poor, little stomach, will still not leave me and my tormented soul.

Splits Villa

If marriages are made in heaven, divorces are made on earth. As Indians across the country are investing more on lavish and extravagant weddings, the divorce count is silently increasing its space too. Recent reports reveal that more than 4,000 cases have come up in the last two years in various family courts in Bangalore. What’s more, according to a survey conducted by Children’s Rights Initiative for Shared Parenting (CRISP), a nongovernmental organization, as many as 17,000 divorce cases are pending in the city. The divorce industry seems to be booming. Should we be worried as increasing number of divorce petitions are being filed in courts than ever before?

It’s a change that can neither be denied nor avoided. This is possibly a signal toward a significant flux Indian society seems to be going through. On one hand, the changed attitude towards the term ‘divorce’ has transformed and that is a welcome change. It doesn’t mean the end of the world anymore, as it was considered to be a few decades ago. On the other hand, there still seems to be an inescapable clinging on to the archaic school of thought. Matrimonial advertisements —the best platform that allows individuals in search of their soul-mate to brag blatantly—is a significant place to look at. Even today, these ads do not refrain from attaching the adjective “innocent” before the term ‘divorcee’ just to be overtly clear of the fact that the concerned individual was not involved or responsible in the divorce he or she was a part of. Perhaps, it becomes increasingly important to assert that the potential bride/groom was a victim of a “bad marriage”. The position of the oppressor and oppressed is extremely significant in deciding the future of the individual who underwent the “trauma” of divorce.  The person in question may have been a tyrant in his/her previous marriage but the word “innocent” seems to absolve him or her of any ill-doings. 

Cause for the rise

One could possibly accuse couples of having less tolerance power but the fact of the matter is that they do not seem to compromise at the cost of jeopardizing their own personal wants, desires and needs. But, are people giving up too easily? It is difficult to foreground a single factor responsible for this increasing number. When analyzing a trend over a period of a few decades in a developing country like India, one needs to keep in mind that the society, apart from other factors like economy, people and culture, is constantly in a state of flux by the virtue of the fact that it is still developing. The question to be asked is not whether the change is positive or negative but whether this change has become inevitable. It is not a question of black and white but a tricky grey area we are dealing with.

The structure of a typical Indian family hasn’t changed from being patriarchal to matriarchal (except a few parts in Kerala, where it has been so since ages). However, the way a patriarchy functions has been modified so as to accommodate newer changes. There has been a shift from a single earning bread-winner, who, traditionally and in all probability, was the man, to double income families, where both the partners are earning, more out of economic necessity than individual desire. Dr. Vijay Nagaswami, author of The Fifty-50 Marriage, a bestseller book on marriage and relationships, says that greater independence—both sexual as well as economic—have been contributing factors of increased divorce rates.

Recently, the Union Cabinet approved the introduction of Marriage Laws (Amendment) Bill, 2010 to further amend the Hindu Marriage Act, 1955 and the Special Marriage Act, 1954, so as to include ‘irretrievable breakdown’ of marriage as legitimate grounds for getting a divorce. For one, this move should reduce the number of ‘false’ cases being filed under Section 498A of the Indian Penal Code or the Protection of Women against Domestic Violence Act, 2005. This is because it is alleged that many use these options to pressurize their partners into divorce and even alimony money. But again, the ruling by the apex court garnered mixed reactions from both the liberals and conservative section of our society.  People still cling on to the proverbial definition of marriage as a sacrament, too pure and destined to be disturbed and contaminated by the blow of divorce. If not anything else, the ruling has come as a breezer for those who are still married only because of their children.

The immediate victim

This brings us to a very crucial aspect of any marriage—children. They say a couple may get divorced but parents should never get separated. This is because the child is the first and often, the worst, victim of a marriage gone wrong. But, perhaps we need to realize that today’s children are beginning to understand and possibly even accept that it is completely normal if their parents are unable to live with each other. Nagaswami feels this is both good and bad. “Good because they are not going to get devastated if they are compelled to go through a divorce and bad because they are unnecessarily traumatized in the process (since most divorces are bitter and acrimonious) and find it hard to heal themselves,” he says.

A recent trend has been the rising incidence of separation and divorce amongst people who have been married for 25 plus years, who are looking for new lives after being in marriages of convenience that lasted the distance only because of the children. This still seems to be a bitter pill to swallow even for the most liberal and right thinking people. Twenty five years of togetherness seems just too long a time to contemplate separation, no matter however drastic the reason may be. After such a long time of being together, people assume that the two have taken each other for granted. To be fair, divorce should be an option, but only the final one, and to be exercised only after all avenues to rapprochement have been adequately explored.

Of voting and making it compulsory

                               Democracy’s clichéd definition is—of the people, by the people and for the people. Each preposition is equally important so as to form a coherent democratic structure. As one would have observed, the definition begins with a crucial aspect—“of”, which means that any democracy is formed by a set of people who decide their own elected representatives.

                            An important and unavoidable reason why democracy in India isn’t exactly “successful” as it is presented to be is because of enormous corruption that has entered the Indian political scenario. Most candidates are bought; votes and voters are bought, while bribes and materials are given to potential voters to woo them. Experts, democracy-lovers and activists have all unanimously agreed how the situation may improve if the elections become more participatory. More are the number of people who participate in the formation of the government, less are the chances of corrupt, unworthy candidates to win or even stand for the elections.

                           More often than not, elections and election results are wrongly perceived and interpreted. If candidate A has won by ‘x’ number of votes, it does not necessarily mean that he represents the majority of his voters. The disparity between the population and the population that actually votes in our country is so huge that it is too easy to fall prey to such false claims.

                           Let us first examine the reasons why one must vote (compulsorily or otherwise). Ideally, as a citizen of your own country, one is expected to vote and participate in the formation of the government; it is an opportunity given to every eligible Indian that one mustn’t miss if he/she wishes to see a particular set of people ruling the country. The fact that you vote is living proof that you, as an individual, participated in the formation of a democracy as huge as India. But, more often than not, this doesn’t work as a sufficient reason to urge voters to come and exercise what is their fundamental duty as a citizen. One needs to be above 18 years of age in our country to be able to vote. But, how many of us actually take that extra effort to get out of the house and vote for our desired candidate? Going by most election statistical figures, average voter turn-out in most Indian states is not more than 60 per cent. Given our population, these figures are a shame. The reason given by most educated voters, who do not have ignorance or lack of knowledge about the voting procedure as their excuse, is—that they do not believe their one vote can make any difference, or that there aren’t worthy enough candidates who deserve their vote. A counter to this is the concept of “Negative Vote” that was in the discussion forum not too long ago. To exercise a Negative vote would be like clicking on the “None of the above” option. It would, then, mean that the voter has expressed his/her dissatisfaction with all the candidates. However, this is not a plausible solution, precisely because it works in the favour of the candidates. Even if one were to give a “negative vote”, it doesn’t help the situation in any way as one among the given set of candidates would still win, with or without the voter’s vote.

                           Amidst all this arises a central question that has long been discussed and debated upon: should voting be made compulsory? Since the voter turnout is just about satisfactory, shouldn’t we ensure that there are more voters who exercise their rights? And one obvious way to do that is by making the entire exercise mandatory. Going strictly by the definition and demands of a democratic structure, making anything compulsory negates the very purpose of democracy, as an institution. Making something compulsory brings in the element of coercion and that borders around tyranny—the exact opposite of democracy. However, on the other hand, a set of experts believe there is no other way to ensure that everyone votes and once that is taken care of, one can hope for a less corrupt, more equal and a more desirable government. I, personally, do not believe that making voting compulsory is the right way to achieve this. While the intention may be strong and truly right, the procedure is indeed questionable. If I’m compelled to vote, I’m robbed of my own free will, essentially.

                           Voter registration and attendance at a polling booth has been compulsory in counties like Australia since the 1920s. This is why Australia has one of the highest voter turnouts in the world.  South American countries like Brazil, Bolivia and Venezuela also have made sections of the voting procedure compulsory. But the plan has simply backfired. Venezuela does not have an impressive voting percentage to boast of; nor does the Netherlands, Mexico or even Greece. Merely making something compulsory doesn’t solve the problem. It’s better to have a 60 per cent turnout when we know that the people who voted did so voluntarily, out of their own free will and choice, than a 99 per cent turnout when we know that more than half of that astronomical figure voted out of compulsion and reluctance rather than willingness and choice.  

Of familes-joint and not-so-joint

When I look back in time, I recall listening to folk songs sung by my grandmother.

I recall her making the spiciest pickles I’ve ever had in my life.

I recall bribing my aunt with hugs and kisses not to tell Ma that I broke her ear-rings, so she could replace it with new ones.

I recall coaxing my uncle to get Pau Bhaji for dinner when dad refused to buy citing health reasons I never understood.

I recall playing Holi with my cousins on days when it wasn’t even the festival. All we needed was a few colours, water and each other. The rest was taken for.

So, why am I recalling them all of a sudden, out of the blue?

Well, these scattered thoughts are a consequence of the latest TOI report that Delhi is now witnessing the disappearnce of exended families now. And, I couldn’t stop myself from ranting about it.

An obvious and primary reason for joint families increasingly turning towards the nuclear fashion is a world of cut-throat competition and the elusive search for power, job and monetary security. In the pursuit of assuring these securities to one’s own immediate family (self, spouse and children), we have become so self-absorbed, self-obsessed and self-centered that to stay and sustain a joint family simply seems too much to ask for. It is not a question of which is right or wrong, which is better but a question of why. Why are families breaking down? Why can’t two families stay together in peace and harmony anymore? What has changed in the way we lead our lives that has resulted in this flux?

Maternal, paternal and/or fraternal feuds have become too common and unavoidable to be given another chance. The concept of adjustment and compromise has long been boycotted. This is also because couples are already adjusting and compromising enough amongst themselves in order to look at the larger framework. The fact that number of divorces in India has increased is a different matter all together (though related in many ways in terms of the “adjustment” and “compromise” bit). Delhi is also the divorce capital of India with more than 13, 000 pending cases in court.

Perhaps Delhi should be lauded for being the national capital, rape capital, divorce capital, and now, nuclear family capital of India. According to the report, there are hardly any extended families left. Interestingly, these families that have now become smaller and nuclear were all once a part of a joint family at one point of their lives. The man who lives, today, with his wife and only son in a three bedroom apartment on a posh lane in Greater Kailash, probably once lived in the dingy lanes of Karol Bagh in a house that was crumbling due to the constant noise, commotion and voices in his house. And this noise doesn’t necessarily denote a cause for worry. A flat/apartment that houses more than 5 people is bound to make noises due to the sheer fact that there are a certain number of people all living together under the same roof. But what they do under the roof is what has changed over the years.

It is also noteworthy to mention here that Delhi, largely, has a fluctuating population, like most other metropolitan cities. The city is shaped by migrating people that gives Delhi its cosmopolitan colour. One needs to look at the report in this crucial context. If more than half of the people of Delhi already comprise of students, college-goers, men and women from other places in this city in search of work, employment or education, what population are we anyways looking at? What remains is a much smaller number, who have decided to continue to live in the city, at the cost of breaking up ties with their respective extended families.

Who knows what the years to come will indicate? Perhaps, no more marriages ten years from now. I'll heave a sigh of relief for that, at least.

Of honour and shyness

 Picture courtesy Google Images

Bookanakere Siddalingappa Yeddyurappa. Can you even pronounce that? And yet the man with the tongue-twister name has been hogging the limelight like the winning breed of dog everyone suddenly wants to own after having won the Dog Show. Perhaps, we mustn’t draw a comparison between BSY (I’d rather stick to the abbreviation for space and spelling concerns) and a dog. For one, the latter is termed as “faithful”. To be fair, BSY isn’t faithful; BSY is a shy man.

Let us humbly acknowledge his endless love for his sons and daughters and sons-in-law. Who else will put his chair under scrutiny at the cost of acquiring vast lands for his near and dear ones?  Apparently his chair is equally dear to him. So BSY re-wrote the history of Karnataka politics and accepted the post of the most corrupt Chief Minister the state had ever seen. Of course, BSY wouldn’t say that directly. He’s a very shy man. But, what do you think he means when he says: “I’m innocent”. Well, of course he’s innocent. How innocently he de-notified those lands that were a property of the government.  All in the name of his loved ones. Oh, what selflessness!

BSY seems to like company of like-minded people. This is clear from the fact that he is not alone in his corrupt endeavors. All his bought party workers have sworn for their lives that they’ll support him. Of course, in the process, they also earn a little bit of money from here and there. However, what is that in contrast to the pool of money BSY is drowning in? But BSY is a shy man. He’s a man of integrity. He’ll sink in his pool of cash but won’t let anybody else enter it. Oh, what concern!

As long as he stuffs his workers’ a.k.a. servants’ pockets with currency, why should he worry? Worrying is not even good for a man of his age, which is not getting any less with the passage of time. But he must remember to add an extra few crores in those pockets. For what, you ask? Oh c’mon! Do you really believe organizing a strike in a state as large as Karnataka is a joke? It requires 3P’s:  paisa, patience and planning. And it requires the guts to cause a loss of almost Rs. 2000 crores to an entire state. But, BSY is a shy man. He’s too reserved to acknowledge the same. Oh, what modesty!

If one wishes to visit the circus out of nostalgic curiosity or childhood compulsion, one need not travel all the way to Mumbai. Or even Rampur, for that matter. You get to watch the “Live” version of the hullaballoo on almost all news channels. BSY manages to hold the eyes of the public and continues to be the media’s best bet when it comes to “news”.  What would the Press do, if it were not for him? But BSY is a shy man. He’ll shout his lungs out in the Assembly, watch his party members tear each others’ shirts like hooligans let loose out of an asylum, and yet maintain a nonchalant distance from the action. Oh, what humility!

Shakespeare’s Brutus was an honorable man. Who cares? It’s the new age of coyness. And no one can beat BSY on that! The poor guy fears witchcraft from the Opposition. Clearly, the Opposition has no heart for an altruistic man. Tsk tsk!

Of facebooking and twittering

A friend’s scathing comment who questioned if my blog was dead has provoked me to write this. No, my blog isn’t dead. No, I haven’t succumbed to the demands of lethargy and laziness. No, my priorities haven’t changed either. Oh and no, I certainly haven’t forgotten my password (don’t be surprised...this is a serious problem given the miniscule size of my memory).



That made me thinking what exactly is the problem? Or, rather, is there really a problem?


So, what do I do all day? Apart from my classes which go on almost every day till 5 p.m. (though we have intermittent breaks in between that I exclusively devote to Facebook and Twitter), and the time I give to sleeping, eating, reading and writing (in order of importance), I’m pretty much free. No, wait. I also devote some few hours to Zjuvi (my laptop) and surf the net (though I have intermittent breaks in between that I exclusively devote to Facebook and Twitter). And then I spend some time surfing the net on my cell phone, when my laptop is getting its required energy from its charger. I check my mail, mostly (though I have intermittent breaks in between that I exclusively devote to Facebook and Twitter). Yeah, my life is pretty much caught in the net (pun intended).


OK. So, now I guess even a seventh grader will know what has been affecting my blogging frequency. Facebook and Twitter have conquered Blogger. What a shame! Or is it?


Facebook was a product of Mark Zuckerberg, of what was and is still being seen as revolutionary idea that gave social networking a whole new role to play, in 2004. I’m not sure if I even knew about its existence back then. May be because I was too busy on MySpace (pun intended). In 2006 came Twitter. I’m sure I knew when this was in the news, thanks to all political big-wigs and celebrities tweeting away to their success and failure. But I wasn’t a part of it because I was too busy Orkut-ing.


Well, the point I’m trying to make here, obviously, is the spreading and growing domination of social networking on the lives of people who have access to them. And globally, that is a large number. This includes not just Facebook or Twitter but also loads of other such sites that offer networking for complete introvert individuals who may have been dumb-struck and tongue-tied in front of beautiful women but suddenly find themselves powerful to ask her out in the virtual world. That power comes from the fact that it’s a virtual world. That it’s not real.


Chatting and e-dating is not a new concept anymore. In fact, I suspect it’s not as “cool” as Facebook or Twitter now. All these social networking sites (that includes Digg, Hi5, My Space) offer its users the opportunity to express with utmost freedom what they otherwise would not have been able to, in the “real world”. It allows other people on your “friend” lists to “like” or “dislike” it, the list that is ever-growing. I know people on Facebook with 678 “friends”. I wonder if they’ve met even half of them. I would term him/her the ultimate social being.


Besides, words like “poke”, “like”, “share”, “tweet”, “re-tweet”, “DM” (short for Direct Message) have acquired a new meaning. Especially the word “like”. Someone updated his status as thus: [User Name] is divorced! followed, of course, by that unforgettable non-smiley face : (.
The update had almost 30 “likes”. That was probably the morale booster the user needed to feel good after being victim to a marriage gone wrong! I don’t think he would have wanted to talk about this to anyone. But, he logs in on Facebook, updates his status, and invariably, in the process, announces this drastic change in his life to over 100 “friends” and “followers”.
In Twitterland, you don’t have “friends”. You have “followers”. It bugs me to end. For a proud, arrogant narcissistic woman that I am, I don’t think my ego will ever allow me to “follow” people, most of whom I’ve never even met. And yet, Twitter made me bow. Hats off!


So, the question really is how much are we dictated by them. Facebook and Twitter are not entirely the home of the jobless Internet freak. Almost every company, publishing house, magazine, website, newspaper, author, book, restaurant, car manufacturer, organization has its own Facebook or Twitter account, just so to keep a track on their “fans” and “followers”. For celebrities on Twitter, it is a way to reach out to their fans. Quite literally. Or so they claim.


It all comes down to what you use these sites for and how much they affect your daily, routine life. Who’s your boss, really?


As far as I am concerned, I’ll ask my “followers” and let you know. Maybe they’ll even “like” me for having asked them this question, in the first place.

The Silent Indian National Anthem

Please stand up for the National Anthem

Draupadi re-visited

My first experience of watching a play in Bangalore and I’m glad it turned out good. In hindsight, the last time I saw a play was two years back during our college fest, when we were forced to watch the rehearsals lest we lose our attendance.

Well, it’s not that I’m not interested in watching plays. Just that I’m too lazy to brush off the rust of complacency that has formed around me ever since I started reading plays. It’s a shame I never saw a play when I was in Delhi, apparently the hub of drama and theater. Whenever I got a chance, something or the other came along to prevent me from watching the play (my own laziness being the prime reason, I confess). This time, too, I nearly missed watching this one due to multiple reasons I wouldn’t want to dwell on. Let’s just say we somehow made it to the play and enjoyed it thoroughly.

Here’s something about the play first before I begin my critique:

Name of the play:           Draupadi—Will my spirit live on?

Language:                       English

Duration:                        90 minutes

Directed by:                   Tina Johnson and Shivani Pasrich

Music by:                       Shubha Mudgal

Costumes by:                 Ritu Kumar

Sets:                              Aman Nath

Venue:                          Chowdiah Memorial Hall, Malleswaram

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Synopsis:

Centuries have gone by since the Mahabharat war, yet Draupadi is still here. Stuck between heaven and earth, roaming the streets and pondering her fate and her choices, her only confidant is Lord Krishna. She tries to resolve with him why women must continue to suffer as she had in the past. Krishna, the orchestrator of fate, leads her to Maaya - a woman of today, who has suffered much abuse at the hands of society. A distraught Maaya attempts suicide, but Draupadi stops her and offers her help in return for a favor.

Maaya treads through her life in Draupadi's footsteps, and in the end she too must make a choice- will she choose revenge or resilience? Will she be Draupadi's salvation? Will Krishna be able to address centuries old smoldering wounds?

Source: http://www.indianstage.in/events/draupadi.html

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Choosing the Mahabharata as the core of a story in any form (play, prose or poetry) is always an intelligent yet risky thing to do. Intelligent because, even after centuries have passed since the writing of the great epic, it still offers multiple aspects to explore and re-visit, Draupadi’s humiliation and the great war that followed being the central theme of this play. Risky because the audience, it is assumed, already knows the entire plot. Hence, one can’t really mess around with the basic structure of the story. So, it’s a challenge to tell a story whose plot is already known, and re-tell it in a manner that’s new, different, and contextualize it in the contemporary context. In so far as this play is concerned, the challenge has been met with much alacrity and finesse.

As the synopsis suggested, the play revolves around the spirit of Draupadi (played gracefully by Shivani Pasrich) who has been cursed of wandering between heaven and hell as a punishment for having caused the Kurukshetra War and can achieve moksha only if she rescues a woman Maaya (played by Charu Shankar) from being similarly victimized by patriarchal forces of society. Though the modern context is entirely different, the sense of victimhood is largely the same. Pasrich, who is a trained Odissi dancer and has also conceptualized the play, has incorporated dance sequences within the play at right intervals to add the required musical touch to it. Mudgal’s music is easily recognizable and her powerful voice fits in well with the situational demands of the play.

It’s interesting how the scriptwriters have de-constructed the character of Lord Krishna, the giver of wisdom. In the epic, Krishna is the lone supporter of Paanchali throughout her period of trials and imparts wisdom from time to time to her and the Pandavas. In the play, Krishna (played by Dilip Shankar) is shown in multiple roles (a sweeper, a sariseller, a wanderer, and even a lawyer) who enrages Draupadi and instructsher to help Maaya, a woman of today, who is in a similar situation of complete victimization and exploitation, if she wants moksha. Some of the best, most dramatic and memorable speeches are reserved for Krishna and he plays the role with extreme brilliance, spontaneity and witty humor. Some lines from the Bhagvad Gita are timeless. And these are cleverly re-iterated in the play. For instance,  Let not the fruits of action be thy motive

The play succeeds in conveying the message of how an individual is responsible for his/her own consequence that is directly related to his/her actions. If Draupadi represents the woman who was wronged and humiliated, she is also revenge personified. Her anger, her pride at her lineage and her persistent desire for vengeance are traits of her personality that are equally given importance in the play that eventually prevent Maaya from repeating the historical mistakes that Draupadi committed—fuel the fire for another war. Ninety minutes is a deceptively long time for a play that has the task of not only refreshing the audience's mind with what Draupadi underwent mythologically but also depict Maaya's character in a similar context. The play has a fast pace, and rightly so. It's a thumbs up from me.

Pictures courtesy India Stage

Rating: **** (4 stars)



Fiction Writing (Part 4?)

Maybe I should start a separate blog exclusively for fiction writing.

Here's one I wrote as a part of my assignment. It was expected to be a real-life observation. I ended up writing a fictional account. Lol!

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This is a lead that describes a woman, who has been living with a life-threatening disease, and the last hours before her death, and her conversation with her son.

She looked too content to be in a hospital. Her face had an expression that seemed to convey a sense of calmness that one experiences on a quiet Sunday morning at the beach. It was hard to believe that this woman was going to die in a few hours. It was surreal.

Her son, frail in body and appearance, entered the ward with a large packet of fresh kiwis. He had a tired look on his face, which he tried to hide by picking out the fruits from the packet and laying them neatly on the plate, in the most nonchalant manner possible.

“So you finally bought them, my son?” the woman said, in a laid back fashion. “That’s one thing less from the list I gave you.”

She was referring to the list of things she wanted to do before she died. Her expressions and voice were so casual and mundane that anyone would have thought she was referring to a list of the month’s grocery items.

“The list is too small, Mom. You still have to give me five more,” the son said.

It was difficult to guess who was deceiving whom.

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Feedback expected :-)

Of observations (not necessarily as a reporter)

This may have been the crappiest, wackiest, stupidest, craziest and laziest assignment I wrote (But I bet I can't beat Gaurav on the "crazy" part). 

Anyways, the Reporting and Writing class, undertaken by Prof. Ron Feemster, was today focused on observation and how crucial are observation skills for a good reporter. So, the assignment was to spread out, spot any location within the campus and observe the sight, smell, sounds, colours, temperature, heat, cold, anything and everything at all that you observe and write what about it in about 15 minutes. 

Sounds easy? It isn't really. 

Here's what I wrote. After writing this, I have realized how productive (or unproductive) a span of 15 minutes can be depending on how you decide it to be.

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The persistent sound of the squirrel made me look at the trees. I could hear it but it took me a while to finally spot one sitting on one of the branches. When I tried going near it, it hurried away until it became invisible again. But it never stopped squeaking. This noise was temporarily disturbed by the shrill noise of the horn of the yellow BGS school bus that sped by the adjacent road. When I tried distracting myself from the squeaking noise of the squirrel, which had emerged once again once the sound of the bus had died, I could hear the sound of an air-conditioner. I looked around to find one and walked further towards the college building. I probably should have looked where I was walking. But the bite of a big, fat, red ant reminded me sharply that I had stepped on an ant-hill. My shriek, that followed, beat all other noises and sounds around-the squirrel's squeak and the birds' chirps. The driver of the next bus on the adjacent road probably heard it too. Even the sight of a beautiful, red and green butterfly that dared enough to hover near me could not make me forget the pain.
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And I'm expected to be a good "reporter"....