Sunday, April 23, 2006

News Like it Oughta Be

Fury over ‘Marijuana is Good for You’ Campaign



Written by Harry Porter
It's good to toke - a tourist enjoys a relaxing break in KecskemétHungary’s quiet arrival into the European Union has given way to a blazing row after the Magyars declared ’marijuana is good for you’ in a bold bid to boost tax revenue.The country’s new approach to ‘soft drugs’, however, has met hard line opposition from other EU leaders in Brussels who have slammed the Hungarians as “irresponsible pot-pushing peddlers of death, disease and moral decay”.That particular outburst came from the moral high ground of the United Kingdom which has nurtured and preferred its own legion of ‘lager louts’ to the more soporific pursuits of the Netherlands… and now Hungary.Prime Minister Tony Blair warned that the EC could be plunged into a political crisis if the lax approach on marijuana and cannabis was not replaced with far more robust legislation.But with Peter Medgyessy, the Hungarian PM, already announcing his decision to step down from office, his attitude towards Mr Blair was relaxed, but far from conciliatory.In an approximate translation, Mr Medgyessy said: “Calm down man, chill out; what you need is a really good hit. Will I skin up?”The Member states were not totally united behind Mr Blair. The Dutch, all wearing MP3 players, seemed totally nonplussed over the situation while the Belgian contingent remained silent, raising suspicions that its stance was linked to the sudden increase in chocolate exports to the former communist state.Hungary’s legalisation of the Class C drug came with the cultivation of 1,200,000 hectares of the Great Plain, already home to thousands of orchards, vineyards and bountiful farms.This year’s mixture of blazing sunshine, high humidity and an abundance of rain saw the hemp crop surpass all expectations. The average plant, with the Hungarian growers opting for a Northern Light/Haze hybrid, soared well above 2.5m. This first crop is expected to finally surpass 125,000 tonnes.The Magyar government has levied a hefty tax rate on marijuana and resin sales with a kilo of high quality, top leaf ‘grass' selling for 4,126 HUF (approx $20).While this is still an expensive luxury for many ordinary Hungarians, it is a bargain basement price for tourists.Villagers have been quick to capitalise by setting up ‘stoner stalls’ and the city of Kecskemét has even introduced a special ‘smoking park’ where tourists can relax with a giant pipe while listening to Hungarian cover versions of Grateful Dead recordings.

from
http://www.thespoof.com/news/spoof.cfm?headline=s2i6401

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Revenge of the Sssrrriitthh

ugh. There is no other way to begin or end this post. I know I've been fairly discreet about it so far so it may come as a surprise to you that I've been having what is politey termed 'a roach problem' these last few weeks. I meant to blog about it in detail last sunday but the newspaper guy came and diverted all my disgust and anger towards an equally creepy recipient a mere four legs short of roachdom. Anyways, so I finally had enough of hotfooting it into and out of the loo every time with my hair standing on end, taking the quickest tinkles in the history of...whatever (I'm surprised I didn't shoot into space on impact or something), and decided, in true Truman style, to "give the bastards all we've got!" So I sprayed them with this deadly little roach-killer spray (though I'm sure half the ingredients would also be found in my cigarette ... but there you go, self-hate is never easy). And then for the next two days I couldn't stop thinking of all the stuff in that thing that I released onto this poor, beleaguered planet of mine, and which I know, with my usual paranoid flair for uncannily accurate prediction, is going to come back and bite me in the ... well, lets say substantial areas of this 'too too weary flesh'. Also, getting to watch the death rattle of one of my poor victims at close quarters is not exactly guaranteed to give me sweet-dreams now, is it? Suffice to say, the excruciating agony conveyed by the skeletal writhing hexaped tends to jump onto my mental screen at unexpected and innoportune moments, and this consant gatecrashing of the out-of-control party that is my mind is beginning to get on my nerves. Oh, there it is again. Excuse me while I go jump off the balcony.
ugh. (like I said...)

Thursday, April 13, 2006

"I Do Not Want a Police Enquiry" --- Please Sign Here

If there were a line you could call your signature line, a catchphrase or sentence you felt perfectly defined your life as it stood at that point in time, what would it be? Well, I can't say, for myself, but I definitely know what it is for my younger brother. The one line he has seen more often than his name, address or text-books in his first year of college. And no, despite what he might say to the contrary, it isn't 'Call Me' outlined in lipstick. When it isn't the last line of the release form he signs in the hospital before getting treated, its the last line of an application he signs to prevent his banged up vehicle from being towed: I do not want a police enquiry. The amount of 'enquiring' he has already saved the police, they should give him a reward or something. My brother gets into fights, road accidents or simply injures himself for no good reason. Actually, there are usually three reasons that suffice in his universe to explain these happenings: Bad Luck, Bad Luck, and Bad Luck. He'll just be sitting around minding his own business when some friend looking for 'friends' to go beat up someone will happen to catch sight of him - "what was i supposed to say, no?"; he'll just run across someone he don't particularly like when either they, or he, is in a bad mood; or he'll just be occupying the very corner of space someone suddenly has an impulse to push - nothing personal of course. And don't even get me started on the millions of ways in which the accidents are not his fault - this one time he calls me at two in the morning coz the car behind him, not the one he was in, has had an accident, and I say: 'were you drinking?' and he says: 'Of course not you idiot, we never drink in the car'!!! The first time I visited him while he was in college, he came to pick me up on a borrowed enfield wearing a cap - which was very unlike him considering how in love with his lovely locks he is, so of course i got suspicious and pulled it off to reveal: a bandaged head. So he tells me how he had to get nine stitches coz he was out on the landing and he jumped too high and banged his forehead on the ledge (which would be slightly hard to swallow even coming from a basketball player, except that I have seen him do this to himself before - he'll jump too high in joy or exhilaration, and Bam! I have to admit it takes a special kind of talent). So then we're riding the wrong way on one way streets (his solution is to speed up so he's doing it for a shorter period!) and breaking all kinds of traffic rules, so i say 'tell me honestly, was it an accident?' and he goes'No... though i did have this interesting accident a week ago' and displays the scrape on his elbow while giving me the details. After a while I ask him, "was it a fight then?' "No..." followed by a guilty reminiscent smile, " but i did beat up this guy a few days ago", and pointing to the bloodstain still on his knee: "That's his, I didn't get hurt, he was this puny senior who had been bugging me for a couple of weeks", fond chuckle. And then of course there are all those times on the court when he'll run into knee-high walls coz he didn't see them, or trip over someone else, or fall over a bench that 'isn't usually there' or... well you get the picture. Ok, as kids we were the ones with permanently scraped knees and elbows because, well its easy to get distracted when you're having a good time with such single-minded concentration, but one's got to grow out of it sometime right! Ok, maybe I'm just jealous coz I did while he still seems to be living in that simple world where everythings good and things happen to you inexplicably and you don't stop to question them because you don't want the magic in your world to up and leave. Or maybe I'm just worried about the levels of carelessness I now realize you cannot afford to enjoy in this world.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

"The Cable Guy II" or "No one told me about the psychopath quota in blue-collar service sector jobs"

This morning I was woken up early by Mr. Extra-creepy newspaper guy. (Ok, fine it was nine but I’d slept at three so…). Anyways so the bell rings dispelling forever whatever sweet dream I was having, and I jump out of bed, haul on a shirt inside out, still too lazy to actually mouth the extremely inventive curses going through my head (Now I really understand about the Draco dormiens nunquam titillandi. Previously I just thought it was just a good joke in latin – but now all those tales of chivalry about waking a slumbering monster and getting burnt to a crisp cinder begin to make sense – I’m sure my morning breath is pretty deadly in its own right, and my temper aint no picnic either). So, I open the door a smidgeon and I know its him the moment I feel someone yank the door from my hand and open it wide (that’s the kind of ballbreaking-inviting behaviour we’ve endured all year). There he stands in our wide open doorway (sore point) his feet planted firmly wide apart like he could be here all day, his hands on his hips, his extra wiggly eyebrows over his creepy gray eyes giving me the works (I bet all that Rapid-Eyebrow-Movement is actually like morse or something, only we’re too slow to get what it’s flashing). After the door stunt I’m just glaring at him (though my groggy half-shut eyes may have made it hard for him to tell, coz he didn’t seem to get it – but then again, maybe he’s too busy flashing eyebrow messages to register any sort of normal human communication). So I’m glaring, and the creep goes ‘Newspaper Bill’, and the last thing I wanna do is pay him (it would be like rewarding your dog for waking you up as a pup – not a good idea trust me) so I tell him to come next week in a markedly grumpy and unfriendly tone. He wiggles some more and says: “Why, is no one else here?” and I bark out “No.” (Yeah that’s me at my smartest in the morning – tell the creepiest guy you know that you’re living all by yourself in a flat). And then he’s making some more R.E.M (see above) presumably preliminary to some comment, but I’ve had it so I just slam the door in his face (sole moment of satisfaction in the above interaction). Ugh… ok, I realize both cockroaches and creepy guys have a right to exist and probably (though I fail to fathom it) a purpose on this earth, but do I really have to cross paths with them? God, if he existed, would be a Mean Man, coz I’ve now had to face both on my own. I miss my roach-squashing, early-rising flatmates. Ladies, if you’re reading this, come back; I promise I’ll be good.


Late last night while drooling (again) over Johnny Depp (even I’ll admit ten years is stretching an infatuation a bit much… but the more I know the harder it gets), I was rudely disturbed by an SMS from an old schoolmate of mine. It read, and I quote:
“Year 2006… 50% quota for all sc’s…Year 2016… roadside hoarding reads… “U CAN’T BREATHE THIS AIR COZ U R NT SC”… Screw all politicians … An appeal to all youth… never ever vote again… WE DON’T NEED NO EDUCASION… Oops did I spell it wrong… yes I did because im no fucking SC…” (sic for the whole thing… I’m copying it letter for letter).
Well, apart from the punctuational diarrhoea (I shudder to think how many sentences, if not paragraphs, those stops could have punctuated – its like the population density of Dharavi), the vehemence of it all was what got me. Especially considering the source. But on second thoughts, the source proved to be not as inappropriate as I initially thought (ok, bg.: this is the girl who interrupts this debate I’m having with a teacher about durkhiem’s category of altruistic suicide and how (I feel) you can’t classify a death in battle as such… and we’ve been going at it rather heatedly for a while – my argument somewhere includes the whole thing about choice and knowledge of possibility of death involved in something like crossing the road – when suddenly she pipes in, in all earnestness, with: “But sir, if a man is crossing the road and this whole hive of bees comes and attacks him and he dies, would that be altruistic suicide?” you get what I mean? I mean here you have your average twenty-one year old, going through Life As a Long Succession of Boys, Beer-Mugs and Joints, and suddenly she takes time out of her college-life to forward something like this to arbit old acquaintances – wow she really must feel strongly about it. My first thought (though mean) is maybe she got dumped by an SC recently. But then I start to think about how there is a whole lot of resentment building up even among us consumerist-yuppie types over this sort of thing. I mean even in an extremely polite (relatively) institution like ours, I’ve heard reservation slurs (though more sophisticated and barbed than the usual) and I don’t just mean your average jock-joke or sportsie/ Christian tag – a couple of years ago this one guy from eco made it to IIM-A on SC quota, and people still talk (lightly, of course) about how he really is shit rich and so didn’t quite deserve the quota thing. So I begin to wonder, in this age of cutthroat or slit-wrist competition, are we as a generation beginning to feel shortchanged by affirmative action? Not is this sort of resentment justified, but does this sort of resentment exist on a large scale, and is it leading up to some sort of frustrated boycott of the system (since that is all that lies in our power – we can choose to opt out as a gesture of protest, but that’s about it – as a votebank, the General Category is too dispersed and scattered a unit to be won over by any one sure-shot promise: it pays to be a minority in votebank politics)?...
Sorry, more later, I just realised a mere twenty-three hours is all that stands between me and an history exam whose syllabus I haven't looked at even once all year, and if I want to watch a movie later in the day (which, goes without saying, I do) I should get cracking right about now. Make that twenty-two and counting...

Friday, April 07, 2006

"How to Build a Universe that doesn't fall apart two days later"

If you thought "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep" was bizarre but exciting and somehow reassuring, you aint seen nothing yet. All the various Delusionals, paranoids or otherwise visionary protagonists in the fiction of Philip k. Dick were poor imitations ('twice removed' anyone?) of reality. His reality that is. Here's an excerpt from the wikipedia entry on the guy himself:

Dick and his visions
In his youth, around the age of thirteen, Dick had a recurring dream for a number of weeks. He dreamt that he was in a bookstore, trying to find an issue of Astounding Magazine. This issue, when he found it, would contain a story called "The Empire Never Ended", which would reveal to him the secrets of the universe. As the dream repeated, the pile of magazines through which he was searching got smaller and smaller, but he never reached the bottom of it. Eventually, he became anxious that discovering the magazine would drive him mad (like the Lovecraftian Necronomicon, promising insanity to its readers). Shortly thereafter, the dreams stopped. They never returned, but the phrase "The Empire Never Ended" would appear in his later works.
Quotation
My major preoccupation is the question, 'What is reality?' Many of my stories and novels deal with psychotic states or drug-induced states by which I can present the concept of a multiverse rather than a universe. Music and sociology are themes in my novels, also radical political trends; in particular I've written about fascism and my fear of it.
Philip K. Dick
On February 20, 1974, he was recovering from the effects of sodium pentothal administered for the extraction of an impacted wisdom tooth. Answering the door to receive a delivery of additional painkillers, he noticed the woman delivering the package was wearing a pendant with what he called the "vesicle pisces". (He probably was referring to the intersecting arcs of the vesica piscis.) After her departure, Dick began experiencing strange visions. Although this may have been attributed initially to the painkillers, after weeks of these visions such a rationale becomes less probable. Throughout February and March 1974 he received a series of visions which he collectively referred to as 2-3-74, shorthand for February/March 1974. He described his initial visions as laser beams and geometric patterns, and occasionally brief pictures of Jesus and ancient Rome, which he would glimpse periodically. As the pictures increased in length and frequency, Dick claimed that he began to live a double life, one as himself and one as Thomas, a Christian persecuted by Romans in the 1st century A.D. Despite his past and continued drug use, Dick accepted these visions as reality, believing that he had been contacted by a god-entity of some kind, which he referred to variously as Zebra, God, and, most often, VALIS.
[edit]

VALIS
VALIS is an acronym for Vast Active Living Intelligence System; he used this term as the title of one of his novels (and continued the theme in at least three more books) and later theorized that VALIS was both a "reality generator" and a means of extraterrestrial communication. VALIS has been described as one node of an artificial satellite network originating from the star Fomalhaut in the Piscis Austrinus constellation. According to Dick, the Earth satellite used "pink laser beams" to transfer information and project holograms on Earth and to facilitate communication between an extraterrestrial species and humanity. Dick claimed that VALIS used "disinhibiting stimuli" to prep the subjects for communication, in one case the symbol of the vesicle pisces. He wrote about this experience and his beliefs that the Roman empire never ended in detail in his essay, "How To Build A Universe That Doesn't Fall Apart Two Days Later".
At one point, during an encounter with VALIS, Dick learned that his infant son was in danger of perishing from an unnamed malady. Routine checkups on the child had shown no trouble or illness; however, Dick insisted that thorough tests be run to ensure his son's health. The doctor eventually complied, despite the fact that there were no apparent symptoms. During the examination doctors discovered an inguinal hernia, which would have killed the child if an operation was not quickly performed. His son survived thanks to the operation, which Dick attributed to the "intervention" of VALIS.
Another event was an episode of glossolalia. Dick's wife transcribed the sounds she heard him speak, and discovered that he was speaking Koine Greek, an ancient dialect which he had never studied. As Dick was to later discover, Koine Greek was originally used to write the New Testament and the Septuagint. However, this was not the first time Dick had experienced glossolalia. A decade earlier, Dick claimed he was able to think, speak, and read fluent Latin under the influence of Sandoz LSD-25.
In his essay, Will the Atomic Bomb Ever be Perfected, And if so, What becomes of Robert Heinlein?, Dick mentions that he began seeing pink light during an LSD experience, eight years before he wrote and attributed the so-called pink lasers to VALIS.
[edit]

Exegesis
Regardless of the feeling that he was somehow experiencing a divine communication, Dick was unable ever to fully rationalize the events. For the rest of his life, he struggled to fully comprehend what was occurring, questioning his own sanity and perception of reality. He transcribed what thoughts he could into an 8,000 page, million word journal dubbed the Exegesis.
Quotation
If you find this world bad you should see some of the others.
Philip K. Dick
He spent sleepless nights furiously writing into this journal, in some instances high on large quantities of amphetamines, which no doubt contributed to its eclectic tone. A recurring theme in the Exegesis is Dick's hypothesis that history had been stopped in the 1st century, and that "The [Roman] Empire never ended". He saw Rome as the pinnacle of materialism, which, after forcing the Gnostics underground 1900 years earlier, had kept the population of the Earth as slaves to worldly possessions. Dick believed that VALIS had contacted him and unnamed others to induce the "impeachment" of Richard M. Nixon, whom Dick believed to be the current Emperor incarnate.
As time went on, he became increasingly paranoid, imagining plots against him perpetrated by the KGB or FBI, who he believed were constantly laying traps for him. At one point he alleged that they had been responsible for a burglary at his house in which various documents had been stolen. However, he later stated that he had probably committed the burglary himself, and then forgotten he had done so.
His later works, especially the VALIS trilogy, were heavily autobiographical, many with 2-3-74 references or influences. Dick was also a voracious reader of works on religion, philosophy, metaphysics, and Gnosticism, and these ideas found their way into many of his stories. The final novel to be published during his life was The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, though many more were published posthumously, most notably Lies, Inc.
This section contains information that has not been verified and thus might not be reliable. If you are familiar with the subject matter, please check the section for inaccuracies and modify as needed, citing sources.
Many writers have subsequently speculated that Dick may have suffered from schizophrenia; Dick was certainly interested in the topic, and wrote an essay entitled "Schizophrenia and the Book of Changes."
... hmmmm...

On a related note, the dissociative disorder known as multiple personality disorder has only ever been reported in the U.S.

Monday, April 03, 2006

The more things change…

March 23, 2006

Aah, home. It’s been a while since I had an experience so surreal without any significant substance abuse preceding it (unless you consider my food intake in the past 24 hours – I’ve probably single-handedly caused another day of starvation for all of Somalia). Anyways, its back in the madhouse – which, with my mother gone to Africa for the foreseeable future, is rapidly deteriorating into the sort of early eighteenth century Bedlam so memorably captured by Hogarth for posterity. My dad is filling the gap left behind by her by assembling the sort of menagerie he has secretly always yearned for (despite my mother’s protests, and sanity, we usually had three dogs, and among other animals were graced by the presence of a squirrel, rabbits, a turtle, and three chicks – I think he not-so-secretly always missed his childhood, where he was surrounded by pets notable among whom was a bear-cub whose mother had been shot - till it grew too wild and had to be given away to a circus). As I write, ‘the family’ now consists of:

One father, euphemistically called eccentric (the kind of patriarch Gerald Durrel probably had wet dreams about)

One grandmother with no teeth, flesh, or language to speak of

One servant boy who laughs loudly at guests and openly ‘collects’ any loose change he finds lying about for his ‘bank’

One dumb, docile Doberman who mistakenly believes he is some long-lost cousin of Bambi

One parakeet with a shrill whistle, a reluctant vocab of some ten odd words (that’s still more than my grandma’s), and an incomprehensible affection for the dog (actually its mutual, they spend all day together and seem to have some sort of Starsky and Hutch deal going, though thankfully without the hairdos)

Two cockatoos that I don’t yet know well enough to describe

Twelve budgerigars

And

(lemme see if I can get this right)

Three zebra necked sparrows (or something like that – I obviously don’t watch as much Discovery as my dad)

We’re also looking around for a pup at the moment, though despite my best efforts I can’t seem to interest dad in a Great Dane. We’re hoping to find a good mongrel with decent descent (as far as traceable – we like the element of luck something like this brings in – you really don’t know what you get till its all grown up, by which time you love it too much anyways. Besides, don’t underestimate the element of surprise – it really does add spice to our daily lives)

So, after the usual tour of his menagerie and his garden, I was introduced to the new love of my fathers life – furniture making! Though I must say his designs are damn good. For one, he had designed this excellent bar, which I wanted immediately I saw it. With his lifelong love affair with antiques, it isn’t surprising that all his designs have this lovely dated, period feel to them, with intricate detailing, curlicues and whatnot.

Over dinner, I had a conversation with my father about drugs (something that has never really happened before, I have always previously shared gyaan and experiences with my mother – but with her gone, my father and I find ourselves having weird conversations sometimes – like the time I couldn’t decide between two pairs of heels and called him up to consult since mum wasn’t available: he told me, in a tone of rising panic, to buy both just to get out of that conversation). It all started, innocuously enough, with a discussion of the state government. Dad started telling me of all the crazy things they were doing, including removing limits on the number of theka licenses available in the state, and reducing prices of liquor to canteen rates (shit, if a bottle of bacardi now costs only 150, I think I wanna come back and study in Punjab). Then he told me that they had opened a legal vend for marijuana somewhere in hoshiarpur! Apparently, recently the cops have been on this major trip in Himachal, burning fields of cannabis and fining the owners, and Hoshiarpur is like on the border, so the Punjab govt. has opened a shop there where bhaang can now be legally purchased! Imagine my surprise, considering the global campaign for marijuana legalisation and the current topicality of such a move, not to say thoughts of a more personal profit. Anyways, my dad took this for naiveté on my part, and the next half an hour became this mincing duel, where we were both trying to educate the other and share our extensive knowledge while steering clear of admitting any personal involvement or experience with various forms of the magic weed. So, he’s trying to enumerate the derivatives, and how they’re consumed, while I’m trying to take this psuedo-scientific tone, like what I have is textbook knowledge that dried leaves and buds make something called…what was it…weed, and extracted resin gives you I think what they call hash, while bhang is just the green leaves pounded into a paste. And he’s saying yeah, I think ganja is what those sadhus smoke up in a chillum, and hashish you heat and crumble and roll, and how you can’t tip a joint like you would a fag … all the while carefully refraining from any anecdotal references, a tough job for such inveterate story-tellers as himself and myself. And then I’m making this Habermasian argument against licensing and legalisation as a means of control while he is arguing for it on the basis of price regularization and quality control. Anyways, you’d think it couldn’t possibly get more bizarre. Well I brought up (I can never resist) how pot is actually so good for you, and that brought up opium (ok, in Punjab its tough to keep opium out, it practically infuses the atmosphere there is so much major, and respectable, consumption of it – if it were legalised it would be the new whiskey of the state). So then were discussing how derivatives like heroin and cocaine aren’t healthy (expert benders of truth and reality we may be but even we can’t stretch it that far) but opium in its pure form is. So there’s me with how it formed the base of most of Chinese traditional medicine, and this anecdote about this young man who went home with some and hid it in his grandmother’s medicine bottle (she suffered from migraines and body aches) and forgot it, and the next time he went back she couldn’t stop raving about it – how every since she started taking this ‘new medicine’ she hadn’t had a single day of pain or headache, and how she’d never felt better. And then him telling me about how his grandmother was addicted to it, and she was so strong and healthy in body and mind well into her nineties. (my massi suspects that my grandmother takes it too, since one of the symptoms is usually incessant tea dinking, but considering her current rapid deterioration I tend to doubt it). I’ve heard enough stories by now of completely respectable people (including prominent politicians) nursing a habit – in fact, it’s still considered a sign by some of good living and raeesi, but I must admit I was a little surprised when dad started telling me of people we know socially, mostly old people, who took it on ‘doctor’s orders’ – people whose diabetes or arthritis were kept under control, whose heart problems disappeared, who became rosy cheeked and years younger. The only side-effect, as far as my dad could tell, was that it made your teeth rot and crumble. Oh well, with all the money you’re saving on medical bills, you can afford a good dentist right?

This has to have been one of my all-time favorite conversations with my dad; right up there with the time I almost talked him into describing his LSD trips to me.

Next post: a socio-historic analysis of the widespread social acceptance of opium addiction in Punjab as understood and theorized over the years by your humble narrator – with various collected anecdotes thrown in.

..............

March 28th, 2006

My grandmother just died. About an hour ago. Actually two hours now I suppose. It wasn’t entirely unexpected; she’d been a breathing corpse for a while now. Visitors always said how it would be merciful for her to ‘go’ now. How this was no life, and how she’d had a long and full life. But somehow it was still too sudden. Dad had decided only yesterday that it was time to start calling her siblings to come and meet her one last time: her eldest sister was here today when it happened. I found out when dad came upstairs and told me to get dressed. The first thing that happens when someone dies is an invasion of your house and privacy. It’s almost immediate – hordes of relatives and random morbid acquaintances descend on your home like a swarm of locusts. Before you know it, lechy distant uncles are ‘holding you comfortingly’ while you overpower the irresistible urge to kick them in the balls, while megalomaniac distant aunts start giving orders with such panache, and ‘understanding’, of course. For an avowedly anti-social person (especially when it comes to the ‘family scene’), I really do pick my moments to come home, don’t I? This very morning I caught myself thinking ‘let her last till the fifth, please let me leave for Delhi before it happens.’ Ah, well I can’t really expect results from someone I don’t believe exists, can I? And the deities of Chance have never exactly been my best buddies – even if luck is being a lady, as a bisexual I only stand a fifty percent chance (at all times) of hitting it off. Which is, I suppose, what you would call ‘a reasonable percentage’. They’ve brought in these slabs of ice, which they intend to put under her, but ‘the ladies’ won’t let them yet. It’s funny how instantly, automatically, her room, with her body, has been turned into the ladies seating area, while the men get to sit outside. People walk in, look at the body, nod here and there at a recognized face, pay their respects to the bereaved (so far my dad and I – my mum’s uncontactable in the wilds of Africa (ugh, lucky her) and my brother’s on his way home. I don’t suppose at times like these the animals quite make the cut as ‘Family’), and make a beeline for their preferred seating area. Seeing as how I very conspicuously did not know what to do with myself, I have been allowed to come and sit upstairs, in ‘the bliss of solitude’, such as it is. I have only a very vague idea of how these things go (I’ve avoided them most of my life), but apparently the path (the praying) will happen tomorrow, after (I think) the cremation. Which means tonight is just --- ? that’s right, more people coming over, much more crying (I think I’m fairly dehydrated already, the tears are almost a spontaneous physical reaction – besides, I come from a weepy family, I’ve inherited the flair for melodrama from my grandmother, who spent all her life trying to be the star of a great soap – if only she were here to enjoy this). Though draped as she is in white, and lying as she is on ice, and being as she is now, mere skin and bones, she would fit more in a low-budget vampire movie with bad lighting and no script, though I suppose there’s too little cleavage around for us to qualify as one. But its horrible how instantly there’s so many people, so much to take care of, you aren’t really given time to pause and regroup. But I suppose that’s the purpose of it all – distraction. Besides, it drives home the point very dramatically that life moves on – you can’t mope around all day when there’s another twenty people to be served tea. And the really nosey, irritatingly presumptuous relatives do give you an emotion other than grief to focus on – anger. But it’s still unbelievably horrible when you’re standing there howling your eyes out, wishing for nothing but some privacy, and some random idiot comes and asks if the VIPs have arrived yet!! I mean, really. Half the people who came seemed more interested in who else was showing up (most commonly her youngest brother, who is a Governor), and were unabashedly crude about their curiosity. Ours is a nation of socially condoned voyeurism: there really is nothing more acceptable than treating someone’s personal affairs like a roadside drama. Of course you’ve got every right to watch, comment, dissect, interrupt and pass judgment out loud, and so what if you don’t know the people concerned too well. In fact that gives you the distance required for objective analysis – it makes you an even stronger authority!

Ok, I’m not denying the realization that expressing anger is a cop out of dealing with sorrow, but I’ve sort of had it a little with being put on display at the moment, so...