I grew up for the most part in the city–the quiet, mountain-laden land that is known for its frothy coffees in the morning and wispy skies that turned grey from blue in the blink of an eye. The Ukkadam river is an abeyance to the rest of the city, however, with birds circling the ever-growing smoke spewed from tall towers of The Chennai Silks. To navigate through the streets of Oppanakkara–a heavily industrialized scene since the arrival of the Sassenach with their west-coast lilt–is a feat that is not achieved by very many.
Political violence is oftentimes the result of ignorance. Psychology believes that it emboldens from a person feeling worthless and as such associating himself with what he believes to be something bigger than himself; and most importantly, when leaders fuel and stir the pot in favor of a particular group inciting hate.
Indian mothers have a habit. They always have had it. When her child falls down and begins crying, she will always blame the floor.
Million babies have born from million mothers. Million babies have fallen a million times. Million cries. Million blames. The floor has stayed the same. Never buckling, never yielding.
I hate to preempt my hatred by a display of little understanding into the musings of the author–but to be truthful, there really aren’t any except the hash-tag wars he may have been a reason behind. I have read the first thirty pages of Midnight @ Call-centre–and I pride myself on decluttering hiked-up cliches–but couldn’t go any past than that, because let’s be truthful: pile of ashes can’t be swept up in a single stroke. That’s what happens when you see a lot of Bollywood movies. Sorry, dear Chetan. So, apart from the almost-dangerous venturing into the dark-tunnels of escape-less eternity of call-centers and undercover sex sellers, I have read one of his blogs criticizing the RSS and VHP, and I thought, hey, Mr Baghat wasn’t so bad after all. Boy, was I wrong!
She wakes up everyday in a mire of ignorance. Her tangled hair flutters against everlasting wind that picks up pace as it approaches her: it could be a warning, it could be trying to break her fall. The woman, however, walks ahead, her eyes on the ground, her neck the shape of a sickle: no writer with any shred of dignity could ever describe her endowments, for she is the idol that was never made, a bronx statue that never left the sculptor’s head.
“The rights of Every Man are diminished when the rights of One Man are threatened!”
-John F. Kennedy
While the protestors outside of a snowy day Wembley Stadium in London, UK, were shouting slogans to show their disappointment of his visit, Prime Minister Narendra Modi promised that in the next 1000 days, he will take on the task of bringing electricity to the 18,000 villages in India which currently aren’t connected to the grid. Debajit Palit of The Hindu later raised concerns over this ambitious project saying, “Is it just electrification of villages or to provide quality and adequate electricity to all households?” In Uttar Pradesh, for instance, three out of four households get electricity for less than 12 hours a day. In Jharkhand, only 2% of electrified households get electricity for 20 or more hours; 81% do not get four or more hours in the evenings, while 60% face three or more days of total blackouts every month. PM Modi seems to have complete faith in the moral obligation that he thinks that he owes to the poor, circumventing the economical costs that India has to suffer in fulfilling his promises. According to ministry of India, a village is electrified, if it meets all of the following requirements: