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

These Days

These Days, she floats around on pretty heels,
Smiles and sighs lighting up her worried face.
There is a delicate skip in her steps; on little toes
She dances and twirls around. Whistling.
Gently running her fingers over the words,
She pleads with them to come alive. Once.

As she turns away her face to long a little more,
Her conversations are left to fend their fate.
Surprised companions raise their cynical brows;
But then, dears, so little of her do they know.
Just one truant poke with a knowing finger
And she would willingly dissolve into specks.

The nights are long, the days lengthier still;
But her heart has never been more full of faith.
She will waltz in her white dress, humming
A song that only her lips know the words of
And she will brave the jealous stares
As to her little private jokes, she chuckles aloud.

We play this Game but ache for those dreams,
Lying to believe that a different world exists.
Mad, mad love. And enough of it to go around.
When just a dollop of it can make our world round.
So, dears, steal a peak at her on one of these days
And borrow her music for your troubled souls.

Bad Nerves

Partially inspired by the real-life experiences of some larger than life characters.

The woebegone LML Vespa was coughing out ominous looking fumes that would have put the snot-nosed tempos of the city to shame. It presented a funny sight on the city streets, wobbling and gasping its way to glory – a perfect postcard for the dysfunctional capital. The dirty green shade of the scooter had been a bright parrot green at the time of purchase. On being questioned about his aesthetic sense, Ritwick’s father had used some of the choicest cuss words and remarked that the ‘lovely’ colour would spruce up the dreary atmosphere at home. Nobody had dared question his artistic acumen thence.

Years of misuse and negligible maintenance meant that grime and soot had settled in every nook and corner of the contraption, not only depriving it of any bright colours but also the least amount of dignity. Even traffic policemen seemed to be wary of stopping the lumbering beast. The license plate had all but fallen off and one would be hard pressed to make out any of the numbers or alphabets. It seemed as if they had once gone for a ride with the wind and had never quite managed to make their way back. Every now and then, the engine would sputter and threaten to give out. But a quick shift to neutral and a gentle reassuring tap on the side seemed to put it back in high spirits.

The famed transportation was now used only for dubious purposes. Only last year, after a bout of drunken revelry, Ritwick had expressed his desire to march to Sitapur on foot, and then proceeded to enlist Shlok in his cause. Several alternatives and negotiations were bandied back and forth. Eventually, Shlok managed to convince him to ride the Vespa instead. When the battered vehicle gave out just outside Janakipuram, hardly ten kilometers into the momentous journey, Shlok had breathed a huge sigh of relief and thanked his stars several times over.

Both of them had walked back home at 4 in the morning, leaving the scooter to its fate at an all-night dhabha on Kursi Road. (But not before they had regaled the proprietor with their sorry tale and engorged on some mutton kebabs). Next day, his father had made Ritwick lug the piece of junk all the way to their home. Thereafter, he had never expressed any desire to march, on foot or wheels, whenever he was drunk. Today, uncomfortably perched on the weather-beaten seat and brows furrowed in deep concentration, he was on his way to Shlok’s place in order to put another one of his harebrained schemes into effect.

“Today is a special day, boss”, Ritwick beamed as he daintily parked the Vespa outside the brown gates.

“Bakwaas!” Shlok brushed him off. Despite his promise to stay away from Sitapur, Shlok had learnt to be suspicious of his bright moods ever since the fateful march had failed to materialize. The Vespa had only added to his misgivings today.

“Boss, dheeraj rakho. You will know. I got the Vespa. Get dressed. We are going to get some action.”

Shlok first raised his eyebrows in exclamation but then let out a sigh in defeat. He knew the stubborn pig won’t listen. Besides, there was no harm in getting some fresh winter air. Soon the sun would be out and the dust and grime that had settled down due to the mist from last night would be stirred up again by automobiles jostling for space on the narrow Lakhnavi roads. There was nothing left to be done. So he put on his jacket and rode pillion while Ritwick zig zagged through the congested by lanes of modern day Avadh.

They took the Barrage route out of Gomti Nagar, past the architectural monstrosities that Mayawati had constructed in and around Ambedkar Parivartan Sthal in honour of every living and dead Dailt fellow she knew. Shlok noticed that they were making their way towards Old Lucknow, past the wistful window shoppers in Hazratganj, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the entire market was being renovated, much in the fashion of its more famous counterpart, Connaught Place. The racket made by the construction workers did not seem to be dampening the holiday shopping spirits of the seasoned Lakhnavi shoppers either. They were all pretty much unperturbed.

The Baradari was festooned in gaily coloured ribbons to celebrate some Deepak’s birthday. Little bratty kids in fluorescent costumes could be seen being chaperoned by their harried parents. It was quite evident that the poor relic of yore had come a long way from hosting lavish dinner parties and solemnizing nikaahs for the erstwhile Nawabs. As if in cruel irony, the Kaiserbagh traffic also made sure that the once spotless white monument was now slowly turning into a sorry shade of dirty brown.

Once they were past the wide avenues of Parivartan Chowk, the traffic became a lot worse. Soon they were milling through the insane chaos of Aminabad – the real shopping district of the city – and Shlok couldn’t help smirking at Prakash Kulfi. The proprietors of the original falooda kulfi in Lucknow leased out their premises to the Defective Sari Sale people every winter. They made money not only from their name but also their place – hapless kulfi aficionados invariably ended up buying a sari or two in search of the phantom winter kulfi. The sight of a toothless peanut vendor shook him out of his reverie and he thought it wise to seek a fraction of Ritwick’s attention.

“Kahan le ja rahe ho suar?” he shouted over the wind.

“Hein? Patience, boss, patience”, Ritwick replied over the deafening din of horns. As he narrowly missed plunging headfirst into a rickshaw puller who had decided to execute a Main Hoon Na style stunt, Shlok shouted “Ghusand” while suggestively waving his fist back and forth.

The Lucknow beyond Aminabad and Chowk had remained persistently elusive for Shlok. When young, he had never bothered to explore the parts of the city known mostly for their morgue vans – the words Laash Ke Vaaste emblazoned in bright colours on each and every one of them – and brothels. And now, with most of the jazzy malls, coffee shops, and à la mode joints coming up in the Trans-Gomti area, especially Gomti Nagar, the lure of the real heart of the city had faded further. On one occasion, in search of the original Tunde Kebab outlet (contrary to popular opinion, the Aminabad one was the second in line), he had ventured deep into that uncharted territory. However, he had managed to get lost just as quickly and had to make his way back without the mysterious kebabs. The memories of that fateful day came flooding back and presently he enquired of his chauffeur:

“Tunde ja rahein hain kya?”

“Ha ha, no! Something even better than Tunde!”

The cryptic reply shut Shlok up for the rest of the ride. Meanwhile, Ritwick would stop every now and then, enquire of a place from whosoever he could lay his eyes on, nod his head in a knowing fashion as the deluge of instructions came pouring forth, and then try to follow them to the best of this ability. This continued for some time and before long, he stopped in front of a building that seemed remarkably alien for its surroundings.

Instead of cramped aisles that were packed with parked vehicles, this house was located in the midst of a huge garden. A gardener was pottering around the lawns and occasionally pruning the roses. The building looked huge in comparison with its stunted neighbours and consisted of three floors. There was no address plate or any other sign that could help in identifying it. It seemed as if people got around to that place entirely by means of secondary navigation. Ritwick seemed satisfied with the look and feel of it and said slowly, “This is Madame Sophie’s place. The finest spot for tits, chudai, and glory in all of Lucknow!”

Shlok looked as if he had just been slapped for breathing too loudly. “What! What the hell is wrong with you? What made you think I would want to come to a brothel? Are you fucking insane?”

“Bhosdi ke, don’t act so innocent. It’s not like you’ve never fucked anyone whose name you did not know. It may be stuff of the past. But don’t get preachy on me. You told me you were missing out on all the action. So I thought to surprise you. I have already made the bookings here. The time’s been paid for. With my money. So you can jerk off in a room if you feel like it. But you are coming inside and not leaving until I am done.”

The sudden outburst from a usually jovial and amenable Ritwick caught Shlok off guard. He needed to reevaluate his strategy/assault. He reasoned that he could always just sit and wait! Besides, he was already fascinated by Madame Sophie and her operations. So with his conscience sufficiently guilty free because of his ignorance of the deal, he grumbled a bit about family, respect, and changed ways, before following Ritwick inside.

During the short time it took to walk from the verandah to the main hall, Shlok had already come up with an image of Madame Sophie. Sitting on an old fashioned diwan and smoking a hookah, she turned out to be every bit the brothel mistress he had imagined her to be – very much Madame, though hardly Sophie. Years of vicarious exposure to villainous vamps of Hindi movies had created a likeness that blend in perfectly with the uncomfortable dignity that seemed to exude from Madame Sophie. But, to her credit, it was difficult to tell if she was imitating art or if art had imitated her.

The hallway on the ground floor was some kind of reception area where Madame sized people up with her experienced eye and then offered them services based on her acute appraisal. Both of them were spared the screening process since Ritwick had already made an appearance before her and sorted things out. A few vicious looking men loitered about, trying to look busy doing absolutely nothing. Amidst all this apparently displaced commotion, Madame Sophie looked completely at home and the only odd thing seemed to be her name. Sophie? “It must be courtesy one of her lovers” Shlok quickly concluded.

Seeing them enter, she nodded ever so slightly and gestured to one of her minions who bowed deferentially and went inside a room. Shortly, five young girls dressed smartly in churidar salwar marched out in single file. This was when Shlok noticed the first aberration. Unlike their celluloid counterparts, the girls did not look distraught or defeated. They were actually quite cheerful and their smiles seemed genuine. At least on the surface. “Maybe it’s not as bad as people make it out to be”, he reasoned.

~~~~

“Boss, look at the size of tits on that one!” Ritwick whispered, suddenly finding himself preoccupied with the mammaries of a certain girl introduced as Shailja.

“Will you cut out the boss crap? I don’t want to look like I was the one who dragged your sorry ass out here. Just pick someone and get this over and done with. I am going with that one. What was her name? Reshma.”

“Ok, already. No need to get all worked up. Just let me know when you are done. Behenchod, you don’t make it any easy, do you?”

~~~~

Reshma turned out to be a feisty little thing and, for a few guilty seconds, Shlok felt sorry for his friend. Despite all his prudish indifference, Shlok had let out a sigh of disappointment on hearing her name. He was expecting something a bit more clichéd. Like Malati or Chameli or even Rani. And though be bore this silent grudge against Reshma before they’d even exchanged a word, he let himself be led away from the hall by her. He wanted to find out more about her. Or so he thought.

Soon they came upon a dimly lit looking corridor with several doors on either side. A dull brown carpet was spread along the length of the passage. ‘Things are beginning to look up now’, thought Shlok. The upper floors seemed to be straight out the set of a seedy Bollywood movie with an even sleazier name like “Kanti Shah ke Angoor”. A fearsome looking pimp sized him up. He was wearing a checked lungi over a worn out vest and chewing on his paan very slowly and deliberately. Every now and then he would spit out the crimson coloured juice into a vase kept in the corner. After what seemed like an eternity, he let out a disapproving grunt but let them pass anyway. It was clear that Mr. Pimp was not paid for a lot of things, least of all his opinions, dressing sense, or cultural etiquette. Madame waged a lonely battle in those spheres.

Reshma led him to the third room on the right. Number 214. Despite its tiny size, it was garishly decked up in every kitschy colour one could think of. Shlok felt blinded by all the mismatched furnishings and felt like ripping off the red curtains and the velvety bedspread. But he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. All this would come to pass. When he opened his eyes, he found out that his consort was quite adept at getting rid of her garments. She giggled for a second seeing the surprise on his face but through that involuntary action she unwittingly conveyed that she was new to the whole shebang. There was still a hint of a sparkle in her jet black eyes, although it seemed to be waging a lost battle. Her carefree demeanour further unsettled Shlok. “Too casual”, he murmured.

“Kahan se ho tum? UP ki hi lagti ho”, he asked.

“Baat karne ka Madame ji extra paisa leti hain.”

“Madame se baat thode na kar rahein hain”, he replied, trying to act smart.

“Aapke dost ka bahut bada dil nahin hai. Sabse sasti service hai. Chhatri hai?”

“Chhatri? Oh, condom. Haan hai”, Shlok said as he fumbled around for the pack Ritwick had slipped into his pocket as they had entered the hall. “Tum log nahin rakhte?” he quipped after sometime.

“Rakhte hain. Kuch special chahiye?”

She looked expectantly at Shlok, expecting him to take off his pants any moment now and passionately devour her. Or something to that effect. That stare seemed be sizing him up in order to decide which pose would cause least amount of discomfort to her and provide optimum satisfaction to him. But he did not get the chance to find that out. The thought of a strange naked body gyrating to the rhythm of his own made him sick to the stomach. He did not know why since, as Ritwick had mentioned earlier, all this wasn’t exactly new. He made an effort to touch her breasts, if only to prove to himself that this bizarre uneasiness was not caused by what he feared. But he could not bring himself to do it. He clenched his fists in despair, let out a defeated sigh, and just sat there. Reshma, understandably, looked surprised even though she had had her share of eccentric clients. After a few minutes, Shlok quit fighting the feeling and felt better. He hugged the girl he was supposed to have had coitus with and said something that sounded vaguely like “Badhiya hua”. Thereafter, he rushed across the corridor, down the steps, and across the hall, to the place where Madame Sophie held court.

“Madame, uss chutiya ko bula dijiye.”

If the suave Madame Sophie was surprised at the use of such vulgar language in her presence, she did not let it show. A minion was nodded at and he proceeded to do the needful. As an afterthought, she invited the unrefined gentleman for a round of hookah. Maybe he would learn something. The gentleman could not have asked for anything better to occupy his time with while he waited for his friend. He took a long drag at the pipe and let his worries scatter away with the bhang laced smoke.

~~~~

“What happened, boss? You came faster than a Hindi film rapist. A case of bad nerves?” Ritwick enquired of his partner in crime.

“Nah! Just that of a lonely wife, I guess”, Shlok smiled and motioned him towards the scooter. “I am driving. You can enjoy the view”, he added. If nothing else, he owed him a ride.

That night, as he shared the bed with Akanksha, he managed a smile. “Vespa,” he mumbled, before drifting off into a drugged sleep. And that's all.

~~~~

Footnote: “That other girl, or other women, -- whatever -- I mean, I was thinking that they’re just fantasies. You know? And they always seem really great because there’s never any problems. And if there are, they’re cute problems like, you know, we bought each other the same Christmas present or she wants to go to see a movie that I’ve already seen, you know? And then I come home and you and I have real problems and you don’t even want to see the movie I want to see, period. There’s no lingerie and --”

“I have lingerie”

“Yes, you do. You have great lingerie. But you also have cotton underwear that’s been washed a thousand times, and it’s hanging on the thing and they have it too. It’s just I don’t have to see it because it’s not in the fantasy. Do you understand? I’m tired of the fantasy because if doesn’t really exist. And there are never really any surprises, and it never really --”

“Delivers?”

“Delivers. Right, I‘m tired of it. I‘m tired of everything else for that matter. But I don‘t ever seem to get tired of you. So—”

-- Rob Gordon, High Fidelity.

Hot Noon

A random conversation carried out with much zeal and enthusiasm sometime around 4 in the afternoon. An afternoon which was both endless and ending.

Marvin - bada lethergic time hai man.
piper - sahi hai man.
piper - yahi theek hai man.
Marvin - but its ending, man.
Marvin - smoke, man?
piper - shit, man...
piper - I just had one, man.
Marvin - tsk tsk, man.
piper - if you want, we can have another, man.
Marvin - but man, i heard there was supposed to be checking, man to man?
Marvin - what the heck, man!
piper - that's tomorrow, lots of time till then man.
piper - especially with these long afternoons, man.
Marvin - come over then, man.
piper - ok, man!
Marvin - yo, man!

Days

Today and now, has arrived the evening of a much tired day.
The streets, they lie emptied of their ordinary people and I’m
Vaguely conscious of a dull ache in their lifeless hearts. They
Have shed silent tears at being neglected in a way so callous;
I simply see straight ahead, nodding, as if in silent agreement,
Counting my steps so that I need not meet their empty eyes.
The food tastes blander than usual; its revolting mediocrity
Finally smothering my appetite. But I swallow still and allow
The lack of taste to engage in a strange duel with my instincts,
While I wonder naively when the conflict shall reach an end.
The faces in the shops are familiar yet distant, engaging me
In pointless conversations. But I humour them anyway for
These days loneliness so often stumps me in my solitude,
Making me think of you. You who hold command over the
Absurd swings in my mood. You who so often rob me of
My peace of mind and leave me breathless for falling in love
Too soon. It is hard to find if you know this but there is a
Way between hearts that knows that it was never too much
Or never too soon. All it takes is a languid passing afternoon
And things drift away like our endless but numbered days.

Ardh Satya

The following poem, by the Marathi poet Dilip Chitre, is a bit abstruse to start with. I say abstruse because different people may interpret it differently. Someone might take it to be a commentary on the existential crisis that stems out of failure to act justly. While someone else might find it to be a fitting description of a romantic’s predicament on coming face to face with the ‘real’ world. You, on the other hand, might come up with a totally different interpretation.

Ardha Satya, a film by Govind Nihalani, has Om Puri reciting it in one of its scenes and gradually becoming aware, during the course of the same recital, the stark similarities between his own moral dilemma and the one the poet is talking about. As the meaning sinks in, he continues reading, but in a much more subdued and sombre tone. He knows the ‘Chakravyuh’ has caught up with him as well and either he must find a way through or subject himself to the moral backlash that will result if he chooses to become a part of it. There is no changing the maze itself. In a way, the poem encompasses the gist of the movie - moral impotency and the loss of self-respect as a person finds himself slowly, and involuntarily, becoming a part of a system he could never relate to in the first place. The loss seems to have amplified when he meets a woman who has much more courage than him.

The part I like best about the poem is its acceptance of the fact that there may not be any Absolute Truth. Just Ardh Satya or the Half-Truth. So, when the moment of reckoning comes, what do we choose? I guess, then, the ‘What’ is not as important as the courage to be held accountable for it. To have the strength to live with your choices and ideals. After all, in the light, the light of choices, will everything be equal? The 'right' choice - it might offer you a way out of guilt. But will it be any less painful or difficult? On the other hand, you might be able to tread the seemingly easier path. But will the guilty conscience be able to subsist on self pity and ignorance? There is no easy way out or in. When faced with an existential choice of such magnitude, in life, love, or beyond, Man is essentially alone, and there is nothing that ‘The Other’ can do alleviate his anguish or lessen his burden. His actions warrant responsibility and the strength to stand by them.

The movie concludes suggesting that Om Puri finally decides to break out of his situation, and regain his manliness and self-efficacy. But at what cost and in what manner? Ardh Satya indeed. Here’s a rough English translation of the poem I found online. However, I would recommend watching the movie you need to feel the real intensity of the poem.

Ardh Satya by Dilip Chitre

Chakravyuh mein ghusne se pehle, kaun tha mein aur kaisa tha, yeh mujhe yaad hi na rahega. Chakravyuh mein ghusne ke baad, mere aur chakravyuh ke beech, sirf ek jaanleva nikat’ta thi, iska mujhe pata hi na chalega. Chakravyuh se nikalne ke baad, main mukt ho jaoon bhale hi, phir bhi chakravyuh ki rachna mein farq hi na padega. Marun ya maarun, maara jaoon ya jaan se maardun. iska faisla kabhi na ho paayega. Soya hua aadmi jab neend se uthkar chalna shuru karta hai, tab sapnon ka sansar use, dobara dikh hi na paayega. Us roshni mein jo nirnay ki roshni hai sab kuchh samaan hoga kya? Ek palde mein napunsakta, ek palde mein paurush, aur theek taraazu ke kaante par Ardh Satya.

Who was I, before I entered this maze, Is not something that I will remember. As I entered the war-maze, There was only the life-threatening Closeness between the enemy and me. Even this, I will not realize. After getting out of the maze Even if I earn my freedom, The maze by itself, will not change. Unaltered. To die or to kill, To be killed, or to take someone’s life, Even this will not be decided. As a man wakes from his sleep, And starts to walk, he can never Again, see the world of his dreams. In this light, the light of choices, Will all be equal? Impotence on one side, Manhood on the other, And in the centre, (tipping the scale) is the Half-Truth.