The Evil is Good

Since long a pseudo-monologue has been pestering me. Who is better off? The poor but good people or the prosperous but evil? The comparison, notably, is not only on the monetary parameter. Interestingly enough, it is on all possible parameters you can ever think of. They say, money is root of all evils. Let it be. Had it not been, the money I mean, how would you have bought men? On barter? In that case, present day Marxism would have flourished like anything. One Rightist for a dozen of Leftist!

That digression notwithstanding, let me share my thesis. I am not religious man, per se. Neither is my work.

It has been an year since I had stumbled upon this question. Earlier I broomed it with a view that I was too naive to ponder upon it. Later, however, I took it just like I took engineering! My premise itself was biased. I assumed that the evil is better. The reason is simple. Look anywhere on the time line. Right from ancient to current days, the statement holds true. Yes, it's empirical. The thesis is. Feelings can't be quantified as of date. Isn't it? So, the empirical evidence confirms the fact that the so called evil fellas were the ones who were better off. They were prosperous, lived in mansions, had beautiful women, enjoyed all material pleasures (Can anyone please tell me a non-materialistic one? Please stave off the spiritual one beforehand), had servants/slaves for prole jobs, controlled big businesses, some were landlords or even kings, were wicked (by default!) and were hence burden on humanity. The last two traits are necessary evils, available ubiquitously.

Let's start from Mr. Ram. First of all, I still can't believe such a human could exist. He was really funny, you see. He was mighty, suave, adorable, learned, well-groomed and had terrific reasoning capabilities. Accepted. What was the achievement of life? Relinquishing the throne to younger kin? Wandering in jungles with ladij? Searching the stolen (or lost?) ladij with supernatural powerpuffed monkeys and bears? Or Killing a out-and-out talented man with the help of the tip-off by the latter's disgusting disgruntled younger kin? Asking the ladij to prove virginity or vacating the palace for some petty washer man, who remarked - a rather embarrassing one - about the ladij? What? Compare the slain fellow once. Conquered heaven, had a gorgeous wife, lived in palace (made of gold with a sea facade, you see), had a chartered aeroplane, true worshipper of God, a great ruler who controlled a substantial trade and commerce, had the beautous ladij as a serene view in the commensurately beautiful park for a good period of time and as a cheese topping on the pizza, the veteran was sent straight direct to heaven (for uninterrupted continual of facilities he had been enjoying on earth) by none else but the incarnation of God himself! A life worth lived. What else would you ask for?

Let's come a tad closer to present. Duryodhan. Again, well-groomed, prosperous, mighty, ambitious, shrewd. Enjoyed the life and throne to the full. In the end? The big fellow handed him a ticket for the heaven by killing him. Mr. Krishna got a bit confused I think. The big fellow was never that smart that he could outsmart Duryodhan, the then king of land and a noted connoisseur of the weapon the big fellow used to crack him down illegally. If you notice in both cases, the martyr has been victimised because of some or other unlawful act. Agreed, that Duryodhan took aide of biased dices to show the fundu-five way out. But then who slained Jarasandgh? Wasn't it the dear God himself who got the assassination job done from the big fellow, with His prowess and his power? Unfair! The good thing is, Duryodhan got to heaven. Compare the fundu-five. Talented, well-groomed and blah-blah, helped by the God himself. Achievement? Wandered in scary jungles in most part of the life? Shared one women, the one who made them victim of Duryodhan's wrath? Lost kingdom two times in casino (guess why we don't have Casinos nowadays)? Throned with the help of the crutches of God who himself had to move his kingdom a thousand kilometres westwards, for he was tired fighting? What?

Even closer. Samrat Ashok. Ditched by father and kins for throne even when he was the one who conquered the entire land, save the last few traces, this man was a true legend. We know him as a great king who accepted Buddhism. Why? The Kalinga war moved him (from violence). Hah! What a joke. Once you have the entire land in your hand, whom you are going to fight with? Right hand with the Left? He was no stupid. And mind you, History is written by the winners. He had won. He wrote it. We know him as a peace loving emperor who did a great job for social cause. Yes, he did. That was his job. But he was no peace lover or piegon freak. He was a brutal and ruthless conqueror who made his own way through all odds.

Akbar. Even bigger joke: Akbar was benign ruler and a saviour of mankind in the peninsula. Because we can't accept that our then kings were so eunuch-like that they couldn't stop the invasions from the Mongols, we accept that the erstwhile barbarians suddenly transmogrified to benign ones. Touch of the Indian soil, perhaps. British. They came on the poop and showed us that our rulers are boob. They were properous. They are still. Americans. They make Saddams and Osamas for oil, and then eliminate them for more oil. They were prosperous. They are. Our politicians. They make us fight for education, job and existence in the name of caste, creed, race and religion. They are prosperous. They don't even die! These are illustrations as to how evil men manage to record themselves as the saviour of mankind in history.

So why are you still the good boy on the block? Adduce galore you have. Be the bad boys. You will enjoy the life not only here but even the afterlife.

The Weekend

Weekends, especially Saturdays, are lazy days. After gruesome (!) weekdays of laborious (!) work schedule, Saturday always offers a pleasant morning, irrespective of the perennial despicable weather in the part of country I have chosen to make career. Like other evolutionary primates, I also tend to wake past the dawn. The Sun anyway is always on time for the duty. Being on leave, I prefer to let it earn its bread by burning itself and in the course of the process, my room-mate burns himself (I mean to say, the extra fat he acquires overnight, courtesy me, as a consequence of consuming a generous quantity of ghee over the protein rich - and ghastly tasteless - food) preparing the breakfast for us. Although it is not fixed, yet I prefer anything other than the horrible Maggie. How on earth can any living being eat those loathsome assortment of tasteless strings without any garnishing, is beyond the capabilities of comprehension for my poor dimwitted cerebrum. That digression notwithstanding, I survive with whatever he slips in for my consumption.

Last Saturday as he was not there, I had to personally look after the entire aforementioned proceedings. To my horror, the maid arrived before time and was very happy keeping the bell button depressed till the moment she could adore my face. Unwillingly I had to part off from my bed and let her in. For the umpteenth time she enquired about when my room-mate was returning. I wonder whether she is interested in the work or him! He is not that hapless, to be frank. She finished her job pronto, nevertheless making me hop from on place to other for the namesake of dusting, and departed. In the meanwhile, the newspaper and the milk pouch had been delivered. Still yawning, I picked the articles and provided them with their respective places of residence. As I had anyway been woken up, I avoided the sin of sagging back again in the bed. Ergo, I indulged myself in the newspaper. Lately, I have realized that newspapers can more aptly be rechristened as tabloids. Hindi newspapers have religiously maintained their forbidden status for the sensible citizens. A few English ones, self proclaimed as the throat and tongue of the nation, who had an erstwhile reputation of being diligent in putting words have now taken hypocrisy as their vision, mission and value. I perused through the 68 odd pages, 24 of which were classifieds (ironical usage of the print media for advertisement), 12 had full length portraits of dare-to-wear owlets, another 8 of the international news of absolutely no pertinence to my humble and benign existence and the rest 24 about the national news which, lest the dates of the calendar has to change, is notoriously the same. The entire activity took about 20 minutes. I suddenly felt a sense of achievement, being updated of the most current happenings of the world.

As I had to stew my own morsel, I rose from the bed again. Put the tea in the tea-jar and summoned all my energies to think about what to prepare to dispense with the upheaval at both the floor of my anatomy. After a long solitudinal brainstorming, I settled for Rave-Ka-Shira. Another ten minutes of hard work and I was again in my bed munching the moreish dish for the tongue, along with old editions of the ET, for skull. That's the only newspaper I am seduced to. It carries news; simply. With the mind and matter put to gratification and the Sun already passed over the head, I indulged into a siesta. Lately, I have discovered I have become rather indulgent. I now indulge in even in the least possible thing I had never even bothered to dream of. For example, nowadays I iron my clothes! When I enjoyed the lavishness of home, I regarded this to be a blasphemous, sordid or for that reason a squalid job.

Never mind that. Post-siesta, I found the clock lackadaisically hanging on at 17:30. As it was my duty to get up, for the sake of the crushed bedsheets and pressed mattresses, I did. Yawning all along the wall of my apartment, I filled the tea-jar again. While the tea was boiling, I put the milk container back on the gas. Milk, I tell you, is a entailing substance. It needs refrigeration, to save it from 'splitting'. Also, it needs to be boiled, again so that the darned thing doesn't split. Can't we make the holy animal, this is derivative of which, eat something gluey so that one can stave off the split hairs of boiling it time and again? I read somewhere about a group of Scandinavian vets who tweaked with the genes of the holy animal so that it can pour out 4 times the normal (now, what is that?) quantity of the fluid. I wonder whether these musketeers of anthropology have any concern for my recommendation. The tea was ready. I gulped it, few biscuits to savour with and couched in the bed again. It creaked. It was a signal perhaps, that I must let it enjoy the freedom too.

Taking the cue, I changed, and put my foot out. There was no particular place to go. I hence decided to indulge (again !) into a mindless stroll. The daily routine doesn't allow me to look at the edifices encroaching the barren spread all around my apartments. The stroll gave me ample opportunities to appreciate the engineering wizardry. I must say, people have invested sumptuously. Some villas truly justify their pompous names viz. the Castle. This one is built in an area of over 10,000 sq feet. The peripheral brickwork is a dozen feet tall, ornated with dreadful spikes and complimented with commensurate main entrance door. I was impressed, honestly. Karan Johar is not all insane. Such villas do exist. And yes of course, their were some other greener things, there that did attract my attention. Their attention, as always, was already been 'taken'. This is one more thing that makes me realize how godforsaken I am. The self realisation also led me to the ultimate reality of life: the ones of my age have either already been taken or about to be, those who are elder find me as a cute kid and the younger ones, the smarter race of course, have already chosen the better for them. As a consequence of this introspection (I honestly thank my management training for making me so comfortable with the use of this word, a courtesy daily hearing), enlightenment has struck upon me to be modest and accept solitude as the only solace rather than to strike up something with somebody. The loner, the better.

Tired and exasperated, I unlocked the home. I cooked myself a gourd (not because I am a gourmand, but only that was available) and rotis. Swallowed some water and collapsed in the bed, pronto. The day had been really tiring. Deep thought process (this is another word, I duly thank for) depletes the mind of the precious fluids that must be repleted by a cosy sleep amount to no less than third of a day. Following this precious advice from the doctor, I culminated my happening day.

This was Saturday, indeed. Sunday, of course, I spare for rest, exclusively.

HOMGKGWAGL

Read a novel recently. The novel had a unusually long name viz. How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life. Now, a disclaimer, before I proceed: Avert those thoughts. Ya those that brushed off your mind just after reading that name. It's not a Sidney Sheldon stuff. It's clean work, written in original style. No PG required.

The story is about a NRI girl whose NRI parents dream her to achieve Harvard and groom her so that she starts dreaming their dream. A typical Indian family upbringing scenario, where parents decide what the child is destined to become, let alone the fact whether the child has either the capacity or inclination for the purportedly envisioned career. To avoid such a thing from happening, her parents meticulously chalk out a roadmap that will guide her right from infancy to their dream fancy. The child abides by it and reaches the juncture where she is interviewed at the Harvard. Contrary to her expectations, the interviewer asks her two very simple & straight questions over the usual academic ones, viz. what does she does for fun and who are her friends. In the advent of such sudden detour by the interviewer, the girl - Opal Mehta - ends up making a mess. The interviewer however consoles her and recommends concentrating on these banal appearing yet difficulty posing questions, for the simple reason that the Harvard needed all rounders and not nerds. How she gets over with it, or can she ever get over with it, is all the book about. Apropos, to taste a real life she must get kissed, loose the robotic routine by letting the mind got wild and embrace a normal life.

No rocket science involved. No philosophy engrossed. The language is simple. The writing style heavily bears a contemporary hue. Let it be the remarks on farcical flag-bearers of Indian culture abroad, the use of mild slang or the exaggerated and hysterical hauteur patronised by proles in US (which unfortunately, is considered haute by the upper crest Indians), all has been outlined crisply. What appealed me the most was the witty manner in which the message was conveyed. The message is incidentally very simple: live a life of your choice. Choose the obvious. Don't obviate the obvious for something oblivious. That never means that you should not have any aim in life. You should. But in the process of achieving it, don't forget that He has gifted you with a beautiful world to live in. Live it. Be a part of it. One should feel exalted after achieving the summit, not alone. Friends, fun and formulae are equally important.

The author, Kaavya Vishwanathan is incidently a pursuing Harvard student herself. This is her first novel, a parable instead. A good refresher. Kudos.