Human

We stand on a thin sheet of glass. The crack begins from a distance. It approaches us, serene in its purpose. The crack passes beneath our feet, the sound of dry twigs snapping in the woods. The glass breaks uncertainly, a little island beneath us sways. Our bodies turn freely. The glass beneath no more pushes back. The air is shrill, like a siren warning of rupture. The island of glass is still stuck to the hinge. We are suspended between contradicting ideas of glass. Layers of glass stretch everywhere. We exist there, motionless. We crave for an explosion, to wipe out those infinite edges. Nothing happens.

Rough love

My love lies in tatters,

In the memory of someone I never knew,

In the beauty of a lonely imagination,

Through shards of glass,

My love builds alone.

My love asks for ideas,

After all, she wants salvation,

We have lived as ordinary for too long,

In her precious moments,

My love thinks of her death.

My love lies on her bed,

With explosives around her breast,

I am to raise her,

And send her on this journey of pain,

My love loves.

My love tries too hard,

To imagine a world that isn’t there,

She thinks she will fix it,

With the will of her heart,

My love will lose.

I did not make this world, but I see it.

She will die quickly,

And I in pain,

My love will not live long enough,

But I will see the end.

Bombay Homes Part 1

The first time I took a place for rent was a small room, with a small kitchen and a tiny bathroom. It was in Andheri East, beyond the residential colonies, by a wide field. The field was used for Shiv Sena functions. Every evening the greatness of Balasaheb would waft in through the wide window, the harsh loud speaker under the orange sky. All around the building were garbage dumps. Even the inside had garbage strewn randomly, making way for dog shit here and there. Right next to it a Tamilian ran a dosa shop. I would buy a masala dosa for 26 rupees, a better option than the vada pav, the chutney for which vaguely resembled the muck in the open sewers. A pack of mongrels handled security quite efficiently, chasing me a couple of times. It was a good place to write. You could sit by the window, look out over the fields at the posher buildings of Poonam Nagar, and contemplate the beauty of austerity. Maybe that was the reason I did not manage to write a single word in the few months that I was there.

I have lived on my own before, but this was the first time I was managing things, talking to the broker, the owner, and such extremely stressful activities. I was also in a city I did not know very well. Bombay has a population of over 12 million, crammed into a makeshift urban dream. So things go wrong. Like they did when one day water stopped coming to our 7000 rupees a month room. Tushar and I spent hours checking the pipes, the 500 liter tank, and the taps. We called the owner and the broker, who walked around with great confidence, tapped the pipes, declared everything fit, and went away. But water didn't come. In the middle of the night we would walk across the main road to pee. We called the owner again. This time he came with a disheveled man who said he was the plumber. He too went around knocking the pipes and declared them fit. They then launched into a lengthy explanation about water pressure. But how only one room on one floor can have pressure problems for itself they couldn't explain. We used to get very little water, which was rationed strictly. Tushar and I even fought once over it. I became intimately familiar with mall bathrooms. Kind friends often donated their bathrooms. Every second morning we would try to call the owner or the broker. They both had bhajans as their caller tones. The broker's began with the words, 'Om ganapataye namo namaha, Shri Siddhivinayaka namo namaha... ' Most of the time they would ignore our calls. Sometimes our helplessness would get through and one of them would grace our hovel with his presence.

So we decided to leave. We had paid a security deposit of 15 thousand rupees. I told the owner he could deduct the last month's rent from it and return the rest. That was unacceptable to him. He shouted at me and threatened to evict us. I tried to explain that this is the custom. Once you have notified the owner of your decision to leave, you do not pay rent. Someone was being dishonest, and if memory serves me correctly, it wasn't me. After making phone calls to the owner and broker for three days continuously, he stopped pestering us. But the hopes of getting the rest of money were slim. He called me two days before we were going to leave and shouted again. He wanted the room cleaned. I wanted to tell him that when he had given us the keys there were stains all over and I had spent 100 rupees getting it washed with chemicals. We cleaned the room.

On a busy evening Mithkari, the owner, and Ghanashyam, the broker, came to bid us goodbye. Mithkari was suddenly the epitome of kindness. I realized why when I remembered an innocent South Indian boy who had come to see the room two days before. He wanted to bring his wife there. They had just been married and wanted to make a home in Bombay. He had asked me in English, 'Everything is okay here?' And I had replied, 'Yes'. Balasaheb's men were celebrating outside, while Mithkari asked me if I had paid the 50 rupees donation for the Ganesh Chaturthi festival which was 10 days away. I told him I had. He looked at me in a paternal way and said, 'Patle ho gaye ho.' 'You have become thin.' I smiled politely. He then asked me, 'Kitna dun vaapas. Aap batao. Dekho haraam ka paisa nahin chahiye mujhe. Bolo, Kitna?' 'How much should I return? Look, I don't want dirty money. Tell me, how much?' His kindness overwhelmed me. Thankfully, he didn't wait for me, and asked, '6000?' I couldn't believe my ears. I had thought we would get fifty percent back if we were lucky. I was on the verge of thanking him when Ghanashyam spoke up. 'Arre nahin nahin. 5000 kaafi hai.' Mithkari nodded his head. 'Haan 5000 kaafi hai.' He looked at me and asked me again if I was okay with it. Seeing that he was really concerned, I nodded. What a wonderful man, I thought. He is robbing me of only 2000 rupees.

On our way out, I looked at the garbage strewn streets with children playing and wondered about Mithkari. He wasn't such a bad guy. Ganesh chaturthi tents were being erected over the garbage. Balasaheb's loud speaker was announcing the greatness of Shri Ganesh. Bombay's lights burned through the darkness.

India is Not Magic. It's Chance.

There is nothing unique about the Maoist insurgency. It is a natural consequence of a haphazard nation-building process. In the last 60 years, the modern nation-state of India has been very lucky. It has not fractured due to its numerous resistance movements, many of them fueled by separatist ambitions. Attributing this to a greater sense of purpose is akin to citing supernatural reasons. India is not magic. It is chance.

Statesmen like Nehru painted a picture of India which was far from the truth. As many, far more clear-sighted thinkers have pointed out, there is nothing immemorial or predestined about India's borders. The territorial identity we came to recognize as our own was a mixture of British administrative convenience and post-Independence military might. The territories we ended up losing - a source of great nationalist trauma - were never 'ours'. The very notion of 'we' is stretched. As has been pointed out many times, the Punjabi in Amritsar understands the Punjabi in Lahore, and not the Tamilian down South. The power of consumerist-Nationalism is such that it overwhelms ingrained historical differences to uphold an artificial construct. Most of the Media have worked very hard to present a cohesive picture of the nation. When saffronized history hasn't helped, they have turned to the last refuge of militarist behavior - Sport. But such is the nature of human society, that you cannot suppress genuine discontent for long. It is interesting thus, that in recent times, in spite of raging separatist movements across the land, the Media finds itself unable to come to the most obvious conclusion. India is not magic. Its chance.

It is understandable that Nehru's generation would have the picture of an inevitable India. The notion of a collective identity was essential in sustaining the Independence movement. What is sad is that the generations after his were unable to tear themselves away from Nehruvian hope and idealism to a more pragmatic position. The generation of men like Amartya Sen and Amitabh Bachhan continued to seek refuge in a flawed conception of this land. In a mirage of collective denial. What this generation did, is damage further the remote possibility of keeping this bundle of regions together.

It is natural thus, that resistance movements have claimed large parts of the land. These are not movements driven by coherent ideologies, like those of the twentieth century. These are resource based, thriving on decades of neglect and discrimination, and thus far more dangerous. The Maoist insurgency is a wild, and by now rather widespread, effort to reclaim the shreds of dignity still left, towering over mineral-filled hills. To think it will subside is folly. The same goes for the Kashmiri liberation movement and insurgent groups in the North-East. Everywhere, is a combination of scarcity, neglect, and often straightforward abuse. These are not, as aging liberal patriots would like to believe, exceptions. Neither are these regions 'left behind', as the saying goes. These are populations for whom history now has a different meaning. Most of them have diverged to such an extent that they make moderate and sensible strategies like 'greater dialogue' seem impotent. They don't just want to get away from 'us', but crave a radical rupture from their pain-filled pasts. Extremist groups offer that dream. We can do nothing to make it better.

Many think the solution lies in military action. But violence legitimizes their struggle. It gives a sense of meaning previously unknown. It united people in their hatred of the aggressor. That is not a feature of these examples alone, but a permanent one of the human landscape. Military action will make matters infinitely worse. It is not a matter of whether military action is justified, as many spend their hours deliberating, but of the simple fact that it doesn't work.

India may not fracture. Military might, after all, can force people in and out of homes. But parts may cease to function. Like a body some of whose organs fail. It may not be these very movements or extremist groups. But similar such uprisings, feeding on a tradition of pain. Many parts will continue to thrive of course, moving intolerably towards Western riches. Celebrate that. And prepare for more extremist attacks. Safety is an ephemeral concept, one we should be ready to abjure.

But if one thinks that that is not a great way to live, then one will have to face, and acknowledge, the naivety and cowardice of earlier generations. And then one will have to deal with his own illusions. We will have to face a spectrum which ranges from the fresh-faced MBA to an insurgent hiding in the mountains. We will have to look at this nation-state for what it really is - not magic, but chance.

Images

I was in an old room. Spacious, with wide windows to one side, a high ceiling with an old fan turning on eternal momentum, and slightly fading walls, resplendent in their silence. An old room, at night, the soft creaking of the fan, as I lay down. And I see a human hand, severed at the forearm, resolutely crawling down the floor towards me. Again and again, I felt it come near and go away. Sometimes into the other room, where it pranced about, the horrible hand. I could then see it, through the open door, play among the slippers. A resolute hand, light blood stains giving it character.

I got up after some time and pursued it. I had to throw it away. I had to conquer it. Defeat it. I ran after it, the old rooms like a soft mirage, the hand crawling through invisible cobwebs. I ran out after it into the balcony. It tried to hide under the open window. I reached out, with my feet, and clasped it. I pulled it towards me, and tried to throw it outside. It landed back inside. I caught it and threw it out again. This time it fell, down below. Into another man's dream.

This may seem absurd. But it had the taste of a nightmare. I felt disturbed for some time, after waking up. It was a nightmare. I thought of some meaning the dream could have had. Something I should do. Some hidden purpose. And then I realized with a jolt, I was searching for meaning. My mind was craving for some meaning. But there isn't any. A dream means nothing. It is a fragment, forever ambiguous. It says nothing. It has no purpose.

I may see my hand again. I think it sneers at me. Maybe we will become friends.

The Anna Scam

Centralization/Top down decision making increases chances of corruption and malpractice. Decentralization/Bottom-up decision making reduces them. That is because 1) There is greater chance of moral hazard within a centralized system. Too much power in too few hands. 2) In a centralized system there is insufficient information. In small systems e.g. Municipalities, informational problems are not that big. 3) Centralized systems, rigid and goal oriented that they are, suppress errors. That makes them fragile. They remain calm till wild variations fracture them. Thus centralized systems, in the present complex and uncertain world, are dangerous (e.g. Soviet Russia, Maoist China, American foreign policy, Jan Lokpal) (e.g. of small & decentralized – Switzerland, Muhammad Yunus, Esther Dufflo) (You can find the original arguments in Nassim Nicholas Taleb's writings)

The entire Lokpal deal reeks of top-down centralized imposition of justice. That is naive utopia. At that level, two authorities will turn out the same as one. What any such movement requires is a bottom-up approach. Many small and autonomous units. But that is not the lokpal movement. On the contrary it prides itself on presenting one coherent approach to a deep-set problem like corruption. That is folly. There is greater chance that if implemented, the Jan Lokpal bill will increase corruption in the long run. It will put to much power into too few hands. It is also the most impractical, given its judgement time-frames, and will have to make decisions with incomplete information and will suppress discontent as the failure begins to show. The Lokpal will not only damage, it wont even know it is damaging.

India is a messy land. And no amount of pretend-coherence or centralization will help. It will just repress further. Anna is projecting, in a more secular fashion, his old RSS ideas of 'one central solution' (maybe unaware all the time). And a mostly consumerist middle class is embracing it. It shows, at best, a simplified and flawed conception of the complexity of this land. In his arrogance, he thinks that he can conceive of one solution (however geographically spread out) for this deep-set malaise affecting 1.2 billion people who mostly do not identify with each other, except for a conception of nation-state only 60 years old. And so he creates a media event out of it, waves the flag, and we run to change the world! Had Gandhi been buried, he'd be rolling in his grave.

I fully agree that we have to 'do' things. Yes to positive change too. But it is essential to know what change we are talking about. It cannot be this top-down imposition. It has to be bottom-up. Please refer to the work of Esther Duflo, the development economist, and her approach. They are called the ‘randomistas’. They follow a system of randomized trials similar to the ones followed for medicine/pharma. They do small things for a group and then observe whether it is working compared to another group, which is the placebo group. Then they widen it a little to see if it is still working. I hope you can see what I mean by bottom-up tinkering. I think these more humble and cleverer methods are a way better choice. They have their shortcomings, like how to set up a fair trial. But those shortcomings are nothing compared to Lokpal’s punish-the-kid-if-he-misbehaves.

Most people do not know that before Grameen Bank, Muhammad Yunus had tried out another project (original story in Tim Harford's Adapt). I think he borrowed money for farmers to buy high-yield seeds. It failed. Then he came up with the idea of giving these small loans to women in villages. And it worked. Yunus, through simple bottom-up experimentation was able to transform the lives of so many poor Bangladeshi women, and thus families. He was experimenting. And his model may not work equally effectively everywhere (Afghanistan), but what he has done for the poor in Bangladesh, and other impoverished countries, cannot be questioned. All through small, grassroots trial and error. He did not assume he knew how to solve the problem. He experimented.

The important thing here, as you can see, is that Yunus failed once. But it didn't hurt the system as a whole. It hurt only him and a few businessmen. And he was there to try again. But if the Lokpal fails, it will hurt millions. Most importantly, once instituted, you wont be able to do away with it. For it will simply be too powerful. Do you think, if it is not performing well, those who are running it will stand up, put up their hands and walk out? No. They will keep trying. And covering up. That is the way large institutions work.

We need hundreds of Muhammad Yunuses and Esther Duflos out there trying and failing for a better life for the impoverished. Not some rigid, naive, media-savvy, pseudo-revolutionary like Hazare. I too would like to believe that it is possible to bring slightly greater well-being to this cluttered and complicated land. But I cannot, for that very reason, let my emotions get the better of me.

The End of Sanity

All sanity is the same. Like all peace, and most kindnesses. The reverse, fortunately, offers endless variety. Finding refuge in the slum of genuineness, one discovers the untold pleasures of pain. The fragility of sanity looms like a voluntary mirage of sorts, easier to leave, than to return to.

The beauty of war is that it offers this thrilling respite from the ravages of certainty. Travelling across wounded landscapes, one can notice this magical energy that thrives on violence. Not just the random violence of the lower levels, but the central ideas that govern human nature. In destroying, war rebuilds in a way essential to the cyclical obsessions of civilizations. It is not just inevitable that we destroy, it is necessary.

Technology has produced this numbing sensation of ugliness. But where it takes away from beauty, it also lends itself to it. The prospect of biological warfare is far more fascinating than lone men with rifles in the trenches of the world wars. It is but obvious, that newfound power and control will be used on the species itself. The scale of pain it can cause, the unconscious fear it generates, the denial exercised by the multitudes embracing optimism and humanism (and other such impotent illusions), and the sheer delight the weapon can bring, is one of the best ways to grasp modernity.

In the labyrinthian complexity of insanity, mass psychopathologies show themselves with such clarity, it has a horror unparalleled. The only respite sanity could possibly provide, is probably that of boredom. An occasional foray into systematic illusions.