For one, there is the OBC reservation bill and the very lukewarm anti-reservation protests in India. I read a transcript of Arjun Singh's interview [Hat tip: Kshitij] speaking on the reservations. If you ever wondered why reservations are desirable--or even necessary--this interview with Arjun Singh will not tell you why.
What Arjun Singh will tell you, however, is how to be an evasive weasel and a fawning asskisser. You know, it does not strike me as odd that Arjun Singh is an asskisser--or pretending to be one for political reasons-- but what does strike me as odd is that we the people elected this man with complete disclosure that he may one day occupy an important public post. The mind boggles.
Here is the link. The interview speaks for itself. I am personally speechless.
Then there is Prime Minister Manmohan Singh's smarmy preaching to the Indian troops about human rights violations in Kashmir. I don't know about you, but I find it strangely comforting and poetically just that India is led by a grinning idiot. The people get what they deserve. The law of perverse consequences at work.
Mr. Prime Minister, if you can spare a moment to disengage your lips from Sonia-ji's behind and pay attention to a humble citizen, here is what I will suggest. It is not a good idea to call your own troops publicly on human rights violations by asking them, in almost so many words, to stop being beastly to those that will spare no qualms in blowing them up in the name of Allah. It does terrible things to morale. What is preferred is a private, sensitively-worded memo to the poor grunts who risk their lives everyday just so that you can draw the map of your country a certain way.
Mr. Prime Minister, here's a surefire way to stop human rights violations in Kashmir. Pull out the troops. This is guaranteed to stop human rights violations by the troops. The only thing left in Kashmir then will be the human rights violations by the terrorists. Problem solved.
Let me say this simply and I will try very hard not to elevate the PG-13 rating of this blog. I hate Manmohan Singh and the spinelessness that he stands for. I hate this fucker, so help me God. This rank twat known as Manmohan Singh must go. Motherfucker.
Ratings duly elevated, but that felt good.
Then there is the big Communist victory in West Bengal. The people, having come to grips with the fact that there is no other alternative, have decided that getting sodomized by the Communists is the preferred way to go. After all, the Communists are reforming of late and using a smaller dildo now. Until, of course, they suddenly decide that they are being too pro-business and regress. Ideology is such a capricious thing, no?
The codependence of the Bengali people is an amazing thing to behold. Every Bengali is at heart, a battered and codependent spouse, faithfully serving up a hot dinner to the Communists every election night with a broken nose and smiling lovingly across the table through battered lips.
The justifications for choosing the Communists yet again come fast and furious if you only care to listen. I heard this somewhere from a Bengali in defence of the people's choice: The Communists, after spending decades beggaring Bengal, have built up a wealth of experience in governing. So they are the best placed to govern. Get used to it.
Nice logic. I have a question though. If experience is what we wanted, why the fuck did we spend all the time and effort to kick out the British? They were best suited to govern. Been doing it for two centuries. Much more experienced than the Communists, certainly. Why did we put them on the eight o' clock train and wave bye-bye?
Bengalis are idiots. No really, we are.
Let's talk football.
I am usually glued to the television set these days whenever I get some free time. This is because the Football World Cup is happening right now.
If you are going "Huh?" at this point, chances are that you are American.
I am of course, talking about "soccer".
Football still interests me, as you can tell. I used to be a footballer in school and very briefly in college. I even considered taking up football as a career before good sense kicked in; it is unrewarding to be a footballer in India.
So I was a footballer. I thought I was a pretty damned good one too. I made Captain of a school house team. Take that.
But see, I wasn't a damned good ball player. That is the darn thing about growing up and taking a grown-up view of things. You find out that you in fact kinda sucked arse at a lot of things that you thought you were good at. Here are the weaknesses I had as a footballer.
(1) I favoured my right foot. In fact, I couldn't shoot with my left foot to save my life.
(2) I was terrible in the air.
(3) I never got any exposure to real competition outside of school. I wish I had. It would have been a humbling experience.
(4) I wasn't a good team player.
I would have been a dedicated project to any coach. What I did have was good dribbling skills. And I thought then that this was what it was all about. Beating three opponents in midfield was more important to me than scoring a goal and winning. I believe this is known as grandstanding. I loved grandstanding. Any team manager worth his salary would have asked me to shape up and get with the program after watching me in action the first time; and would have further kicked me out without ceremony if I didn't. Of course, this was high school, and no such thing had a chance of happening.
Our football coach in high school was a gentleman by the name of Francis Baretto. I still remember him. He was very fond of me; there's no accounting for taste. I recently heard that he has passed away. Gone to that great big football field in the sky. I remember that he taught me to lean my body into long range shots so the ball won't fly over the crossbar. Thank you Mr. Baretto, that was an important lesson. I don't use it any more, but I will never forget it.
The highlight of my football career was being selected the captain of a school house team for an intra-school tournament. There were four houses in our school. I was Falcon House.
With hindsight, I was an extremely poor choice for captain. Anybody who does not understand teamwork usually is. A good captain should have a clear awareness of the strengths and weaknesses of everybody on the team, including his own. At the school level, a captain should almost be as strategic as the coach. I did not possess that quality. Too individualistic to care about the big picture.
But we had a good team and we reached the finals. And the game started.
I did my usual thing, which was occasionally dribbling past two or three people in midfield. Moves that ultimately went nowhere. I drew some applause (which is what I suppose I was really after) from the crowd on my "ball skills" and that pleased me. Not to be too harsh about them after so many years, but those applauding were probably as clueless about football as I was.
But I did score a goal in that match. Fittingly, it had nothing to do with any individual skill. The only goals I have scored after dribbling past five players and beating the goalkeeper all ends up have been those that happened while I was sleeping. The goal in that match, however, was the result of a brilliant through-pass by a team-mate who had in turn been fed the ball by another from the midfield. I only tapped the ball home. Only a Parkinson-stricken baboon would have muffed the opportunity that I was given. I didn't.
It took me several more years of playing football before I cottoned on to how football really works. The lesson came too late though, because I got busy with college and seldom played after.
So I scored on that day. Unfortunately, the opposing team equalized soon afterwards. The final result after full time of play was a 1-1 draw. The rules required a penalty shootout to decide the match. We won the penalty shootout and won the tournament. It was a thrill, in spite of the lessons not learned.
And that is my story.
I should have learned how to play cricket instead. More money in it. Cricket is a religion in India. Cricketers are gods. People get upset when somebody calls them overpaid, underperforming twits. But remember, I don't do this. I know better. People who label them such are severely mistaken. Technically speaking, Indian cricketers are overpaid, underperforming twats.
You couldn't pry me away from the TV set with a crowbar these days. Football still sets my veins on fire. I just watch it with a more critical eye now.
An interesting thing happened this morning. A friend calls me up and asks me if I want to go watch a local cricket match. He is a non-Bengali, non-Goan, non-Keralite Indian and hence is completely unaware of the irony of asking a red-blooded Bengali male to go watch a cricket match on a day when there are three World Cup football matches being telecast live.
The irony was lost on him and may be lost on some of you. So let me frame that in a picture that a non-Bengali Indian mind can grasp. Let's say you, a non-Bengali Indian, are watching Pakistan play Australia in the Cricket World Cup and I call you up and say, "Hey so-and-so, do you want to drive up to the airport fence and watch the planes land? It's gonna be fun."
Then there is the big Communist victory in West Bengal. The people, having come to grips with the fact that there is no other alternative, have decided that getting sodomized by the Communists is the preferred way to go. After all, the Communists are reforming of late and using a smaller dildo now. Until, of course, they suddenly decide that they are being too pro-business and regress. Ideology is such a capricious thing, no?
The codependence of the Bengali people is an amazing thing to behold. Every Bengali is at heart, a battered and codependent spouse, faithfully serving up a hot dinner to the Communists every election night with a broken nose and smiling lovingly across the table through battered lips.
The justifications for choosing the Communists yet again come fast and furious if you only care to listen. I heard this somewhere from a Bengali in defence of the people's choice: The Communists, after spending decades beggaring Bengal, have built up a wealth of experience in governing. So they are the best placed to govern. Get used to it.
Nice logic. I have a question though. If experience is what we wanted, why the fuck did we spend all the time and effort to kick out the British? They were best suited to govern. Been doing it for two centuries. Much more experienced than the Communists, certainly. Why did we put them on the eight o' clock train and wave bye-bye?
Bengalis are idiots. No really, we are.
Let's talk football.
I am usually glued to the television set these days whenever I get some free time. This is because the Football World Cup is happening right now.
If you are going "Huh?" at this point, chances are that you are American.
I am of course, talking about "soccer".
Football still interests me, as you can tell. I used to be a footballer in school and very briefly in college. I even considered taking up football as a career before good sense kicked in; it is unrewarding to be a footballer in India.
So I was a footballer. I thought I was a pretty damned good one too. I made Captain of a school house team. Take that.
But see, I wasn't a damned good ball player. That is the darn thing about growing up and taking a grown-up view of things. You find out that you in fact kinda sucked arse at a lot of things that you thought you were good at. Here are the weaknesses I had as a footballer.
(1) I favoured my right foot. In fact, I couldn't shoot with my left foot to save my life.
(2) I was terrible in the air.
(3) I never got any exposure to real competition outside of school. I wish I had. It would have been a humbling experience.
(4) I wasn't a good team player.
I would have been a dedicated project to any coach. What I did have was good dribbling skills. And I thought then that this was what it was all about. Beating three opponents in midfield was more important to me than scoring a goal and winning. I believe this is known as grandstanding. I loved grandstanding. Any team manager worth his salary would have asked me to shape up and get with the program after watching me in action the first time; and would have further kicked me out without ceremony if I didn't. Of course, this was high school, and no such thing had a chance of happening.
Our football coach in high school was a gentleman by the name of Francis Baretto. I still remember him. He was very fond of me; there's no accounting for taste. I recently heard that he has passed away. Gone to that great big football field in the sky. I remember that he taught me to lean my body into long range shots so the ball won't fly over the crossbar. Thank you Mr. Baretto, that was an important lesson. I don't use it any more, but I will never forget it.
The highlight of my football career was being selected the captain of a school house team for an intra-school tournament. There were four houses in our school. I was Falcon House.
With hindsight, I was an extremely poor choice for captain. Anybody who does not understand teamwork usually is. A good captain should have a clear awareness of the strengths and weaknesses of everybody on the team, including his own. At the school level, a captain should almost be as strategic as the coach. I did not possess that quality. Too individualistic to care about the big picture.
But we had a good team and we reached the finals. And the game started.
I did my usual thing, which was occasionally dribbling past two or three people in midfield. Moves that ultimately went nowhere. I drew some applause (which is what I suppose I was really after) from the crowd on my "ball skills" and that pleased me. Not to be too harsh about them after so many years, but those applauding were probably as clueless about football as I was.
But I did score a goal in that match. Fittingly, it had nothing to do with any individual skill. The only goals I have scored after dribbling past five players and beating the goalkeeper all ends up have been those that happened while I was sleeping. The goal in that match, however, was the result of a brilliant through-pass by a team-mate who had in turn been fed the ball by another from the midfield. I only tapped the ball home. Only a Parkinson-stricken baboon would have muffed the opportunity that I was given. I didn't.
It took me several more years of playing football before I cottoned on to how football really works. The lesson came too late though, because I got busy with college and seldom played after.
So I scored on that day. Unfortunately, the opposing team equalized soon afterwards. The final result after full time of play was a 1-1 draw. The rules required a penalty shootout to decide the match. We won the penalty shootout and won the tournament. It was a thrill, in spite of the lessons not learned.
And that is my story.
I should have learned how to play cricket instead. More money in it. Cricket is a religion in India. Cricketers are gods. People get upset when somebody calls them overpaid, underperforming twits. But remember, I don't do this. I know better. People who label them such are severely mistaken. Technically speaking, Indian cricketers are overpaid, underperforming twats.
You couldn't pry me away from the TV set with a crowbar these days. Football still sets my veins on fire. I just watch it with a more critical eye now.
An interesting thing happened this morning. A friend calls me up and asks me if I want to go watch a local cricket match. He is a non-Bengali, non-Goan, non-Keralite Indian and hence is completely unaware of the irony of asking a red-blooded Bengali male to go watch a cricket match on a day when there are three World Cup football matches being telecast live.
The irony was lost on him and may be lost on some of you. So let me frame that in a picture that a non-Bengali Indian mind can grasp. Let's say you, a non-Bengali Indian, are watching Pakistan play Australia in the Cricket World Cup and I call you up and say, "Hey so-and-so, do you want to drive up to the airport fence and watch the planes land? It's gonna be fun."
Get the picture?
This post is not really going anywhere and is threatening to devolve into an anti-cricket rant, so I shall soon stop. For the record, I have nothing against cricket. Cricket is a sport and I like almost any sport. I watch it. I pay good money to go see India get whipped raw by Australia. Cricket is neither good nor bad. It is neutral. What I don't understand is the fixation that Indians have for this sport to the exclusion of every other sport. Monocultures are never good.
So I shall stop. But I gotta say the following.
American television channels can be confusing about match coverage. So this time, just for the lark, I switched to a Spanish channel to watch the World Cup. I discovered an immediate disadvantage--I don't understand the commentary. I however soon discovered an advantage.
Latin channels have Latina women in them.
I mean folks, ai-ai-ai-ai-yaa...Latina women must be some of the prettiest women on the planet, I just discovered. Muy Caliente!
I pointed this out to my wife. She agreed, and then looked me up and down and went, "Is this what a mid-life crisis looks like?"
Honey, you don't need a mid-life crisis to appreciate a gorgeous Latina. You just need a pulse.
This post is not really going anywhere and is threatening to devolve into an anti-cricket rant, so I shall soon stop. For the record, I have nothing against cricket. Cricket is a sport and I like almost any sport. I watch it. I pay good money to go see India get whipped raw by Australia. Cricket is neither good nor bad. It is neutral. What I don't understand is the fixation that Indians have for this sport to the exclusion of every other sport. Monocultures are never good.
So I shall stop. But I gotta say the following.
American television channels can be confusing about match coverage. So this time, just for the lark, I switched to a Spanish channel to watch the World Cup. I discovered an immediate disadvantage--I don't understand the commentary. I however soon discovered an advantage.
Latin channels have Latina women in them.
I mean folks, ai-ai-ai-ai-yaa...Latina women must be some of the prettiest women on the planet, I just discovered. Muy Caliente!
I pointed this out to my wife. She agreed, and then looked me up and down and went, "Is this what a mid-life crisis looks like?"
Honey, you don't need a mid-life crisis to appreciate a gorgeous Latina. You just need a pulse.
6 comments:
memoryking,
I don't know if you are fucking hit-n-run blogger leaving your droppings all over the Internet on a Sunday penny tour, or if you are a genuinely concerned citizen who will follow up and come back here, but regardless, I have a request of you. I request you, while commenting on this blog, to take the time to actually write a comment and not simply flog some fucking link of your own and leave a cryptic one-liner as if it meant something bloody profound.
Respectfully yours,
Sougata Sarkar.
The codependence of the Bengali people is an amazing thing to behold. Every Bengali is at heart, a battered and codependent wife; never mind the alleged testicles that some claim to possess.
On this stellar comment, the Order of Knighthood is humbly bestowed upon Sougata Sarkar who, henceforth, will be known as Sir Sougata Sarkar.
Sorry D. But tell me my friend, where do I put the bitterness? Where do I scream the disappointments?
Perhaps I scream too hard at the world. Well... at least the little slice of the world that makes the mistake of stopping by.
I think I scream too hard at a world which has its own momentum; its own grace. A grace unmindful of shrill screams.
We'll talk more football next time.
[/Begin Italian accent]
Aaah Luca, my friend, welcome. Bada bing, bada boom.
You speak true, my friend. This world has problems. But you know this, and I know this: there is no problem in this world that cannot be solved with a sawed-off shotgun.
[/End Italian accent]
Sorry, just being goofy.
Seriously though, you are right. Also, if I am not mistaken, OBCs do not fall under the purview of the term SC/ST. So even that dubiously worded clause in the constitution does not apply in the case of OBCs.
How else can we apply the clause to them? Are they socially/educationally backward? Even without the help of statistics, I would say that OBCs are socially/educationally backward, relative to the upper castes. But what is being made the criterion for affirmative action here is *caste* and not any economic/educational index.
If social/educational backwardness were *really* to be made the criterion, then many others from all castes could lay claim to affirmative action. I suspect that OBCs do not have the monopoly on poverty/illiteracy.
And in any case, all of the above is moot, because affirmative action in this case is being applied too far downstream. Any attempt at social equality must begin at the primary level, if at all. The sequencing is wrong here.
P.S. Hey Luca, I am happy to see you here. Don't go away just yet, friend.
why the fuck did we spend all the money and effort to kick out the British? They were the best placed to govern.
idiot,
we kicked them out because they were foreigners. communists ar e not foreigners
we kicked them out because they were foreigners. communists ar e not foreigners
I take this to mean that you would rather be victimized by home-grown bastards than foreign bastards. Not being a psychologist by training, I cannot quite put my finger on the particular psychological disorder that this stance represents, but allow me to say that I personally would rather not be victimized at all.
Also, it appears to me that you are quite thrilled at the idea that we are no longer being ruled by foreigners; er, dude... I don't know if you got the memo or not, but actually... we are.
There are two things you need to do in order to pay attention and therefore have a decent shot at understanding that above sentence:
(1) Carefully pull your head out of your rectum.
(2) Gently clean the soil out of your ears.
With warm regards,
Sougata Sarkar.
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