Today I am angry.
Angry at history, angry at geography, angry at science, angry at God, angry at language and most of all angry at myself. The west created our modern day terrorist clad in a burqa or in facial hair. Anyone who wears the hijab or has Ali/Muhammad and the likes of it to his name; anyone who carries the kirpan; anyone who wears a skull cap or anyone who comes across as anti-social is a terrorist as deemed by our Lords. Yet we wash their feet and accept every lie they ever told us.
Then the mind thinks: who is they and who is us? Is there any distinction really? Pammi aunty might seem Indian- punjabi with high moral ethics. But our epitome of the Bharatiya nari with her sari clad in the right places, paying respect to the national anthem and getting covered with goosebumps once India wins a match against Pakistan, goes to Bangalore and says to the bus conductor “sorry I don’t speak South Indian.”
George sitting in California is a huge fan of the Indian culture. For him India is about Shahrukh Khan and chai and Bollywood and a landscape that looks like Punjab. If George went to university, he would know that the Kashmir issue is a lot like Israel and Palestine- nothing to do about it really; just nod your head and pretend you understand, then after two minutes of silence get back to your game. Sea Hawks is winning. When I talk to George, I am enraged. But then again, what do I (I, who considers myself a well-travelled Indian) know about Mizoram. For me, north east is just north east. If I visited Assam, I know what Arunachal looks like. Can’t blame poor old George for that, can I?
I feel angry when my Muslim friend gets stopped at the airport for surprise checks and I am left to go. I blame the government. I blame the country’s media. Hell I even curse Arnab Goswami in my head for a while. But then again, I can’t deny that when I see three men sporting beards and skullcaps, mostly keeping to themselves, in my flight across the aisle, I feel the chills. I don’t sleep in that flight, always vigilant about where their hands are going and adrenaline pumping just in case of a hijack. Who am I to blame the security guards?
Speaking of Arnab Goswami, as much as I curse him in my head, the first thing I see in my evening news is his ever entertaining show. ‘It has a comic value’, I say to myself. He and Chetan Bhagat are leading the new India- the new generation equipped with IPhone imported from the states, reciting feminist verses and talking about freedom.
Hey now, don’t get me wrong: I care. I do. After all Virat Kohli is God and well he is such a Ram for protecting his Sita. Purity is written all over him. So what if a plane got hijacked and a capital got bombed. It’s not within our country, is it? Let us just watch ‘A Wednesday’, recite the Aam Aadmi speech and feel good about ourselves.
‘We, the mango people, solemnly pledge that we will, to the best of our abilities, protect our own turf the best we can (that means at most dropping into some protests and screaming till our voice gets shrill and then getting back home and catching the first show of Kapoor and Sons) and if we feel too generous, we might just talk about the turf wars elsewhere.’
Donald Trump might win the elections- now I am scared. But what the hell? I have Modi to protect my ass. Another Batman verses Superman. India is a rising star waiting to burn bright. Anyway, I will be an American citizen within the next few years. Let’s hope Trump can hold on to his horses till then. He should let me into the promised land and then feel free to close the floodgates behind me.
Reservation, freedom, sexuality, feminism, terrorism, communalism, communism, fascism, media-ism and all the other isms in the world- believe me I care, I swear on my Beetle I do.
Who am I? I am the hypocritical human. I am the other half of every self-righteous me. I am the Hades to my Zeus. I am the Yin to my Yang. I am the balance of the universe. I am just me. And I am angry to be me. But hey the universe…gotta pay my respect to its wishes right? So I’ll just go drink another scotch and call it a night.
A very hypocrite night to all of you!