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Archive for July, 2010

Raising a Stink!!

Women make mistakes all the time. Heck, even men do. But we love flogging ourselves over the lightest deviation from the norm. So if RS rolls over from the mattress to the floor and I see her in that state when I get up, I’ll mentally scream at myself for not checking up on her before. I’ll happily indulge in a guilt-trip on how I failed my daughter and made her suffer (never mind that she rolled off just a few minutes before I woke up!!)

Some of you may argue that it is not my fault. At some level, even I know so. So I try and rein in my impulses to sob at every such inadequacy which is a part of me. I can, at most be forgiven. I’m a woman, and a mother at that 😀

But some women really can’t be forgiven. Not only for what they do to others, but also what they do to themselves!!

Like this woman (call her a demon, actually) who confessed to murdering her offsprings! And how many did she brutally murder away?? One? Two??

Nopes.

All EIGHT of them!

Whew!! Thats one hard-hearted-b**** out there!!

Any excuse , and by that I mean any damn excuse that goes by the words ‘post-natal-depression’ or ‘post natal trauma’ or ‘post-natal-denial’ doesn’t cut the cake. Such high falutin’ terms do nothing to disguise the fact that a woman who can brutally bury her newborns alive, is not human. She is pure evil.

Closer home, we have women like Dimpy Ganguly, who, for her 15 minutes of fame, gladly wooed Rahul Mahajan to be his bride. What hits hard is the fact that the girl is educated. And apparently from a normal middle-class family.  What’s worse is the fact that her parents supported her decision to take part in the show(I’m sure Nikunj Malik  and Harpreet Chhabra must be counting their lucky stars right now!).

I’d like to belive that NONE of them was aware of the circumstances under which RM got divorced from his first wife. A wife, who was also called as his ‘child-hood sweetheart’. A woman who knew him for years before he came of age and got married. A woman, who left him because she could not tolerate his physical abuse any more .

I believe Shweta Singh had married this guy out of true love, unlike the public tamasha that was Dimpy’s marriage. Yet, did Dimpy or her family stop and reflect on the guy who had accusations piled high on him like bouffant??

And now, she cries of physical abuse. Of being punched, kicked and dragged. Only to forgive him hours later and move back.

Make up your mind woman!! Just when I think you are dumb to the limit, you prove me wrong and go one step higher.

I find it difficult to sympathise with such women.  And forgiving them is not my area of concern.

I just feel mighty ticked off that such women exist and give the rest a bad name!!

Cruelty and stupidity don’t have boundaries, do they?!!

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Remember my earlier post on child leash? The one where I felt offended with the device called “Child Harness” ?!!

Well, a few days back, a good friend from office sent me a mail containing a set of snaps of the same child harness. Just looking at the snaps strengthened my belief that this device is seriously loathsome.

Check this out :-

See?? No difference !!

And then, two days back , MySoul forwarded me this link.

Now, frankly, I have serious doubts on the parenting skills of people who come up with such ‘inventions’. Though, in all fairness, the author of that post had the sense to use the word ‘Idiotic’ as part of the title . Some consolation, that 😐

The inventions speak of sheer laziness and shirking of responsibilities. But the last item on that list totally got to me. I tried mentioning what it is but I’m having a tough time pushing down the ball of bile that rises up my throat every time I think about it!! It even makes that harness look good!!

Check out the inventions here .

On another offshoot, I just found that the last item on the list is also cooked and eaten  😡  .

GAG 😐 !!!!

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Got this from good friend (and a regular reader, Srihari). Sharing it with you all :-

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One day, a poor boy who was selling goods from door to door to pay his way through school, found he had only one dime left, and he was hungry.

He decided he would ask for a meal at the next house. However, he lost his nerve when a lovely young woman opened the door.

Instead of a meal he asked for a drink of water!  She thought he looked hungry so brought him a large glass of milk. He drank it slowly, and then asked, “How much do I owe you?”

You don’t owe me anything,” she replied. “Mother has taught us never to accept pay for a kindness.”

He said … “Then I thank you from my heart.”

As Howard Kelly left that house, he not only felt stronger physically, but his faith in God and man was strong also. He had been ready to give up and quit.

Many year’s later that same young woman became critically ill. The local doctors were baffled. They finally sent her to the big city, where they called in specialists to study her rare disease.

Dr. Howard Kelly was called in for the consultation. When he heard the name of the town she came from, a strange light filled his eyes.

Immediately he rose and went down the hall of the hospital to her room.

Dressed in his doctor’s gown he went in to see her. He recognized her at once.

He went back to the consultation room determined to do his best to save her life. From that day he gave special attention to her case.

After a long struggle, the battle was won.

Dr. Kelly requested the business office to pass the final bill to him for approval. He looked at it, then wrote something on the edge, and the bill was sent to her room. She feared opening it, for she was sure it would take the rest of her life to pay for it all. Finally she looked, and something caught her attention on the side of the bill. She read these words …

“Paid in full with one glass of milk”

(Signed) Dr. Howard Kelly.

Tears of joy flooded her eyes as her happy heart prayed: “Thank You, God, that Your love has spread broad through human hearts and hands.”

There’s a saying which goes something like this: Bread cast on the water comes back to you. The good deed you do today may benefit you or someone you love at the least expected time. If you never see the deed again at least you will have made the world a better place – And, after all, isn’t that what life is all about?

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It is, indeed 🙂

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Scene 1 :-

Me : RS, come and have food.

RS : Nai!!

Me : You come here right this minute.

RS : (louder) NAI!!

Me : You come here this minute or I’ll call the Bow-wow (dog 😀 )

(RS scampers up to me and opens her mouth for her food).

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Scene 2 :-

Me : (trying to make SS sleep) Close your eyes and sleep now.

SS : ( getting up defiantly) abababa kapuki-kapuki bum bum lakalaka.

Me : Stop talking and sleep now.

SS : (laughing loudly)

Me : (very stern) You sleep right now or I’ll call the old-man (totally fictional)

(SS leaps on the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut.)

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The above two techniques are rather sneaky, I confess , but it has made me wonder about what exactly is fear. I know that children are born fearless. Babies left in a dark room would rarely , if ever cry. They would lie there on the bed, looking up at the ceiling and cooing to themselves.

A toddler will not think twice before shoving their hand into a dog’s mouth or putting their fingers into a socket or jumping off heights. They are born fearless. When exactly is it, that they start experiencing fear?

A long time ago, when we were kids and refused to sleep, a dark ghost used to visit us and we (me and bags) would scream our hearts while trying to hide in the pleats of Mom’s saree. Much later, we found out that the ghost was Dad with a black army blanket over his head 😀 . I can laugh over my silliness now, but back then, I was spooked out of my skin!!

Dad had his own ideas on getting rid of fear in us (yeah, first he instilled it and then he tried to get rid of it. Go figure  😀 !!). He used to bring video cassettes of horror films, exclusively for our viewing. We had our fair share of “Halloween“, “The Evil Dead” and “A Nightmare on Elm Street“.  It didn’t help that most of the times, we used to live in single army bungalows, separated from the rest with a large compound. Even if we screamed loud, I doubt our nearest neighbours would have even heard us!! We used to be petrified for days after each viewing, but after a few days , dad would ask us if anything untoward had happened yet. We would reply in the negative until finally, one day, it dawned on us that, maybe, just maybe, that spooky thing under the bed didn’t really exist. That there were no creepy ghosts under the bed (or behind the cupboard) who wanted to skin us alive and rip off our innards !! That there were very few paranoid men out there who killed people just for the pleasure of it. And surely, such paranoid men would NEVER venture anywhere close to an army establishment 😀 .

Bags was out of the scary mode the quickest. Bro, of course, was rarely scared in the first place. Aapa still refuses to watch horror films. As for me, well, I think I never thought of myself as an easily frightened person,even when I watched a CD of the film “Bhoot” all alone at home, that too, in the night. Once the film got over, I got into bed and peacefully slept it off. It surprised me that I wasn’t wide awake, trying to imagine spirits flitting about. All my friends had claimed it to be a super scary film. But then, on reflection, I realized that I’d actually stopped being scared a long time before that. Ghost stories don’t worry me. I’ve developed a stern belief that there is no such thing as a visible ghost. There may (or may not) be spirits flitting about, but I’m sure they have their own share of worries to tend to, rather than adding to mine 😀 . As for the men, well, I confess that my balcony door was open throughout my stay alone. I never locked it 😐 .

I was discussing horror films with the BF the other day, when he mentioned that if you set the sound on mute, you would never feel the thrill of fear while watching a horror movie. And you know what?? Its true!! There is hardly any movie which can scare the wits off you in silent mode (there are exceptions, though. Anyone seen “Rosemary’s Baby” ??). It’s the sound, the eerie howl in the background, which actually makes our skin crawl (and yeah, also the element of surprise, where the camera lingers casually over a scene and suddenly , something pops up in front of the camera.  But if you mute that scene, it wouldn’t surprise you much!!). The Ramsay brothers cashed in on it for years. And now we have Ram Gopal Varma and his troupe doing the honours 😀 . Horror films today are seriously not worth their salt. I’ve seen kids flocking the multiplexes to catch the latest horror film. In our days (yeah, a seriously long time back), this premise was unheard of!!

Coming back to my kids, its easy to get them to have their food or go to sleep with the threat of strange boogeymen hiding in dark corners. There was a time when RS could be left alone in a dark room and she would stay still till her eyes adjusted to the dark . Then she would start exploring the room in the dark. She didn’t fear the darkness. But now, both the twins refuse to venture anywhere close to a room where the lights are not switched on. I just have to say “Boo”, to make SS leap into my arms and hold on tight, his little heart thudding a loud pattern through his shirt!!

And we (me and the BF) now regret ever using the fear technique to make the kids do our bidding (though, in all fairness, it was supposed to be for their own good!!).  But now that our good intentions have backfired, how do I undo the damage??  How do I once again, get them back to their fearless selves? Because, isn’t fear an instilled emotion? If we can put it into their mind, can’t we also remove it? Any pointers on how we can repair their broken fearlessness??

The only positive outcome is that the kids eat their meals on time and hop off to bed when we tell them to. Thank God for small blessings 🙂 .

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Go figure!!!

I didn’t get it at first….its been a long time since I touched the subject, but seriously, this is funny 😀 :-

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An Indian chief had three wives, each of whom was pregnant.

The first gave birth to a boy. The chief was so elated he built her a teepee made of deer hide.

A few days later, the second gave birth, also to a boy. The chief was very happy. He built her a teepee made of antelope hide.

The third wife gave birth a few days later, but the chief kept the details a secret. He built this one a two story teepee, made out of a hippopotamus hide. The chief then challenged the tribe to guess what had occurred.

Many tried, unsuccessfully. Finally, one young brave declared that the third wife had given birth to twin boys.

“Correct,” said the chief. “How did you figure it out?”

The warrior answered, “It’s elementary. The value of the squaw of the hippopotamus is equal to the sons of the squaws of the other two hides.”

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I LOVE maths jokes 😀

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Hiya Folks.

A VERY Good Morning to ya all 🙂

As you can see, I’m back to regular blogging now. So all of you who’d abandoned me last week, do come back. There’s lots to share , lots to talk about 🙂

Without much ado, here’s the weekend update :-

1) Its been pouring cats and dogs . No, make that Elephants and Hippos and all things large and heavy. Firstly, it didn’t rain for ages and put the municipal people in a tizzy. We were threatened with water cuts and what not. Mid-July, still no rain. And then, just when the water cuts came into effect, the rain gods blessed us with their bounty. And How?!! So we face a rather funny dilemma here. There’s water EVERYWHERE , except in the taps. The tanks are dry. We ration our drinking water. All the while, everything outside is wet,Wet,WET!!! The clothes are wet, the floors are wet, the windows are wet and that which is not wet, is cold. Brrr…!!

2) P sent me an invite for a book read (I’ve ALWAYS wanted to attend a book read) by Dr. Mohan Agashe for Gouri Dange’s book, “The Counsel of Strangers”. My first reaction was excitement. But then, reality struck and I realized I needed to make some arrangement for the kids to be looked after in the evening in my absence. The kid’s maid leaves by 6:30 to 7 pm these days. The book reading was at 6 pm. I could have made it, if the MIL or the BF were home in the evening. But alas, both weren’t. I had to regretfully cancel my attendance. Some other time P …. 🙂

But yeah, I had a fun time with the twins, who are turning naughtier and peskier by the day!!  More on that later 🙂

3) The BF is once again down with his throat infection. Once, a long time back, when I had just begun taking an interest in him, I turned to the best friend and guide for such circumstances: Linda Goodman’s sun signs (I read the Love-signs book much later In fact, much , much later : after my marriage. Just to check if it really works. Am still on the fence on that one 😀 ).

While checking out the health issues of Taureans, I was struck by how the throat infection part was emphasized on. I’d known the BF for only a few years by then and yet, I remember him forever popping some or the other medication for that throat of his.

At that time, I hadn’t paid much attention to it. But now, I’m not sure whether to leave alone  the infections as one of his traits and let him suffer them or to get him checked properly for any underlying infection which has taken root in his throat  (the BF has already done some tests for it, but there is no serious infection, the reports say). Even the local family doctor was surprised at the BF’s regular visits. It’s at least one trip a month to her clinic, for that throat. Even my kids don’t visit the doctor that frequently!!

Is there any home remedy that helps cure sore throats? Or at least ease them? The poor guy can barely swallow water when it’s at its worst!!!

4) I’m reading a book called “The Memory Keeper’s daughter” by Kim Edwards. The book has touched me deeply, because like me, the protagonist’s (a doctor) wife also had twins, a boy and a girl. The girl had Down’s Syndrome, so the father hands over the child to his nurse and asks her to admit the child in an institution for the mentally feeble. He tells his wife that their daughter was born dead. The nurse carries out the request ,but backs out when she see’s the run-down condition of the institute. She runs away with the child to bring up as her own. Meanwhile, the doctor’s wife cannot adjust to the fact that her child is no more. Though she holds a memorial service for her daughter, there is some connection which makes her feel as though her child is somewhere around, somewhere close by. The same connect is felt by the son, but he never expresses his feelings to his parents, who over the time, have drifted apart. The doctor, consumed by his own guilt and the mother, by her dis-satisfaction with life.

I’m at an interesting turn in the story now. Will post my thoughts on it once I finish 🙂 .

5) I made Paav-Bhaji yesterday. And no, I didn’t take any snaps. It’s not possible, you see, when you are busy chopping veggies, then leaving it to run after the twins who have stolen a knife from under your nose, returning to resume chopping , then hear the GMIL holler something. Leave the veggies and attend to the GMIL, return to chopping, and so on and so forth. Nowhere in this scheme of things would it ever strike anyone to go to the bed room, grab the camera, and click snaps. Specially when lunch is delayed (had to visit the Ped in the morning) and the men in the family are howling their hunger at the kitchen door !!

Couldn’t help but recollect the time when I was pregnant with the twins. I used to have severe cravings for paav-bhaji, to the extent that if I didn’t get it immediately, I broke out in cold sweat and had a bad headache!!

The MIL, totally understanding her DIL’s condition, cooked a HUGE vessel of paav-bhaji and set it before me. Eat to your fill, she said. And I did.  A normal 4-paav and bhaji eating woman was turned into a glutton when I consumed 8 paavs, slathered with a full pack of Amul butter and a large bowl of bhaaji in one go. The BF could only gape in shock. The BIL kept his comments to himself, the MIL indulged me by heaping my plate with more. Aaahhhh…..Bliss 😀

Coming back to present, I had the usual 4-paavs and bhaji. I’m normal now. Thanks for asking 😀

6) Took the kids to the pediatrician for their Hepatitis A vaccination. While waiting for the nurse to fill the syringes, the doc asked me if I’d put the twins in a playgroup yet. I said no, but I was planning on it once they turned two. The doc told us not to do so. She said, the twins should be put in a playgroup after they turn 3 years old. Because the play-group teachers forget they are supposed to let the kids play and end up trying to teach children how to read and write. Which the kids will anyway learn when they join kindergarten. No point in pressuring or pushing the kids into doing stuff before their time, she said.

And I see her point. Though I was earlier inclined towards putting them in a playgroup , I think I’ll just let them be the babies that they are 🙂 . And the twins are in no way slow learners (just slow speakers, seeing that they are yet to join two coherent words together!!). The doc said that some kids are slow to talk and we shouldn’t be needlessly worried about it.

Well, I’m not worried. Not anymore 🙂

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A long time back, in 1994, to be precise, I was in Dehra Dun. One winter morning, it started raining hard. Rains in winter were common in DDun. Whenever it snowed in Mussourie, the residual water would pour down on the valley town in heavy sheets of chilled water. It was cold. It was wet. A terrible combination. So if we ever got our socks wet, we’d be sure to shiver our way through the day, with no amount of sweaters or blazers enough to keep us warm.

One such morning, it rained so hard that the school was shrouded in darkness. The lights were switched on and we all sat huddled in our benches, drawing our legs close together for heat. It was the time for our English class and as the teacher came in, we all released a collective groan. She was a strict teacher and most of us had missed doing our homework that day. She could make out our restlessness and asked casually if we were in the mood to study or not. The class, as a whole replied in the affirmative that we were NOT in the mood that day. The teacher just became grim, we could see her pursing her lips and without a word, she left the classroom.

Now, we were really worried. If she had gone to the Principal’s office and reported us, we would all be in trouble. We were the 10th standard students that year and like any unsaid rule in KV’s, the 10th and 12th standard results held the key to the schools reputation. We had a responsibility to shoulder and here we were, shirking our studies.

Anyhow, the teacher returned shortly, without the Principal. We breathed a sigh of relief. But what really made our day (and by that I mean, REALLY) was the fact that she had returned with a bag of steaming hot samosas from the cafeteria , for the whole class!!!

We all happily munched on our samosas, chattering happily, because the noise of the rain was enough to drown the noise from our classroom. The teacher just sat in her chair, correcting some notebooks.

Whenever I look back at that incident, I remember her fondly. Because never before, or after have I ever seen a teacher going out of her way to cater to the whims of her class in this way. She wasn’t even our class teacher!

And maybe that’s why, when it gets cold and wet, I sometimes come to office bearing a bag of samosas ….for my friends and colleagues at work. They don’t expect it, like we as students didn’t expect our teacher to get it, but yet, the pleasure of finding something hot to eat on a cold day is a welcome  change, and I can feel what the teacher must have felt then. The satisfaction of making a few people happy, albeit for a short period. The good vibes, though,  stay with us much longer.

Thank you Vohra ma’am, for one of life’s lessons which don’t necessarily come from a textbook.

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Disclaimer : This is NOT A book review. This is just a collection of  my thoughts while/after reading the book. It is more on how I felt connected/disconnected, happy/sad, satisfied/dis-satisfied 🙂 . 

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 Its been a long time since I last wrote anything on the books that I’ve read.  There were many reasons for it, but I won’t get into all that explanation now (God knows, once I start, I can’t stop!!) 

Anyhow, I grabbed a copy of Aravind Adiga’s Man Booker Prize winner book, The White Tiger, from a friend. I’d been wondering what the fuss about him was all about. So I settled with the book and started. 

And I was hooked.

This guy blew me away with his story, the premise, the flow, the characters….you name it, he had it in there. The  macabre humour hidden in the plight of the downtrodden, which is at once funny and yet, deeply painful!! 

 The White Tiger, is more than just a masterpiece in literature. It is a mirror, the one into which we’d rather not look, because it shows us our ugly side, the spotlights turned full focus on the murk 

With Dad in the Army, I had a chance to visit most parts of the country. Though I learned a lot about the different cultures, I can hardly claim to have in-depth knowledge on how exactly the people live. 

And it came as a shock to realize that Adiga, a South Indian, could lay bare the everyday life of the common man in North India. The entire book was so gripping that even when I was not reading it, I was thinking about it. And that is what makes it deserving of all its adulation. That it touches one deep enough to evoke the kind of response, which can be best described as, addiction. Even after the book got over, I was craving for more 😀 .Almost as if I didn’t want it to end. 

As usual, I rate a book on its narration power and Aravind Adiga scores real high on that front 🙂 (Ok, maybe not as much as Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, but still, he’s up there alright 🙂 ). 

Here are a few excerpts from the book. These are by far, some of the best lines I’ve read :- 

A rich man’s body is like a premium cotton pillow, white and soft and blank. Ours are different. My father’s spine was a knotted rope, the kind that women use in villages to pull water from wells; the clavicle curved around his neck in high relief, like a dog’s collar; cuts and nicks and scars, like little whip marks in his flesh, ran down his chest and waist, reaching down below his hip bones into his buttocks. The story of a poor man’s life is written on his body, in a sharp pen.” 

At the end of the market is a tall, whitewashed, cone like tower, with black intertwining snakes painted on all its sides—the temple. Inside, you will find an image of a saffron-colored creature, half man half monkey: this is Hanuman, everyone’s favorite god in the Darkness. Do you know about Hanuman, sir? He was the faithful servant of the god Rama, and we worship him in our temples because he is a shining example of how to serve your masters with absolute fidelity, love, and devotion.These are the kinds of gods they have foisted on us, Mr. Jiabao. Understand, now, how hard it is for a man to win his freedom in India.” 

Now I have to tell you about this magazine, Murder Weekly, since our prime minister certainly won’t tell you anything about it…………………….Just because drivers and cooks in Delhi are reading Murder Weekly, it doesn’t mean that they are all about to slit their masters’ necks. Of course, they’d like to. Of course, a billion servants are secretly fantasizing about strangling their bosses—and that’s why the government of India publishes this magazine and sells it on the streets for just four and a half rupees so that even the poor can buy it. You see, the murderer in the magazine is so mentally disturbed and sexually deranged that not one reader would want to be like him—and in the end he always gets caught by some honest, hardworking police officer (ha!), or goes mad and hangs himself by a bedsheet after writing a sentimental letter to his mother or primary school teacher, or is chased, beaten, buggered, and garroted by the brother of the woman he has done in. So if your driver is busy flicking through the pages of Murder Weekly,  relax. No danger to you. Quite the contrary.It’s when your driver starts to read about Gandhi and the Buddha that it’s time to wet your pants, Mr. Jiabao.” 

  

they say the air is so bad in Delhi that it takes ten years out of a man’s life. Of course, those in the cars don’t have to breathe the outside air—it is just nice, cool, clean, air-conditioned air for us. With their tinted windows up, the cars of the rich go like dark eggs down the roads of Delhi. Every now and then an egg will crack open—a woman’s hand, dazzling with gold bangles, stretches out an open window, flings an empty mineral water bottle onto the road—and then the window goes up, and the egg is resealed.” 

 Do we loathe our masters behind a facade of love—or do we love them behind a facade of loathing?” 

 The way I had rushed to press Mr. Ashok’s feet, the moment I saw them, even though he hadn’t asked me to! Why did I feel that I had to go close to his feet, touch them and press them and make them feel good—why? Because the desire to be a servant had been bred into me: hammered into my skull, nail after nail, and poured into my blood, the way sewage and industrial poison are poured into Mother Ganga.” 

  “See, this country, in its days of greatness, when it was the richest nation on earth, was like a zoo. A clean, well kept, orderly zoo. Everyone in his place, everyone happy. Goldsmiths here. Cowherds here. Landlords there. The man called a Halwai made sweets. The man called a cowherd tended cows. The untouchable cleaned feces. Landlords were kind to their serfs. Women covered their heads with a veil and turned their eyes to the ground when talking to strange men.  

  
And then, thanks to all those politicians in Delhi, on the fifteenth of August, 1947—the day the British left—the cages had been let open; and the animals had attacked and ripped each other apart and jungle law replaced zoo law. Those that were the most ferocious, the hungriest, had eaten everyone else up, and grown big bellies. That was all that counted now, the size of your belly. It didn’t matter whether you were a woman, or a Muslim, or an untouchable: anyone with a belly could rise up. My father’s father must have been a real Halwai, a sweet-maker, but when he inherited the shop, a member of some other caste must have stolen it from him with the help of the police. My father had not had the belly to fight back. That’s why he had fallen all the way to the mud, to the level of a rickshaw-puller. That’s why I was cheated of my destiny to be fat, and creamy-skinned, and smiling.To sum up—in the old days there were one thousand castes and destinies in India. These days, there are just two castes: Men with Big Bellies, and Men with Small Bellies. 

And only two destinies: eat—or get eaten up.” 

“I heard about it the next day, while pretending to scratch a dirty spot out of a tabletop. Vijay and a policeman had knocked the rickshaw-puller down, and they had begun beating him; they hit him with their sticks, and when he thrashed at them they kicked him. They took turns. Vijay hit him and the policeman stamped on his face and then Vijay did it again. And after a while the body of the rickshaw-puller stopped wriggling and fighting back, but they kept stamping on him, until he had been stamped back into the earth. If I may go back for a moment to that WANTED poster, Your Excellency. Being called a murderer: fine, I have no objection to that. It’s a fact: I am a sinner, a fallen human. But to be called a murderer by the  police!  What a fucking joke.” 

  

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 I could go on and on, but I guess, posting the entire book here would be illegal 😀 
  

 So if you haven’t read the book already, do so.  

 It’s a MUST read !! 

   

   
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

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