Why?

The Unknown Knowns: Part Deux

Today’s post is going to be a relatively short one (do I hear a collective sigh of relief?) since I was woefully behind time in zeroing in on a topic, and then doing some kind of research and rumination over it before putting fingers to keys. It will be evident that this is a rush job. Just to meet a deadline. A bit like how we used to present campaigns to the client just because a meeting couldn’t be pushed further.

I don’t know what standards you uphold my posts to, but I treat this endeavour of mine with a lot of seriousness because I am just so grateful that so many of you take the trouble of spending a few minutes every fortnight to push me to fulfil my commitment for the next. So, if this post falls short of your (otherwise high) expectations, feel free to comment so. I am to blame for having hit a block, and yet subjecting you to this.

In a way this post is like a sequel to a post I had written earlier titled The Unknown Knowns: Dedicated to completing Mr. Rumsfeld’s unfinished business. In a way it is also a continuation of my last post on two counts: this one too is a rant like the last one; and this one too is an outcome of my recent travels where some of the hypotheses/theories that I had formed in my head were reaffirmed.

Is my successive ranting to do with exponentially dipping tolerance levels and exponentially growing cynicism levels while the age grows in incrementally? Possibly. I don’t think I have reached the levels of being labelled a crummy old man. It is a looong journey from getting re-labelled from a ‘cool’ uncle to crummy old man, and I assure you I will never reach that destination. Let me also assure you - to churn out rants is not why I write my posts.

After splitting from her band mate Dave Stewart in the early 90s, as a solo artiste Annie Lennox had a major hit in her debut single - a soulful separation song called ‘Why’. Today’s post is not about the lyrics or the melody of the song or about the singer. It is to do with the operatic chorus refrain of the title of the song. The ‘why’ is sung more like whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy. It’s like a wailful lament. And it is this lament that I am reminded of when I come face to face with some occurrences that shouldn’t have occurred or allowed to happen. Yet they happen on such a regular basis that they are now de riguer. They have become blind spots. They now represent the way things are meant to be. Which is appalling, to say the least. They are all around us, it’s just that they don’t seem to be part of our conversations. Our collective apathy or possibly our blinkered existence has led to this proliferation. They are happening at a national level. Which makes it a terrifying prospect. Because the way the pathogens have spread, our mirage-like chase of becoming a Developed Nation already lies in tatters.

Every time I encounter one of these occurrences, Annie Lennox’s wail of whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy begins to play in my head – a bit like how those violins play behind Shah Rukh Khan every time he comes face to face with Sushmita Sen in Main Hoon Na. I am listing out some here … feel free to add your own. After all, we live in a crowdsourced world.

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Our countryside.

Or rather the lack of it. I am fresh from my travels to interior Maharashtra. And not just this state. In the past I have been to the interiors of Uttar Pradesh, Gujarat, Rajasthan, outskirts of Delhi, Chennai. If there is one thing that we in India will never have is, is an idyllic, sylvan countryside. In the mad rush to modernize, we have given up our idylls and sylvans. What we now have are dusty, chaotic localities which call themselves small towns. Completely unstructured structures dot on both sides of what passes off as a road. With tangled overhanging wires and roads overflowing with people, hawkers, stray animals, cars, two-wheelers, carts, and of course filth, garbage, and gutter water. And when I see these habitats, Annie Lennox goes into overdrive with whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy. Why aren’t our countryside’s dotted by cute cottages with chimneys and picket fences? Why don’t our countryside’s have narrow, winding, well-paved roads.? No, I am not describing Enid Blyton-ian or P.G. Wodehouse-iansurrealities. In my limited exposure to international geographies that I have been to, I have actually seen countryside’s which are like those described in books.

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Our ‘beautification’ projects.

If there is one word that I would like to banish it would be ‘beautification’. Every time I see that word proudly displayed on any project, I go whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy. Technically it means the process of improving the appearance of someone or something. Our reinterpretation is beautification is the process of applying granite & gaudy oil paint without giving a second thought. Some of the most beautiful places I know have been mercilessly covered in granite and oil paint. Stone structures. Wooden floors. Cobblestone pathways. Sculptures. Burnt brick walls. Stone walls. Water fountains. Places of worship. Public parks. Memorials. Hospitals. Havelis. Nothing is spared. Any public property that needs to any kind of attention falls prey to ‘beautification’. It’s almost as if the legislators of the country will not get their next yearly public utility fund if they don’t use them for ‘beautification’ projects. The then Chief Minister of the largest state of the country went one step further and created a full granite park as memorial to her party’s ideological mentor. I kid you not. It is to be seen to be believed. In the harsh summers of North India, the park becomes a furnace. From what I read then, the temperature in and around the park goes up a couple of degrees every summer. But hey, we ‘beautified’ the city. Right?  

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Our romanticizing of monsoons.

This one is another of my pet peeves. I hate monsoons. Period. Okay, let me rephrase it – I hate monsoons in the city in which I stay and in the country in which I stay. I don’t find anything remotely romantic about monsoons here. They only cause filthy slush everywhere. They cause puddles that are filled with this filthy slush. They cause cars to splash filthy slush on to pedestrians, who are already navigating their way around puddles filled with filthy slush on roads filled with filthy slush. Or on innocent bystanders who are tick marking the monsoon ritual of eating corn on the cob from a roadside cart. They cause high tides that spew filth from the sea on to what is arguably India’s best promenade, aka Marine Drive. So, every time the monsoons arrive and I happen to read some infuriating post or watch some reel of someone ‘frolicking’ in the rains or romanticising some silly ritual, Annie Lennox comes visiting with whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy. Why can’t rains here look and feel the same way they feel in other parts of the world? I am not much of a traveler, but the few places I have been to overseas where I have been subjected to some downpour, I didn’t mind it. Because I didn’t go through any of the stuff I mentioned above. I got a little wet, drenched even. But I didn’t have to worry much about the rest of the associated mishaps that happen here. I only had to make sure that my phone and my wallet was out of water’s reach. That’s it.

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Our places of worship.

Whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy are they so poorly laid out in terms of the premises? While the sanctum sanctorum is usually spared the ‘beautification’, why isn’t the rest also given a miss? Why can’t the authorities make visiting the deity a pleasurable experience in terms of crowd management? In terms of the queue management? Why is there a perennial rush? Why put devotees through more stress when one of the reasons they visit their deity is to pray that their current stress is alleviated? Why are the temple premises and approach roads teeming with so many shopkeepers who force you to buy the stuff for the rituals, failing which God will not bless? Why is there so much hustle and bustle? Whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy.

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I will stop now. I just realised I have missed my (self-set) deadline by almost an hour. Apologies. I am also pretty sure there are many other such things that must be making you also go whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy. Do share them with me in the comments section.

Be braver. Be kinder.

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For Keep Watching this time I am sharing a 2-in-1 review of two absolutely crap films I recently watched. And I asked myself whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy were they made? By saving you from making the mistake of watching either of them, I am also trying to redeem myself for having written a post where you must have asked yourself whyyyyyyyayyyyyaayyyyyaaaayyyyy did he write today’s post?

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Absolute trash. All the jokes are in the trailers. So watching those is enough to get your laughs. The train should have never left the station. And the flight should have never taken off.

Madgaon Express on Prime Video & Crew on Netflix

No stars