Down is Up

"He may be a real contender for this position." commented General Specific putting down the tattered newspaper.

He got the sex wrong but no one cared enough to point it out. Even Sir Mam seemed content letting it pass. General Specific suspected the basis of his contentment was the march in June, the second pride parade in Delhi.

Premier Worst was, as always, pompously looking out of the window with greedy eyes but seemed aware enough to prod Ambassador Boeing in the ribs. "The country of Pseudan," he began, a tad flustered, and stopped. A poke and an irate grunt later he took another stab at it, "President Obama believes she is an inspiring woman who will make a great justice.”

"And his nominee believes that it is appropriate for a judge to consider their experiences as women and people of colour in their decision making." added a sullen Private Public.

Premier Worst had lost interest and Ambassador Boeing chose to not disclose his personal view. Silence followed until Platinum Blonde chose to break it with something that sounded like "Obam-ie has been, like, nominating people?"

Anju Bobby George would have been put to shame at Ambassador Boeing’s jump to explain. She was probably used to it by now. “President Obama, on Tuesday nominated federal appellate Judge Sonia Sotomayor to the US Supreme Court.”

A disappointed Platinum Blonde, out of courtesy maybe, chose to respond, “So she’s gonna be, like, one of those judge folk at the US Supreme Court who bang tables and wear black and uhm...you know, judge other folk?”

Ambassador Boeing went sixty to zero, flat.

“It’s a publicity gimmick nowadays. The success of anyone who isn’t everyone is something to write in the papers about. Help the helpless and then they start taking psychological advantages.” spat Baby Bitch. Major Minor hesitantly nodded, more in acknowledgement than in agreement.

“Immigrations laws were changed but the Mexicans and Indians taking over the hot dog industry and public transport didn't happen until quite some time after that.” offered Private Public as an argument after a thoughtful minute had passed.

“Margaret Thatcher became PM years after the British Suffragette and a blonde vice president would have been a bigger gimmick than a black president.” blurted Ambassador Boeing, obviously regretting it.

“And Beckham be kicking ball in Europe again only when England comes up with a senior citizens scheme making it mandatory.” added Great Scot. He hadn’t been his usual self since Wednesday’s G2 summit in Rome and it was good to see him back.

“Even the black, once the pin-up boys of oppression, didn't get the modern form of NBA until 1949. On the other hand, it hasn’t been long since Arjun Singh, ignoring the scientifically proven methods of using logic and statistics, came up with 49.5.” continued Major Minor from behind his locks. “And we already have eight more.” he added as an afterthought.

Holy Shit filled up his lungs and cleared his throat, but Inner Shia beat him to it. He was meditating a minute back and took everyone by surprise really, catching Holy Shit off guard too maybe.

“If it’s about being different and oppressed then look within, we have just elected a Sikh PM and have a Muslim vice president. A woman president is in office and 59 more were elected to the Lok Sabha. A Dalit lady is being appointed Speaker of the House while an Italian widow holds the strings. The young, fair and the not-so-naive-after-all-is-he Rahul Gandhi figures in the credits as the Messenger while the Ministry of Youth Affairs and Sports is headed by another Sikh who is seventy two years old. A twenty eight year old girl from Meghalaya managed to take oath in Hindi, some swore in the name of god and some others solemnly affirmed and still we rise. That, my children, is too complex to be a coincidence.”

His eyes twinkled maybe because he wasn’t much for religious propaganda. Holy Shit had, in the meantime, given up on his argument. Inner Shia was probably right anyway. He was also not finished.

“People using their minority ‘tag’ are innumerable. There isn’t one specific person as such that you could blame either. It is misused, I won’t say it isn’t, but think of those who really need it. It gives them another thing to look forward to, hope that things could change. Even false hope helps in the short run. Apart from that, giving something which you could do without isn’t as fulfilling as giving something that you can’t and that, children, reflects your sincerity. It is eventually up to you. How much are you willing to sacrifice for your brother?”

The others didn’t seem to have an opinion or were refraining from expressing it. It was food for thought which required chewing upon. There was literally a world of arguments out there. On both sides. What was missing was a conclusion and a measure of compassion didn’t seem to be an answer. Sir Mam wanted to raise that point that women could count as oppressed. Ambassador Boeing had plans of introducing the LTTE story and how the Tamils fared. Major Minor thought the Deccan Chargers were a good example of a genuine success story. Archies’ rumoured marriage to Veronica, thought Page Boy. Captain Follow considered mentioning North Korea and Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. There was no end to it.

The lights were dimming. The driver drove on nonchalantly. It was a wonder how he stayed up all the time, for the bus never stopped. Premier Worst was already drooling and Platinum Blonde seemed to be nodding off too. General Specific was just getting comfortable and that was the moment Great Scot chose to bring the issue to life again. General Specific couldn’t help but smile.

“It was only last week that Sir Bobby was wondering when ye lads be getting yerself a national football team.”

It was going to be a long night.

(Image modified from the movie, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End)

Pilot

"Ten years on this road, my its took its toll." sighed General Specific putting down the tattered newspaper. It could have been twenty, it could have been two, they would still be lost. The bus seemed to be healthy as a horse, which wasn't very good for a bus, especially after being on the road since really really early morning on a bright bright sunny day, long long ago. Often it rattled and shook or went into a deep meditative silence as if contemplating its next course of action, the driver left at its mercy for once. But inevitably, it would let out a friendly reassuring purr. The strange part was that no one seemed to blame the driver for the literal lack of position on the issue. Nomads they were.

It was on old bus. No one remembered what it looked like on the outside and it didn't matter. The air conditioning seemed to be breaking down and the upholstery was losing its softness but no one looked a day older then when they had started. Atleast that's what they all thought. Only General Specific had a picture of himself from before. The tinted glasses let in a few, much-desired, rays of sunlight at spots, which felt good. But every now and then someone would wake up red and a heated discussion would ensue on whether it needed fixing.

They often passed other people and cars would often whiz by, even cities had been crossed. The old and wise Inner Shia exercised a powerful influence over the residents, he never preached religion and as a consequence would always make sense. No one had gotten off yet, and wouldn't have gotten off even if he wasn't around, everyone just liked listening to the mild old man. The longest experience anyone amongst them had had was life.

(0,0)

The Preramble

You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
Time is money without savings and credit cards. Here today, gone in three months.

Message in a bottle.
The pen is mightier than the sword but it takes much more than a pretty face to launch ships.
Walked out this morning, don't believe what I saw,
Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore.

And don't try to dig what we all say.
Personal opinions with as much political correctness as Monica Lewinsky's lipstick are borne out of cold hard cynicism with optimism playing silver. Notice the missing complaint box.

She broke your throne, she cut your hair.
She gave you measles and brought despair. She's the root of all evil, Hallelujah. She isn't a chick. She could be. She could also be the Americans, a public displays of emotions, vague shit about last night or a contagious nine year old. She is something to avoid and shall receive the treatment.

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
You could also be aloof, arrogant, insecure, socially awkward and soteriophobic but still be as miserable as an insurance salesman. Singing songs about it doesn't help.

You're still alive, she said.
All journeys begin with a single step. Or a push. Or a wet floor. Even a nagging wife. The vicious dog up the street. The vicious dog down the street. A loose lawn mower. The possibilities are endless if you sit down and think about it, but take heart for the step is bound to follow.

This is the end.
That was the beginning.