Culture vs. Cliche

"... mixing that cocktail of spurious tradition and manufactured modernity, while adding his signature flavour to the combination. He told his listeners stories about traveling to America, Europe, and Japan — the ultramodern places that middle-class India had been emulating and suddenly found within its reach. Yet few people in the audience had been to these countries, and if they did go, they would not encounter them with any degree of intimacy. The very places they were most drawn to — the business centers, the shopping plazas, the franchise restaurants — would remain slightly unreal in spite of the photographs taken, the souvenirs bought, the money spent."

— The Beautiful And The Damned, Siddhartha Deb

Buying a Sri Lankan

Why can't I own a Canadian? is an internet meme that became popular because of a parody letter about the ramifications of a certain Biblical law that states that it is okay to own slaves as long as they are from a foreign nation. The letter was originally written by someone named Jim, as a response to Dr. Laura Schlessinger, a radio personality who dispensed advice to people calling in on her radio show. A follower of Orthodox Judaism herself, she had condemned homosexuality by citing Leviticus 18:22 which says: "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination." The letter has been posted and re-posted several times (Hence, the post) since it first appeared on the internet in 2002. Here's the version from the Humanists of Utah website. It's been sometime since I read something so snarky, and 'informative':

Dear Dr. Laura,

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them:

When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?

Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your devoted fan,
Jim

Bhaiyya ka Bakhaan

“He is a desperado. He is slow. He is a poet. He is a thug. Above all, the man from UP is just plain grateful he is not a Bihari,” writes Annie Zaidi. You can read the full post, bakhaan, and chittha here: Hum toh Aise Hain Bhaiyya.

Unfaithfully Yours

Dear K,

If you are reading this, it means I actually worked up the courage to mail this. So good for me. You don’t know me very well but if you get me started, I have a tendency to go on and on about how hard writing is for me. But this, this is the hardest thing I ever had to write. There is no easy way to say this so I’ll just say it. I met someone. It was an accident. I wasn’t looking for it. It wasn’t on the make. It was a perfect storm. She said one thing, I said another. Next thing I knew, I wanted to spend the rest of my life in the middle of that conversation. Now there’s this feeling in my gut, she might be the one. She’s completely nuts in a way that makes me smile. Highly neurotic. A great deal of maintenance required. She is you K. That’s the good news. That bad is I don’t know how be with you right now. And it scares the daylight out of me. Because if I am not with you right now, I get this feeling we’ll get lost out there. It’s a big bad world full twists and turns. And people have a way of blinking, and missing the moment. The moment that could have changed everything. I don’t know what’s going on with us and I can’t tell you why you should waste the leap of faith on the likes of me. But damn, you smell good. Like home. And you make excellent coffee. That’s gotta count for something. Right? Call me.

Unfaithfully yours,
H

PS - Attributed to Hank Moody, the male lead from the overtly sexual American TV drama, Californication. The letter is addressed to the love of his life, Karen. In order to learn new interpretations of the phrase "love of his life", you'll have to watch the show.

Ishwar Allah

Ishwar Allah, tere jahan mein nafrat kyun hai, jung hai kyun
Tera dil toh itna bada hai, insaan ka dil tang hai kyun

Kadam kadam par sarhad kyun hai, saari zameen jo teri hai
Suraj ke phere dharti hai, phir kyun itni andheri hai
Is duniye ke daaman par insaan ke lahoo ka rang hai kyun

Goonj rahi hai itni cheekhein, pyar ki baatein kaun sunay
Toot rahe hain kitne sapne, inke tukde kaun chunay
Dil ke darwaazon par taale, taalon par ye zang hai kyun

Ishwar Allah, tere jahan mein nafrat kyun hai, jung hai kyun
Tera dil toh itna bada hai, insaan ka dil tang hai kyun

The Boy Who Never Told Anything

This is about a girl I knew not so long ago. That she had the ability and not the craving to be happy was what I’ll always remember about her. Needless to say, it was she who wrote this and not me.

* * *

The arm beneath her head was falling asleep and she wiggled her legs a bit. She always slept with her legs thrown about in gay abandon as if they were breaking free from the shackles of being prim and proper the whole day. There was a slight chill in the air and the blanket felt warm against her body. There was some grit on the sheet. A full moon was smiling cherubically, her battalion of stars fading in the glory of her pale light. Sleep was a few groggy breaths away so she turned to lie on her stomach, propping up her elbows so she could look at the moon better. She smiled at the imperfect circle it was today. One side looked slightly worn down as if the sun’s fury had melted her to make the stars.

Thoughts often rummaged through her mind like inquisitive children. Poking through the carefully stashed away memories, their grubby hands undoing the covers she had draped them in. Sometimes those fingers tickled up a laughing anecdote. She had read about people smiling into nothingness. The first time she did it herself she self-consciously shrugged her shoulders. But then some people, some weird little things often made her mouth dance into a crazy little curve, those laugh lines giving her a look of wry abandonment. He used to find her laugh lines infinitely attractive. She didn’t even notice them before he mentioned it. And now each time she looked in the mirror, she made it a point to smile, just to see those lines crease around her mouth.

Thinking of him saddened her, her spirit suddenly weighed down by her heart. And with nothing better to do, she reached out for her journal, flipping through its pages, covered in her scribbles. Pages of doodles and psychedelic designs. No matter how many dogs and flowers she started off with, she always managed to end up making concentric circles – an indication of her eddying thoughts? There were realms of angry outpourings, strings of quotes, cuttings of interesting ads and passages of mundane nothings.

Her journal. Her closest friend, her stubborn conscience, her cruelest critic. Often uncomfortable around her closest friends, she managed to talk to this inanimate book with unnerving enthusiasm. With fierce loyalty. With unbridled passion. She carried on rummaging, reading a quote, seeing a long-forgotten picture, some calculations of her monthly expenditure gone awry. The stars were beginning to fall asleep. She felt peaceful. The hammering of her mind was gently soothing itself into slumber. With a smile she hummed a silly tune.

Emotional Quotient of a Door Knob

Interesting excerpt from the movie Annie Hall. Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) has just quarreled with his love interest, Annie, and is walking down the street, looking for some answers, when he comes across a man, a ‘happy’ couple, and the Wicked Queen in quick succession. Here's a bit of the wisdom. Needless to say, it's overtly dramatized.

Alvy Singer: I have to ask you a question. Don't go any further. With your wife in bed, does she need any kind of artificial stimulation like, like, marijuana?
Man: We use a large vibrating egg.

{walks off}

AS: A large vibrating egg. Well, I ask a psychopath, I get than kind of an answer. Jesus!

{along came the happy couple}

AS: You look like a very happy couple. Well, are you?
Lady: Yeah!
Gentleman: Yeah!

AS: So, so, how do you account for it?
Lady: Uh. Uh, I am very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.
Gentleman: And I am exactly the same way.

AS: Aha! I see. Wow. That's very interesting. So you have managed to work out something, huh? Wooww. Thanks very much for talking to me.

To Himself: You know, even as a kid, I always went for the wrong women. I think that's my problem. When my mother took me to see Snow White, everyone fell in love with Snow White. I immediately fell for the wicked queen.

{In an animated sequence}

Wicked Queen: We never have any fun anymore.
AS: How can you say that?

WQ: Why not? You are always leaning on me to improve myself.
AS: You're just upset. You must be getting a period.

WQ: I don't get a period. I am a cartoon character. Can't I be upset every once in a while?

Me: Err. Aha! I did not know it was that simple. Hmm.

Let's Fly Tonight

The clock's running down
The team's losing ground
To the opposing defense
The young quarterback
Waits for the snap
When suddenly it all starts to make sense

He's got all kinds of time
He's got all kinds of time
All kinds of time
He's got all kinds of time
All kinds of time

He takes a step back
He's under attack
But he knows that no one can touch him now
He seems so at ease
A strange inner peace
Is all that he's feeling somehow

He looks to the left
He looks to the right
And there in a golden ray of light
Is his open man
Just as he planned
The whole world is his tonight

- All Kinds of Time, Fountains of Wayne

Sometimes, just sometimes, one feels like letting go of everything. Oh yes, the feeling lasts only a moment. And it should. It must. But tonight, I feel like floating. Flying. Let’s. Yes? We will.

Romance is Dead

Let it never be said that romance is dead
'Cos there's so little else occupying my head
There is nothing I need 'cept the function to breathe
But I'm not really fussed, doesn't matter to me

Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby
Do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya
Know what ya doing, doing to me?
Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby

Due to lack of interest tomorrow is canceled
Let the clocks be reset and the pendulums held
'Cos there's nothing at all 'cept the space in between
Finding out what you're called and repeating your name

Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby
Do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya

- Ruby, Kaiser Chiefs

How To Save a Life

Step one you say we need to talk
He walks you say sit down it's just a talk
He smiles politely back at you
You stare politely right on through
Some sort of window to your right
As he goes left and you stay right
Between the lines of fear and blame
You begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

- How To Save a Life, The Fray

Phlegmatic Unease

Word of Derision - I am not a very 'New Year' person. But certain conventions are better respected than ridiculed. We might sometimes also need to change the way conventions are understood. For not even history is rigid. It's a matter of perception. I hope this post helps some of us do just that. Change the way we look at something that has been passed down to us. Unlearn the preconditioning that has been mechanically drilled into us. For that's what New Year is all about. Probably just that. For the record - Wish you a 'Happy' New Year.

Dear D,

It was really odd, on my first evening here, there was get-together of the local Indian gang, and they were all talking about the Teen Murti Library and the University Coffee House and the M.Phil Department, wallowing in nostalgia. One girl called Mrinalini said she knew you, or had once met you once at some pompous Foreign Service party where you’d told her, “The US and the Soviets are in this nuclear arms race primarily to distract the rest of the world. It’s all a game, they want to keep all our minds away from the real issue, which is the throttling of what they call the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Worlds by Soviet Necessity and the American Dream.” I hope you are squirming with shame? Mrinalini thought I wouldn’t believe her. She said you were fat, pompous and very drunk, like the rest of the party.

I have been trying to write as few letters as possible because writing letters is the supreme indulgence for me nowadays. Communicating with people is difficult here and it’s such a temptation to make up for that through letters. At least with letters you don’t have to deal with immediate reactions – you can imagine that whoever you’re writing to is interested and understands exactly what you mean. Writing letters is a wonderful way of copping out of everything – the lectures that go so badly, all the people in this place whom I can’t talk to. It’s so tempting to take the easy way out, to go on about how the people here are so dull, ignorant, smug and provincial. They are all that, but there’s also something wrong about my attitude to them. Because of my color, accent, etc, I feel wary and strained talking to Americans – the moment I face one of them, I can feel the shutters going down on me, and I know my face looks blank, bored and closed.

In just a few weeks here I’ve managed to establish a ‘circle of silence’ around myself which nobody would want to break into. To appear quite and disinterested is the greatest defense, to convince yourself that nothing matters. And the ‘stay away from me’ expression gets quite out of hand sometimes – the only American who’s made heroic efforts to make me comfortable just asked me if I wanted a poster. Without thinking or even looking up, I said, “No, you can keep it.” His warmth feels like a terrific obligation and s responsibility - it takes me such an effort to respond that I sometimes actually run away when I know he’s around. I don’t know why the hell I’m writing all this.

There was a real low last week – I have to make my class do an exercise called freewriting – they have to write nonstop for ten minutes about whatever is on their minds. Last week one student wrote, “I am not paying big bucks to listen to Indian telling me how to write English. And her fucking accent is giving me a migraine.” I really wonder what I am doing here, especially because academically this place really ‘sucks’, the one American expression which covers all possible negatives. Some other time I’ll write you a bright bitchy letter about the kind of absurdities one hears at lectures here. The worse is not having anyone to share the absurdity with. It’s hard getting to know people. Everyone seems friendly at first, everyone stops and asks, “Hi, how ya doing?” But after a while you realize that that’s it, nothing ever follows up that, “Hi How ya doing?” And to answer that with anything less exuberant than, “Pretty good”, is a social outrage. The creed is to be bright, brisk and busy. You can imagine what a disadvantage my face is, and my voice – dull, gloomy and lazy as can be.

I share my room with a Mexican. She is OK. At times I hysterically wonder why people ever leave their own countries and go abroad. Why don’t we ever learn that all changes of place are for the worse? It’s not love for the place; it’s the familiarity, like old winter clothes. Didn’t you feel something of this at Yale? You were always so closed about your American experience. Yesterday another American asked me where I was from in India. I said, “Bombay.” He thought for a while and asked me seriously whether I rode to college on an elephant. I said, “Yes, but I had to hire one, since we were too poor to own our own.” That’s entirely my fault, for not being where I ought to be, back home.

I can’t transfer to another university within this PhD program unless I am willing to lose credits. My only experience of the US before this was of NY and I ought to have known that being in the heart of the corn country will be very different from NY.

What I really didn’t bargain for was the nostalgia – I have such a bad memory that the past usually becomes mere past for me with great ease. But here I take nostalgia to absurd extremes – watching Hindi movies, Guddi, Barood etc, I don’t think it works, to run away from a place when your relationships there get messy. For the first time now I feel I need some continuities. But then I don’t know if anything lasts, except that I am the same person wherever I go – and that certainly is no cause for joy! In the first few days I thought I’d get friendly with my Mexican roomie and ask her about subtle racist attitudes here.

I don’t know why I am writing all this but now that I’ve missed a class already, I might as well fill up the page. Of course I’m being defensive again. I can’t say anything to anyone without leaving an escape route for myself, prefacing everything with, “Don’t take this too seriously” or “I don’t know why I am saying this.” The only way to cope with this is to pretend nothing matters.

Oh, there are some lovely things here too – the varieties of ham, books for ten cents each, Mrinalini, the underground radio station which plays hours and hours of old blues, bars – but they are not nearly enough.

I can see you perfectly sometimes – perfectly composed in your tie behind your Citibank desk, drowning some client in bank jargon. I keep asking myself, why were you so cold and curt at the end. ‘At the end’ sounds terribly dramatic but you know what I mean. It feels absurd to even mention it because that was in another country, and besides. For the last line you could consult your English literature friend who, if that letter of his you showed me is anything to go by, is enjoying going insane, in some backwater somewhere, what was it, Madna?

Please write back. With my love, R.

PS - This is an extract from the book English, August - the debut novel by Upamanyu Chatterjee.

Jingle Balle

Word of Caution - Not mine. It's by Bachi Karkaria. I saw a newspaper clipping (from Dec '05) stuck in my journal. Copy-pasting it. Enjoy.

He knows when you’re bribing
He knows when you’re on the take
He knows if you’ve been good or bad
So don’t take ghoos for goodness sake

Kyonji, kyon kitkit-baaji kar rahe ho? Why complain that every Pappu and Pinky has begun celebrating this foreign festival? Christmas-Krishmas – these are glad tidings if now everyone gets a slice of the tandoori turkey.

And that everyone profits from the commercial spirit of this season. On a grey, cold Delhi day, how nice to be cheered by colony markets all decorated from head to mistletoe. Lajpatnagar, London-nagar they are one and the same Singh. Sohni Kudis stride in boots and berets. Older men and women both wear suits. Armored Kaurs, pashminas blazing, roll through the bazaars, clutching their shopping lists: Ek kilo gobi, ek kilo gajar halwa, ek Chreesmas tree.

Here, it’s the real thing, not the green dyed bottle brushes that are Mumbai’s faux fir. String them up with Chinese fairy lights. If cheap imports Shanghai-ed Diwali diyas, why not a Peking duck for the Chirstmas table? The Maharani Bagh memsahebs will stick to French ones bred by “Cher Roger”. But glory to God in the Highest, for everyone else it’s an adapted celebration, complete with bhangrified carols.

Let’s stomp to-

Jingle Balle, Jingle balle, Jingle all the way!
Oh what fun it is to ride on a CNG powered sleigh! Hoi!

That’s of Santaji isn’t stuck in a fog-jammed traffic. Or, causing the mother of all snarls itself. “Kyon Shahji, daarhi lagake apne aap ko PMji samajhte ho kya? Side ho ja, warna tere reindeer-ar ko rein-darrling bana doonga!”

He’s better watch out
He’d better not cry
He’d better clear out
Coz I am telling you why

On a Personal Note

That’s as far as the plagiarizing goes. Me? I think I did my good deed for the day. Went to the village school whose kids I torment, taught (supposedly) the immensely tormented souls, distributed apples and chocolates, and then came back to have some 5 slices of a delectable rum (or was it gingerbread) cake at a team member’s home. So much for the festive mood. Biked back home. Noticed the abnormally high instances of Lucknowites who had taken well to the yuletide spirit. All of them co-incidentally happened to gherao every mall in the small dihati town. Being a dihati at heart, I longed to do some Jingle Balle as well. But happened to be alone. So grudgingly trudged back home. With mischief at heart and a twinkle in the eye, asked Mum (only half expecting a positive reply) to be my escort. She said, “Roti kitne baje banaye?” I gave up. Ate aloo-paneer and beans ki sabji. The moon looked beautiful. I believe it was a full moon last night. But the romantic endeavors were cut short by an overpowering urge to effect something more substantial. I decided to woo the only consort I had ever loved. You.

Merry Christmas

Desi Jargon

Political slogans, movie dialogues, taglines, society speak, and even campus jargon that entered the cacophony that is Indian society, and stayed on. A write-up triggered by a cursory glance at a folder named Moments of Nostalgia. The folder turned out to be treasure trove of long forgotten jingles and songs, notably Ek Chidiya, Anek Chidiya and Hamara Bajaj. As someone might have said long ago, let the good times roll.

Hamara Bajaj The 1990’s Bajaj campaign cashed in on the immense popularity of the brand. The phrase stands for all that is Swadeshi.

Dhoondhte reh jaoge A Surf Ultra ad line that became part of everyday terminology. The tagline has come to encompass the very essence of invisibility.

Jhakaas Meaning very cool, was first used by Anil Kapoor in Joshilay (1989). The connotations might have changed perceptibly. But the soul remains intact.

Kitne aadmi the Probably the most famous line in Bollywood history. It was mouthed by Amjad Khan aka Gabbar in Sholay. The implications ae more than evident, if anything.

Bindaas A word that means blasé, popularized by Startdust, and commonly used in conjunction with babe. Need I say more?

Dho Daala Clinic All Clear’s tagline claiming to eliminate all kinds of dandruff also refers to wiping out an opponent, as in Dhoni ne dho daala.

JLT Just Like That. Univesity parlance that moved outside campuses. Nonchalance personified.

Funde mat jhaad An excessive and irritating display of knowledge. Warning sign for all the desi Private Quelches.

Mera Bharat Mahan Rajiv Gandhi’s national integration campaign. Now referred to only in history books. A less than patriotic suffix usually lags behind its more famous counterpart. It goes something like Sau mein ninyanve beimaan.

Item Number Not just the movie staple, it is now stretched to connote the highlight of any even or show, be it a guest lecture or a cricket match.

Yeh Dil Maange More The TV coverage of Captain Vikram Batra’a use of this phrase during the 1999 Kargil War catapulted the Pepsi tagline into common parlance. Excess is no longer a taboo. It’s fashion.

Tryst With Destiny PM JL Nehru’s landmark address to the Constituent Assembly on the midnight of India’s Independence in 1947. We continue to be inspired by it in more ways than one.

BTM Behenji Turned Mod Campus abbreviation, popularized during the 1980’s. Has led to several mutants, notably Aunty Turned Mod.

Vaat lagegi mamu The tapori phrase used across regions to indicate trouble. Made immortal by Munnabhai.

Bad Luck hi kharaab hai Endearing self-deprecatory statement with a unique twist of Indian English. Credits to Aamir Khan in Rangeela (1995).

Lambi Race ka ghoda First used by Dabur Seth for Amitabh Bachchan in the 1975 classic, Deewar. The metaphor has stood the test of times, quite literally.

Made for Each Other ITC 1963 slogan for its WILLS brand of cigarettes. Lives on in these tobacco intolerant times. The connotations change drastically. The tagline lingers on.

Dobara mat poochna A phrase coined to convey an attitude in the Chlor-Mint advertisement. Now used to express a certain kind of emotion, from irritability to unquestionability.

Yaara da Tashan The Thanda Matlab Coke line that finds favour even on the bumper of trucks.

Reference: Some nondescript issue of India Today

Californication

Interviewer What's your latest obsession?

Hank Moody Just the fact that people seem to be getting dumber and dumber. You know we have all this amazing technology and yet computers have basically turned it into four figure wank machines. The internet was supposed to set us free, democratize us; but all that it has given us is Howard Dean's aborted candidacy and 24 hour a day access to kiddie porn. You know people, they don't write anymore. They blog. Instead of talking they text. No punctuation. No grammar. lol, lolmfa, roflol and all that. It just seems to me that it's just a bunch of stupid people pseudo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people in a proto language that resembles more what the cave men used to speak rather than the King's English.

Interviewer But you're a part of the problem. You are out there blogging with the best of them.

Hank Moody Hence my self loathing. (Drinks from a flask)

You Need A Lover

I'm young, employed, healthy, ambitious,
Sound, solvent, self-made, self-possessed.
But all my symptoms are pernicious.
The Dow-Jones of my heart's depressed.
The sunflower of my youth is wilting.
The tower of my dreams is tilting.
The zoom lens of my zest is blurred.
The drama of my life's absurd.
What is the root of my neurosis?
I jog, eat brewer's yeast each day,
And yet I feel life slip away.
I wait your sapient diagnosis.
I die! I faint! I fail! I sink!
You need a lover, John, I think.

- Vikram Seth

Thanks to Piper for the poem. You can find the bugger at http://piperbol.blogspot.com

The Hacking Manifesto

The Conscience of a Hacker (a.k.a. The Hacker Manifesto) is a small essay written January 8, 1986 by a hacker who went by the handle (or pseudonym) of The Mentor (born Loyd Blankenship). It was written after the author's arrest.

It is considered a cornerstone of hacker culture, and it gives some insight into the psychology of early hackers. It is said to have shaped the hacker community's view of itself and its motivations. The Manifesto states that hackers choose to hack because it is a way for them to learn, and because they are often frustrated and bored in school. It also expresses the satori of a hacker realizing his potential in the realm of computers.

To this day, the Manifesto acts as a guideline to hackers across the globe, especially those new to the field. It serves as an ethical foundation for hacking, and asserts that there is a point to hacking that supersedes selfish desires to exploit or harm other people (like black hat crackers/hackers), and that technology should be used to expand our horizons and try to keep the world free.

\/\The Conscience of a Hacker/\/

+++The Mentor+++

Written on January 8, 1986

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Another one got caught today; it's all over the papers. "Teenager Arrested in Computer Crime Scandal", "Hacker Arrested after Bank Tampering". Damn kids. They're all alike.

But did you, in your three-piece psychology and 1950's techno brain, ever take a look behind the eyes of the hacker? Did you ever wonder what made him tick, what forces shaped him, what may have molded him? I am a hacker. Enter my world. Mine is a world that begins with school. I'm smarter than most of the other kids. This crap they teach us bores me. Damn underachiever. They're all alike.

I'm in junior high or high school. I've listened to teachers explain for the fifteenth time how to reduce a fraction. I understand it. "No, Ms. Smith, I didn't show my work. I did it in my head." Damn kid. Probably copied it. They're all alike.

I made a discovery today. I found a computer. Wait a second, this is cool. It does what I want it to. If it makes a mistake, it's because I screwed it up. Not because it doesn't like me or feels threatened by me. Or thinks I'm a smart ass. Or doesn't like teaching and shouldn't be here. Damn kid. All he does is play games. They're all alike.

And then it happened. A door opened to a world. Rushing through the phone line like heroin through an addict's veins, an electronic pulse is sent out. A refuge from the day-to-day incompetencies is sought. A board is found. "This is it. This is where I belong." I know everyone here even if I've never met them, never talked to them, may never hear from them again. I know you all. Damn kid. Tying up the phone line again. They're all alike.

You bet your ass we're all alike. We've been spoon-fed baby food at school when we hungered for steak. The bits of meat that you did let slip through were pre-chewed and tasteless. We've been dominated by sadists, or ignored by the apathetic. The few that had something to teach found us willing pupils, but those few are like drops of water in the desert.

This is our world now. The world of ‘The Electron’ and ‘The Switch’, the beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by profiteering gluttons, and you call us criminals. We explore and you call us criminals. We seek after knowledge and you call us criminals. We exist without skin color, without nationality, without religious bias and you call us criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage wars, you murder, cheat, and lie to us and try to make us believe it's for our own good. Yet, we're the criminals.

Yes, I am a criminal. My crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look like. My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will never forgive me for.

I am a hacker, and this is my manifesto. You may stop this individual, but you can't stop us all. After all, we're all alike.

This Time

Disclaimer: I don't claim ownership of this piece. The author had written this for me and I hope he/she won't mind my putting it up here for public perusal. It deserves to be read by as many as possible. I seek his/her clemency for being a blatant and shameless plagiarizer.

No one's around as you read this. Just you and that almost forgettable little voice which goes by the name of a conscience, telling you not to smoke when all your friends are puffing away, telling you to study just when you are beginning to have a good time, nagging you to be angelic just when the devil comes a-knocking. Now that you've looked all around and found no one peeking over your shoulder, let’s get down to answering some pesky little questions. Yes the ones that get brushed aside in the normal humdrum of daily existence, the ones that ought to be answered but never are. Allow yourselves the torture of facing them this one time.

When was the last time you treated yourself to the luxury of a lazy evening lolling on some grass? Doing absolutely, soaking in a fast dimming curtain of sunlight, feeling each blade of green as it pokes you, hearing a squirrel behind you, stretching yourself in utter abandonment.

When was the last time you reveled in a friendly leg-pulling session? Ripping a friend apart? Not online and certainly not over the phone. A simple person to person laughter soaked, buddy bashing spree.

When was the last time a line in a book or a song moved you in an inexplicable way? Not earth-shatteringly, ground-breakingly different. Not breath-takingy beautiful. Just moving in a quiet, almost shy manner.

When was the last time you felt the tongue of a dog lick across your face in that adorably delightful way that is so cleverly mastered by all creatures canine? Just enjoyed the moment when a dog bounds up to you, laughter rollicking in his eyes, ball in mouth, asking you if you could throw it just one more time.

It is extraordinary how we manage to go past our lives living from one mundane task to another. Hopping from one excruciating deadline to the next, zombified by the necessity to exist, doing things that are supposed to be done, following the path others lay down as the correct one. This is certainly not a pep talk telling you to follow your dreams. It’s about telling you to at least find the time to dream in the first place. Consider yourself worthy enough to dream for. The time used to think for yourself, your needs and your own wishes is always time well spent. Living each day as a drag, complaining about painful workloads, studies, jobs, and families isn't what we were meant to do. We were (hopefully) meant to be living our lives more passionately, packed with more laughter and some amount of hurt and tears each day and certainly more satisfaction.

So the next time you see a face smile at you, hear a quirky little tune, take the time to enjoy it with a happier heart. Giggle at trivial things (frankly no one is bothered by your breaking out into grins so forget about looking silly), enjoy a bath, hum a song, eat with passion and be a livelier person. This may sound like a Readers' Digest "How to Stay Happier" article and maybe it is. But somewhere the beat of that teeny voice of your conscience is nodding its head in agreement in its sagely condescending manner.

Take the time.

Munh Ki Baat

Munh ki baat sune har koi, dil ke dard ko jaane kaun
Awaazon ke bazaaron mein, khamoshi pehchaane kaun

Sadiyon sadiyon wahi tamasha, rasta rasta lambi khoj
Lekin jab hum mil jaate hain, kho jaata hai jaane kaun

Woh mera aaina hai ya main us ki parchhaai hu
Mere hi ghar mein rehta hai, mujh jaisa hi jaane kaun

Kiran kiran alsaata suraj, palak palak khulti neendein
Dheeme dheeme bikhar raha hai, zarra zarra jaane kaun

- Munh Ki Baat

Memorablia

Memories are a beautiful thing if you don't have to deal with the past.

As dumb as a one liner can probably be. Got this from a Richard Linklater movie. But if one ponders a little, then you realize the line's got a certain whackiness to it. As well as a bit of substance. Go on. It doesn't hurt if you think. Whatsay huh?

Hey...I realized after I posted this junk that today's April 1. My Day! So I came back to write some more. Isn't this supposed to be funny and all? But believe me, I haven't got a funny bone in my entire body. I can try to be sarcastic if you want me to. But serious laughs, well....... I can do the laughing part, you know. When I sit down to write something, pen and paper et al, all I can remember is when I peed the last time. Big Problem with thinking. So leave alone the funny part, I have serious-unknown-syndrome in just converting thoughts into ink (or binary in this case). But I never cease trying, much to the dismay of people who are forced to read my 'work'.

Only yesterday, I remember using copious amounts of mental and physical coercion to get Chingari Baadshah to read (and comment) on my blog. But Baadshah is an expert in wriggling out of tight situations. With a swish of his water jug and a shrill "abbeeeeyyyy kya kar rahe hoo??", he managed to wiggle out of my persuasive hold. 'Damn', I muttered under my breath and set out in search of some other unsuspecting bakra. But fortune has been known to side with the jerks. So I thought better and decided to feed some movie to my starved senses (courtesy 3 days of prolonged labor pains aka exams). I went for a Woody Allen flick - Annie Hall. I expected the movie to be some another melodramatic flick that I usually end up liking. But surprisingly, the romance was fresh and the humour subtle. But even then it managed to evoke loud giggles (and certain glares from my roomie). Go for it if you are looking for something new and closer to life. You might surprise yourself.

Okay. So the post started off with some sappy one-liner, moved onto some humorous (or not so humorous domains), and finally ended up discussing cinema. That is sign enough that I should get my daily dose of meditation. And no, that is not the reason why I am so smart, intelligent, creative etc etc. Till Next Time!

PS - Try making a bakra out of someone today. If you want to be original, make him read my post and tell him it's supposed to be funny.