Mormon? Me?

This Saturday on the streets of Cambridge, I was adjusting my camera to take a picture of a classic shark-finned Chevrolet when I heard someone said, "So you like American cars, huh?" I turned around to see two young fellows probably 18-19 years of age dressed in white half shirts and perfectly ironed trousers. With a church right across the portion of Mass Ave where I was then, there was only one conclusion. "Choir boys!" I thought. Confirming my suspicion I saw lapel pins on their shirt which said 'The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints'.

Interesting! The long name 'The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints' can be shortened to one controversial word i.e Mormon as members of this particular church are famous/infamous as. In the million odd sects within Christianity, these guys had established their presence on the Christian map by being prominent proponents of polygamy. Their founder Joseph Smith believed himself to be the next prophet after Jesus after finding a "Golden Tablet" of some sort sometime in the mid 19th century. No wonder that his more devout Christian critics weren't the happiest lot. I found it really amusing that these guys from the decidedly offbeat edition of Christianity were looking upon me, a bordering-on-agnostic individual as a possible convert. I waited and watched for what this conversation would lead to and how would the talk switch from American classic cars to Jesus Christ & Joseph Smith.

As it turned out, it took them exactly a couple of sentences. One of the guys fished out his digi-cam and showed a picture of his Chevrolet pick-up back in Arizona (from where he claimed to be). Trying to be polite, I muttered something to the effect of "Wow! The true-blue American pick-up truck." He went on to explain that this was what he sold to make enough money to come to Massachusetts and spread THE WORD (which in this case was the word of Joseph Smith, but in reality freely substitutable with any other religious doctrine in the world). Something on my face just then must have told them that I wasn't going to be their dream draft and they let me go with a tiny pamphlet advertising the website 'mormon.org'. 

Whenever I come across such people, I try to part amicably with them no matter how unorthodox their fervent beliefs might be. In part it is because they scare me. Though I am not always successful at my attempts, it really amazes me every time that someone may have such unwavering belief in what seems to me to be essentially a second-hand grandma's tale. Being religious is one thing, but is it really possible for anyone to accept that the stories of every legend and every miracle that is passed down through word-of-mouth or personal interpretations are cent percent true? Do the words scientific enquiry and healthy curiosity mean anything to them at all? Indeed, is there any need at all for such things in their borrowed universe.

Life isn't fair, no sir!

It was a typical long recess in our school. Freed from the restricting confines of the classroom after nearly half a day, the school was abuzz with activity. One hour of cricket, talk and more cricket was to follow as particularly tempting tiffin boxes were flash raided and the ordinary ones were gulped down in as less morsels as possible. Running circles in incoherent joy was the norm, such was the great pleasure at this mid-day pressure release.

Part of the running brigade was Tushar, a junior who was racing in happy abandon behind his friend through the corridor. Everyone else who wasn't involved in purposefully physical unnecessary activities stood at the sidelines munching away at their tiffins before they too had their hands free to do something wild & shrug off the class induced heaviness on their minds. It wasn't unusual for someone to join in the fun uninvited so did Tushar's friend, another junior whose name I forget. He stuck out a leg from behind a classroom door for the speeding duo at exactly the moment which was required to cause the most spectacular bone-crunching tumble I've seen in my 25 years on this planet. I don't think that he intended Tushar to put up such a show but boy, did Tushar fly that day and almost cartwheeled to a tremendously comic fall! The corridor howled with laughter and the building shook with the reverbations of mirth.

The laughter lasted exactly for the time it took for Tushar to gather his embarassed self off the floor. Then there was silence as everyone saw that he had so obviously not taken this fall in the slightest of good humour. His face was dark with anger and he was no Tiny Tim as far as school kids in the 7th standard go. He was a big, hefty guy quite opposite to the size of the braveheart who had brought his downfall. He stalked up to the leg poker who now looked like he had seen his own death and was gulping down his last few mouthfuls of air. Tushar seized him by the collar and now the crowd closed in expecting to see a live murder so soon after an excellent show of slapstick humour.

However the commotion and thunderous laughter post Tushar's fall had drawn the attention of our class teacher, Kalpana Miss (the very improbable scenario of a teacher hanging around the classrooms during the LONG recess came true that day) who pierced through the crowd at the exact moment Tushar had laid his hands on his tripper's collar. She walked right upto Tushar and without any hint of hesitation gave him a resounding slap on the face admonishing him "Very proud of your big muscles, huh? Terrorizing kids smaller than you physically! Shame on you. Now get out of here." Needless to say, she was totally unaware of the events that had preceded this particular case of 'bullying'.

Tushar of course was in no state to explain. The most dazed expression inhabited his face as he stumbled away zombie-like with one hand nursing his cheek, not helped at all by his hurting legs. He could've very well stood and fought his defence but life's utter cold-heartedness had totally robbed him of any response. He just couldn't comprehend this level of inequity and chose wisely to bail out of this situation rather than to prolong his agony. As Kalpana Miss walked off to the staffroom for her lunch, no one spoke up in Tushar's defence. All of us were too busy rolling on the floor in stomach wrenching, gut splitting laughter!

Change seems suspiciously possible

I am of the long line of cynics who said that he won only because he was the better choice when compared to the ancient McCain who had shed the last bit of his reformist Republican skin by choosing Palin as his running mate. I still feel that he has promised too much or rather the people's expectations out of him are too much. His detractors will laugh at every one of his failures in thinly veiled racism. His supporters will find that his long road to recovery is indeed very very long, much farther than the euphoria of his historic election win will carry them.

Yet when the President of the most gung-ho unapologetic nation on the face of the earth clarifies that "America is not at war with Islam!", it means the world to a lot of people. The millions of Muslims who are leading their normal lives away from the stagnation of terrorist camps, crude Sharia law, oppression of women all of which have unfortunately become the dominant image of Islam now have concrete proof that a significant power in the world sees the truth. They are glad that at least some important people in the non-Islamic world understand their dilemma and are ready to seperate them from the other nonsense that happens in the name of their religion. 

Obama says he wants peace between India and Pakistan but only when he swings a bat with the mercurial Brian Lara, does it become a much more believable statement. A casual analogy of Lara as the Michael Jordan of cricket is not too far off the mark indicating that he has more than a passing interest in the matter. The President of a country which historically hasn't looked beyond its self-contained world of Hollywood, cable TV and football (The kind that the rest of the world doesn't care about) taking a crack at something that is so un-American, is a paradigm shift towards making America more sensitive to the world around it.

As far as his policies go, I am an eternal cynic so there is absolutely no chance of me turning into a raging 'Oba'maniac, but here is one case where I wouldn't mind being forced to eat my words.

Tribal truths

Sometime in summer 2008, there was a West Bengal tribal handicrafts fair being held near the newly opened exhibition grounds off the Park Circus bypass. My aunt had asked me if I wanted to tag along. It was a Saturday afternoon and there was actually nothing else to do. On reaching the venue, as expected there were hundreds of visibly excited females running around from stall to stall and their visibly depressed male companion (boyfriends/husbands/brothers/nephews) dragging their feet behind them carrying the tons of items already bought. 

All the usual tribal handicrafts that I had previously seen only displayed in drawing rooms and inside showcases were on display by the dozen.  Tribal art works at a primal level, that delves far deeper than the apparent simplicity of the artwork at its surface. Does a good piece of art have to have multiple interpretations and layers or can the grin of a semi-human statue contain more meaning than the most intricately detailed paintings? Do the stick figures that cavort in a group dance on a quilt really need flesh and bone detailing to convey their mood? I ended up buying for myself a black stone paperweight adorned with a boldly illustrated butterfly and a bronze mask which was oddly reminiscent of the Green Goblin's mask in the Spiderman movie. The mask still hangs with an indecipherable expression above my study table in Calcutta while the paperweight keeps (or at least used to keep) my daily paper from flying off in the late evening Ganga breeze. I look at them and forge a link with long lost ancestors whose lifestyle and skills are still retained by these rapidly dwindling tribal cultures. A doomed culture it is from the outset when less is more and beauty lies in brightly hued innocence.

The Duke

It's not something that would haunt most people's dreams but it does mine. This weekend I saw it again emerging out onto Route 44 on it's way back from Boston. An orange beast of fabled power and striking aggression, it dwells in the industrial town of Raynham where I have been going to work for the past 10 months. Yet it's been 10 months I've seen it last but my awe of it remains the same. Multiple winner of the extreme Paris-Dakar desert rally and the most graphic illustration of the words "DREAM BIKE" if there ever was one. 

It's like the beautiful woman whose single glimpse makes your day yet unlike a woman it is laughable to link words like 'delicacy' or 'grace' to it. It is a raw creature of nature, of unbridled power the hunger for which can only be satiated by getting astride it. It's a modern day miracle, and despite there being motorcycles much more powerful and more exclusive than it, it's the one machine I'd take on the biggest odds to possess. The object of my deepest machine-linked obsessions, it's the KTM Super Duke in orange. No, I don't think any other colour would do!

Graveyard hopping

This Saturday as I marched along the Freedom Trail through Boston, we came across 3 ancient graveyards. Though things might get creepy there in the dead of night, in daytime I find graveyards to be really beautiful places especially old ones like these. The weathered head stones mourning people who have departed this world so long ago that these stones are the only link that they have with the living world. Some of the stones are cracked or leaning at impossible angles indicating that their time to return to their maker has come too. The inscriptions on some of them are eroded to the point of being ghosts, spirits of the commemorative words that were once engraved on them.

A particularly striking graveyard on the Trail is the Copp's Hill Burying Ground, nestled on a steep hill slope overlooking the river and neighbouring Charlestown. It was a bright afternoon and the cheer and the sunniness seemed to have spread amongst all that were exploring the graveyard, mostly tourists like us. So this is where it all  ends, said the agnostic bits of our inner selves. From the earth we were born and to the earth shall we return.

What say, Mr. Nicholson?

In the first scene of "The Departed", Frank Costello (played by Jack Nicholson) the Irish mafia kingpin in Boston goes

"20 years after an Irishman couldn't get a f****n' job in this country, we had the Presidency. May he rest in peace! That's what the ni****s don't realize. If I've got something against 'em, the black chappies it's this. No one gives it to you, you have to take it!"

He was referring to the long line of Irish-in-origin US Presidents beginning with Andrew Johnson that achieved it's grandest success with JFK. The Irish rose rapidly in status from unwanted refugees in the mid 1840s to being one of the most influential communities in the USA. His hint was at making a grab for power, almost force it at gunpoint. In contrast, the African-American community really started getting their due rights in the late 1960s thanks to the Gandhian tactics of Martin Luther King. Forty years later, we have the first Black President and a largely peaceful USA which has voted him to power. So what that it did take 40 years instead of 20, but didn't this turn out way better for everybody involved?