Connecticut School Shooting - Children led away from the scene

Connecticut School Shooting – Children led away from the scene

It was Nietzsche who said that insanity in individuals is rare, but in groups and nations, it is the rule. This is insanity at its worst. Not just the heartless evil that shoots and kills helpless children in scores, but an intelligent, wealthy and powerful nation like the US choosing to embrace meaningless violence as a willing lifestyle. So, while the pro-gun protagonists continue to argue that these acts against children are rare, the love of the gun that pervades the culture is testament to national insanity that continues to accessorize the recklessness of repeated mass shootings of completely innocent.

Who am I to say! I’ve never used a gun.. in fact I’ve never touched one in my life, and the thought never crossed my mind that I should own one. I always thought my simplistic and protective mindset was not equipped to fathom the gun-wielding mentality of the aggressive. If a nation so advanced tolerates these killings just as a matter of fact, there had to be some credence to the pro-gun propaganda.  In many impoverished parts of the world, children are tools of exploitation, the only lifestyle they are exposed to is one of continuous abuse from authority – both parental and societal. There’s unexpected loss of the young and the accompanying sadness of a different nature there.. perhaps due to an overturned overstuffed school bus, or an uncontrolled epidemic, or extreme malnutrition, or just pure unadulterated starvation. It is no less heart wrenching, but leave it to the First World to add stupefying spectacle to this sadness.

According to sources, Lanza shot his mother in the face, then left his house armed with at least two semi automatic handguns, a Glock and a Sig Sauer, and a semi automatic rifle. He was also wearing a bullet proof vest. Lanza drove to Sandy Hook Elementary School and continued his rampage, killing 26 people, authorities said. He was found dead at the school. It appears that he died from what is believed to be a self inflicted gunshot wound. The rifle was found in his car.

Relatively, children have great fun growing up in the US, looked after by parents against societal evils, looked after to some extent by society against parental abuse, their work load moderated and their education well rounded with life choices that are an envy to the rest of the world. Everything looks great, but simultaneously, there is this dumbfounding flabbergasting wild-west-cowboy-wannabe gun culture, a First World problem with a deadly consequence when it lurks its ugly head out such as today. The gun crazies will stand behind the Second Amendment and the right to bear arms in the event you have to overthrow an abusive government – Red Dawn style. You know.. those semi-automatics come in pretty handy against the Man’s nuclear weapons.

Here’s Obama’s statement, emotional for the standards of an American president, but nothing will come of out it.

Of course, the NRA remains ever strong and any rational thoughts and reality checks get drowned under a barrage of argumentative blabber. Soon, NRA lobbyists will lineup their pro-gun statistics – “its not the guns stupid, its all these psychopathic idiots who would have accomplished this carnage with a stick or a knife if they needed to“. After all, whats a poor Halo-addicted, Call Of Duty junky to do when he is bored to death and runs out of a purpose to fight through his existential angst.

Meanwhile, innocent people, such as these innocent kids and teachers in Connecticut today will continue to get murdered in statistically tolerable numbers while the love of the gun prevails.


I’m a big fan of 60 Minutes, the torch-bearer for the hour long news magazines on network channels.  Yes, the reporters have been older than dirt for a long time, but they command enough respect to not have to pander to their subjects to keep up with the ratings market, and they have the guts and hard-earned cache to ask the tough questions without looking like someone out to manufacture scandals.  While the features are not as “hard-hitting” as they once used to be (RIP  Ed Bradley and Mike Wallace), they still grab your attention and provide something new and different that is credible and hard to find elsewhere.

A recent feature that caught my attention was a report on the continued findings from The Infant Cognition Center at Yale University trying to shed light on the origins of morality in us.  The question at hand is nothing new – it is an age old argument of nature vs nurture – whether children are born with a blank slate and their eventual moral characteristics cultivated by our society and their interactions with it, or are they all born with an inherent moral code that might set the foundation for their moral compass as adults?

The findings from this “Baby Lab” are somewhat revealing in the sense that when it comes to our morality, they debunk John Locke’s Tabula rasa Theory on human mind.  The blank slate doesn’t exist.  Just because they look cute, can’t speak and can’t ask for help, it doesn’t mean they don’t come with a predisposed sense of morality (as revealed by the excellent puppet show experiments).    Most interesting in these conclusions is their sense of fairness, justice, punishment, and an inherent bigotry.  Also, before we automatically blame society for converting some of these innocuous looking angels into demons to account for all the evil in the world, look at the result of some of these experiments with 8-12 year olds, displaying a new sense of benevolence and selflessness, cultivated as it may.  We may not be born angels like all parents with infants might want to believe, but thank God for society to temper your ruthless predisposed nature to divide and hate, and alter your moral compass to somewhat  mollify the prejudice and intolerance that might be inherently you when you are born.

On a side note, maybe this will convince people to drop the pretentious reverence to infants, the little rascals that they are.  We all know its a ruse invented by parents to force those without kids  to acknowledge their precious treasure of reproduction, as if paying extra taxes that go to their wonderful upbringing to right their wrongs  is not enough.

Image src: Michael Thorn

Awaiting dawn at the end of night,
I dream of the same empty spaces.

Poking at traces of fading reminiscence,
charting an old course in a destined flight,
I wake up to the same old dreadful silence.

Drifting in the comfort of daily sunlight,
I mingle in irrelevance with same old faces.

Escaping from survival in rabid frenzy,
sliding into a shell of solace in quiet,
I strangle in a cycle of relentless ennui.

Edging closer to the final precipice,
I languish in comfort of restful apathy.

Flapping towards that inevitable flame,
Trapped in a burn of blinding luminescence,
I surrender to a fate of familiar endgame.

The Night of the Righteous Cynic

A short story


The Night of the Cynic

photo source: liam tandy on Flickr

People confuse me for a nervous, reticent introvert, except that I am neither timid nor tepid. It is not as if I have distaste for all humanity, but I just don’t like having to engage in small talk with complete strangers or phony, pretentious assholes. I strike up a repartee every now and then, but I have no patience for tittle-tattle, especially when it involves gabbing with condescending, quasi-intelligent bullshitters.

It is no surprise then that I don’t have many friends, but the few I do, I value them like life itself. So, if they invite me to a party, I go, even if I have to put up with unwanted company.

That explains why I end up at Vikas’ party. Vic and I go way back. He is like the brother that I never had, and Maya his wife, is a sweetheart, and as the current lot of mollycoddled children go, their two hyper-energetic brats are relatively tolerable, but as I look around, I begin to hate Vic for the type of company he keeps.

It starts off innocuously. I walk into their house, greet the few acquaintances I know of, settle into a corner with some chips and home-made salsa – Maya’s specialty, turn on the tv with volume turned off to a ball game — my usual routine at their parties.

“Jiten – Can you please handle Varun? I have some work in the kitchen.”
Maya shoves her 1 year old into my lap as she walks into the adjoining kitchen.

“Do I have to?”

“If you want to eat tonight – I am afraid, yes.”

“Where’s his over-pampered brother?”

“Sleepover at friends’.”

“Where’s your irresponsible husband?”

“Out to get some sweets.”

I play with Varun for a while. Cute kid, very restless, very inquisitive, constantly twisting and turning, eyes darting at the guests coming in, and occasionally lighting up with that look of recognition and an unspoken, universal connection when he makes eye contact with other children. I could never figure out why they are attracted to rhymes, animals and other humans of their age, even without enough cognition. Just the way nature works I presume, birds of same feather and all that.


Guests start trickling in. The living room gets fuller – still no sign of Ranjit, aka, Bobby. Not sure how Ranjit became Bobby, but we call him Bobby since we were kids. So do his parents. We grow up together, Bobby, Vic, and I.  We go to the same school in India.  Bobby and I get admitted to the same school for our Masters in the US, while Vic decides to pursue employment back home.  Eventually, we treat Second City like the Romans treated their not-so-eternal Eternal City and end up together.  Vic, while missing out on the experience of the higher education, still ends up first near downtown Chicago on work Visa and in the process remains a few dollars richer and fulfills an enforced obligation of sustaining us enlightened graduates till we make a buck or two on our own.

And so we reunite – Three amigos, together again!

A decade later, we are semi-established pros now, and live the desi legal immigrant dream of obedient assimilation.  We follow all rules diligently – civic, cultural, and legislative – all the traffic signs, all the traffic lights, the speed limits, the seat belts, the right turns, the left turns, the lane merges, the solid lines, the dotted lines, the how-are-you-doings, the have-a-nice-days, the thank-you-you-toos, the eyes on the prizes, the kneels down to the corporate kingdoms, the mental wanderlusts for weekends – the whole enchilada!

Another hour goes by. Varun gets cranky. His mom obviously forgets about him, you hear her yucking it up with her friends. Finally, Vic gets back with sweets from his favorite desi sweet shop nearby.

“Kyon Bhe Jitu? Do I have to call you? Don’t you check your emails?”

“Email? When?”

“Last night, before calling you about the party.”

“Oh, I don’t check emails after 5”

“But you carry a spiffy little IPhone. Don’t you have your mailbox setup with your email account?”

“Why would I want to?”

“So you can be in touch with your friends!”

“I leave that to the phone portion of the Iphone.”

“Uh! Nevermind.”

He walks away to play good-host with the rest of his guests, ignoring me and his kid from my outstretched arms. I am stuck with the toddler. Varun gets more and more fidgety, and the cuteness begins to wear off. Kids are like toys, great to play with occasionally when they are still happy and well behaved. As soon as they get restless and start going gonzo, it is time to get rid of them. It is always best when they are not your own, so you can dump them without any guilt.


Finally, Bobby walks in with his new fiancée.  After the perfunctory greetings, he strolls in and leans against the sidewall next to me.

“How are you doing Jitu?”

“Great, man.  You?”


Awesome?  He can’t be doing awesome when he went through a seemingly tough divorce not that long ago.  Then again, he is re-engaged within six months, so who knows?  I obviously don’t.

“How’s Anjali doing?”  Another rhetorical question about his new fiancée.  I could care less about Anjali.

“Very good.  She’s here, talking to Maya in the kitchen.”

“Have you heard from Swapna recently?”  I ask him about his ex-wife.  Unlike this new chic he is marrying, I do care about Swapna.


“Is she coming to this party?”

“How do I know?”  I can tell Bobby is irritated, but I don’t give a hoot.  “I am not the one hosting the party.” He throws a fake smile at me.

I look at him like he is an idiot, because he is a certifiable shithead to let Swapna go.  Fact is, relationship with Bobby Bonehead is like an all-in-one packaged deal.  The package comes with easy charm and wit, a disarming and friendly presence, an easy-going and carefree attitude, a refusal to grow up and take responsibility, and a lack of keenness to acknowledge the sensibilities of others.  New acquaintances immediately gravitate to him.  It takes a while before you understand the whole deal.

It gets abnormally dark. I look out the adjacent window and see thick black clouds rolling in. I bring Varun’s attention to a stupid squirrel in the backyard, barking up a tall tree.

Seriously, is everything in this country super-sized? I don’t ever remember clouds being so low and so huge growing up and these squirrels here look more like cats back home. I am going on a backpacking trip through Yellow Stone next summer; I will not be surprised if I run into a mammoth during that trip.

Varun looks at the squirrel in amusement. That keeps him quiet for a few minutes. The clouds get darker. Rain looks imminent.  Bobby closes the shutters.  Varun looks at me with those wide, innocent eyes, trying to shove his fist into his tiny little mouth.  I have a soft corner for this kid.  He almost didn’t make it.  We were there that surreal night when Maya delivered him, two months prematurely.  We couldn’t believe it when Vic walked back to our waiting area and told us what the doctor’s message was – that not only the child’s life but also Maya’s life could be at risk, if they didn’t go for an abortion and pushed for a delivery.  It was like an opening scene from a bad Amitabh 70s flick where the hero is born under heavy duress but the mom has to die to setup a clichéd storyline.  Only difference here was it was all too real and Vic was staring down the barrel.  He had talked to Maya and she was very adamant about proceeding with the delivery.  It all worked out in the end.  Varun came out barely breathing, relegated to a pediatric infibrillator for a while, and more than compensating for it since, but his arrival remains ever-memorable amidst extreme anxiety, apprehension and distress.  It still remains the only time I ever saw Vic cry, and still etched in my memory is the sight of Swapna, sitting next to Bobby, and sobbing her eyeballs out like she was about to lose her own child.

I get this sudden urge to punch Bobby in the face.

Even an unapologetic cynic like me realizes the world would be even more of a shithole than it is without people like Swapna.

Who in his right mind alienates a girl like that?  She is one of us.  She has always been one of us.

She started her Masters the same semester as we did.  I met her first during our student orientation.  She hung out with Bobby and I and our little coterie, she got our jokes and jibes, tolerated our male slobbery, bailed us out in group studies, went to movies with us, even cooked our share of food for those summer desi potlucks, and most importantly, she genuinely enjoyed our company.  I always liked Swapna.  She liked bantering with me, but she really liked hanging out with Bobby.  They were smitten by each other.  I remember the evening when we were walking back to our room; Bobby made that announcement to me, stargazing into the sky,

“I am in love, Jitu.”

“With yourself?  I know.”

“No, with Swapna.”

It was the worst kept secret in our circle.

“Have you talked to her about it?”


“How are you coping with the rejection?”

“No man, she is ecstatic.  We are going to be engaged.”

“You proposed?”

“Yes.  We are calling our parents to let them know tonight.”

“You want me to talk to Uncle and Aunty?” I volunteer to break the news to their parents, if needed.

“Not sure how they are going to take it man.  I might need you to soften them up if I run into any issues.”

Wouldn’t have been the first time, but as it turns out, it wasn’t necessary.

“She’s a good girl.  Not sure what she sees in you, but I am happy for both of you.  Congratulations!”

“Thanks buddy!”

And so, a few months later, just before our graduation, they get married.

Their parents were apprehensive, but not against their decision, and after seeing the two together, they were ecstatic.  They saw what everyone that is not blind could tell, Bobby and Swapna were made for each other.

For the next decade that blazed by us in Chicago, they look the perfect couple.  The winds of trouble sweep in swiftly.  The many times we get together during that time, I fail to catch any noticeable strain in their relationship pointing to the impending breakup.  Obviously, they hide it well.  The once inseparable pair become so insufferable together that they decide to break it up once and for all about six months ago as Bobby drops the proverbial bomb on us that they are both filing for a divorce.  He says they have irreconcilable personal differences and that they both agree that this is their best recourse and it will not be acrimonious.

Imbecile dweeb!  Irreconcilable personal differences?  Who does he think he is?  Did he pick that up from the released statement of one of those Hollywood movie star breakups?  To hell with him!

He never expounds why, and neither do I probe, and for the first time in my life, uneasy grime contaminates my pristine universe, with an unsettling awkwardness beneath the pretentious normalcy.


There’s lightening in the distance now. Maya comes back to take Varun away.

“Hey Maya, do you know if Swapna is joining us tonight?” I ask.

“She wasn’t sure if she can make it.  She said she will try.”  She goes back into the kitchen, taking Varun with her.

Bobby hangs with the kids immersed in the world of video games, pretending he is not interested in what Maya has to say.

“Boss, can you flip the channel to Fox News?” says the guy on a nearby sofa next to me.

One too many Chicago style deep dish pizzas for this cat!  He looks as wide as he is tall and he is not very tall.

I flip the channel to Fox News.  A hot blonde with heavy makeup wearing an extremely short skirt is critiquing ObamaCare.  The fatso next to me giggles something to a studious looking character wearing glasses to his side.

The Studious Dude is apparently a fan of Rupert Murdoch.  He nods his head approvingly.

“Rupert Murdoch knows how to package things eh.”

“I’ll say.”  Deep Dish giggles.

“Look at what he is doing with Fox Sports.  NFL on Fox is the best.”

“Fox Sports?  Look at what he is doing to News.  Watching news has never been this exciting.”

“Their ratings are sky-rocketing.”

“As well they should.”  Deep Dish giggles again and turns to me with an invitation to join the Fox Fan Club.

I smile and throw the tv remote on to his lap.

“All yours.”

In the meanwhile, there is commotion near Bobby.  Many little dweebs hover around a teenage dweeb, son of the Studious Dude, who has apparently mastered some video game on his PSP.

He puts on a show for his fans, Bobby included, feverishly clicking away with his soon-to-be-arthritic little fingers with all the wide-eyed future gamers gaping in wonder at his wizardry.

I stare at them and shudder at the look of a whole new generation of future desi dweebs.

Deep Dish hops through a few news channels and settles on a Mitt Romney campaign speech on one of them.

“Boss, this guy will raise more money than Obama.”

Studious Dude gives him an all-knowing glance.

“They will be close.  It’s all about the party committees and Super PACs these days, hunting for more donors and more money.”

“I wonder if him being a mourmon will come back to bite him.”

“Always a risk.”

Ah yes, the surreal state of presidential politics and what we look for in our leaders.

Deep Dish and Studious Dude drawl on and on about the candidates’ family background, religious background, racial background, blue states, red states, campaign moneys and campaign strategies.  They seem to know a lot about it, but not once do I hear them talk about where either candidate stands on key issues that affect them and their PSP-driven dweebs directly like education, health care, economy, immigration and taxes.

Imbecile dweebs!

They are lapping up the superficial, substance-less servings from the media outlets.  We watch CNN where political experts draw out fancy charts and cool graphics explaining how each candidate is likely to fair in each state, and how they are targeting the Hispanic vote, Black vote, Asian vote, Women vote, the Gradma vote, the Grandpa vote, and any other vote you can think of.  You can hardly find a station that focusses on issues, stands and candidate plans, validation of these plans and the resulting impacts.  That would be too boring.  Instead, let’s sit back and enjoy the entertainment value these elections provide.

Anjali, Bobby’s new fiancée, tracks him down among the kids in the living room.

“Ranjit, the food’s ready.  If you can eat now, we can still stop by the mall on the way back.”

“We’ll shop  tomorrow.”

She sits in a chair in the far corner of the room in the little dweeb playground along with her would-be.

There’s something wrong with that picture, but to hell with them.  We may have exchanged a grand total of four hellos combined through similar meetings such as todays.  So, when she completely ignores me, I feel relieved and not insulted.

I would much rather discuss with Deep Dish and Studious Dude, what Romney and Obama are wearing during their campaigns, and how that appeals to the 40-50 Asian Indian demographics in the MidWest.

Just before the rain starts to pour in, to my pleasant surprise, Swapna arrives.  She waves at me, walks into the kitchen with some food she brought with her.

Vic pokes me from behind.

“Food’s ready.  Help yourself.  Bobby, food’s ready.  Those video games can wait.”

“Did you cook any of it?” I ask Vic.

“Those sweets you see over there.”

“Didn’t know you worked part-time on Devon Street”

“The way economy is going, you need a backup plan.”


As we go back into the kitchen to get some food, I see Swapna playing with Varun.



That’s our normal greeting, but I sense a somber tone to her response.

“How are you doing?”

“Getting by. You?”

“Livin’ la vida loca”

I caught her listening to Ricky Martin before one of our study group sessions in college and she never heard the end of it since.

She smiles and brings sunshine with it.

She should be smiling and laughing all the time.  Damn it Bobby!  Imbecile dweeb!

“Do you even know the meaning of it?”

“No, are you suggesting I shouldn’t say it if I don’t understand what it means?  Get out of here.  What planet are you from?”

“Ok, please don’t go off on one of your rants now.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about?”

“Yes you do.  All those diatribes about how the world is falling apart.”

She puts on a brave face, but the world must be falling apart for the poor girl.

“Gosh golly Swapna, I am the most optimistic person in the world.”

“Yeah right, and Ricky Martin has talent too.”

“Touche!  Let me finish my dinner here and I can catch up with you.”

I turn towards the food.

“Jitu, I’d like a chat with you before I leave.”

I sense some apprehension in her tone.

“Sure, I’ll stop by.”

I get back to the living room and see all the seats being occupied by the little dweebs intently watching the little dweeb cartoons on the tube.

I walk into the entrance room and join Bobby, Vic and Maya in the middle of their dinner.

“Should I bring some food over in this room?” asks Maya.

“Don’t worry Maya.  We’ll help ourselves.” says Vic.

“So, did this guy help you at all with any of this?”  I point to the food on my plate.

“Vic?  No!  He claims he is an awful cook.”

“You know that’s just a lazy excuse.  Cooking is not an art like everyone makes it out to be.  All it takes is attention to detail and a desire to get it right.”

“Hey now, I helped!  Who tasted all these items?”

“Yes, he is good at that.” confirms Maya.

“That’s what Bobby was good for, when we were roommates.” I point to Bobby.

“I tried man.  You know I tried.”

“Hey Bobby, you know I am not good at beating around the bush, so I am going to come out and ask.”

Bobby puts his fork down.

“Ok man, shoot.”

“Are you sure you know what you are doing?”

“Is this about Swapna?”


“Yes, I thought I made it clear that we both know what we are doing.”

“She’s a good, decent human being.  Are you sure you couldn’t work it out together?  You were practically made for each other.”

Bobby gets annoyed again.

“We just want different things at this stage of our lives.  If it makes it convenient for you to accept it by painting me as a bad guy, go ahead, but you always lived in an over-simplified black and white world.”

“Why do you hate her?”

“I don’t hate her.”

“Really?  Then why the hell are you not talking to her?  Why do you both continue to avoid each other?”

“That should be obvious to you man.”

“If you are intent on avoiding any sort of an explanation, just ask me to shut up.  I won’t bother you again.”

“Jitu man, you live in a dream world where everything is cut and dry, no grey areas, only good and bad and angels and demons.  You want everything around you to fit in this world of yours.  It doesn’t work that way.  Each one of us lives in our own version of that dream.  In Swapna’s case, we have a couple of kids, a big dog, a pet parrot, a fish tank, a house with a flower garden and a big sprawling lawn, immaculately maintained.. you know, and we are characters in one of those National Association of Realtors ad pimping house ownership and family life.  Reality is, I am not ready for it yet.  Actually, we are not ready for it yet.”

“God Bobby, you are not starving, you guys got married when you were fresh out of college, totally broke, without a penny in your pockets, and without a place to stay.  Yet, you managed it fine.”

“You are just like her man.  She thinks we can manage just because we managed to eke out a living for ten years.  Look at where I am a decade later.  Still an unstable job, shipped around constantly in the consulting world, always worried about where I might end up next even before I am done with my active engagement, worried about when I am going to get fired if I stay on the bench for too long – tell me how is that an ideal situation for raising a new born?  Plus, I freaking hate the winters here.  I don’t want to buy a house in this market and watch it turn into an albatross around my neck without being able to sell it if I need to get out of town.  But she doesn’t get all that, never really seriously tried to.”

“Look at Vic and Maya here.  They’ve managed.  Looking around, I’d say they are doing pretty good.  You can’t put your life on hold until you win a lottery.  There’s no such thing as a totally stable situation.”

“Leave me out of your debates Jitu.  I am not the one pestering him about his divorce.”  Vic objects.

“So, you are ok with what’s happening!”

“Do I think it sucks?  Of course I do, but all of this is beyond my control.  I know it is hard for you to accept, but you have to trust the fact that Bobby is a fully functional adult who can make his own choices and live with the consequences.”

Bobby nods his head up and down like a bobblehead whose spring is about to come unglued.

“No offense man Jitu, but what do you know about relationships?  Have you ever had one long enough to even understand what it takes to live long enough with someone else?”

“No, I don’t know anything about it.  That’s why I am asking.  Trust me, if this was that Anjali girl you are engaged to right now that you divorced, I would have patted you on the back and congratulated you.  But this is Swapna we are talking about, you know, the same girl from your college days that sat by your bedside for 2 nights to take care of you, brought you meds, made you food, even did your freaking laundry, when you were knocked out practically unconscious by a flu bug in the middle of a nasty winter.”

“You are only interested in a wicked retort for everything, but people are never the same man.  You are not the same guy that you were from the college days and neither are Swapna and I.  You want to live in the past, fine, don’t expect everyone to do the same.”

“That’s fine dude.  As long as you can sleep well in the night, you don’t have to answer to me or anyone else.”

“Hey, you think this is easy on me or Swapna?  You don’t think we argued about this enough?  We lived together for 10 years.  You don’t think a decision to split apart tugs at our hearts.  It absolutely does, but thats life.  You have to move on.  We went through our rough patch, made our decisions and we both moved on.  I am at peace with it.  Right now, I am not thinking about this as much as I am about my future with Anjali.  No offense man, but I am not looking for your approval here.  I would love to have your support because you always stood behind me, but I am not changing my mind because you disapprove.  This isn’t first grade anymore. ”

So, Bobby Bonehead is all grown up right under my nose and I never even noticed it!

He wasn’t done yet.

“In fact man, while we are on the topic of taking responsibilities for our choices, what the hell are you doing with your life?  Can you explain that?”

“Bobby has a point Jitu.  What the heck are you doing?  Why aren’t you settled down?  You are no spring chicken anymore, and it’s not as if you are putting yourself out there among active singles.  Heck, do you even know how to text using your phone?”

Maya giggles.  I feel like I am sucker-punched, Bobby and Vic suddenly gang up against me.  I hate their freaking guts.

“I am waiting for my soul mate to show up on my doorstep, or maybe I’ll come out of the closet soon and announce that I am a homosexual.  Come to think of it, that fat dude that was sitting next to me looks kinda cute.  Can you get me his number?”

“That’s Dinesh. He’s not available. He’s happily married with two children.”  Maya was amused, but Vic wasn’t.

It feels like they’ve planned this counter-attack very well.

“You and your wisecracks! You can pull one out of your ass anytime you need it, but we ask you a straight forward question, and you can’t provide a straight forward answer.”

“This was never about me. It was about Bobby and Swapna.”

“Leave them alone for a second, what about you?”

“I am a single man, a very content one at that, who enjoys everything that the world around me has to offer without being tied down by meaningless social constraints or structures.  What’s wrong with that?”

“How long do you intend to live this lifestyle?”

“Lifestyle is a big word for it, but does it matter?  Do you always have to plan for the future.  What happened to living in the present?”

“If you continue this, you will die lonely and desolate.”

“Under all this fuss and feathers, when you die, you die Vic.  Why do you want to drag the ones close to you through that pathetic, useless state?  Are you telling me you seek pleasure in making your loved ones share some of your pain and misery of those final days?”

“You are incorrigible yaar!  I can’t argue with you.  Keep this in mind though.  You are old before you know it.  Heck, you are already old.  You may not admit it, but without someone to share your life with, that loneliness will consume you.  You still have time to fix it, do it before it is too late!”

“You should be posting to those dating services.” Maya chips in eagerly, “Do you want me to register for you?”

“Thanks, but please don’t do that.”

“Are you on Facebook man?”  Bobby asked.

“No, growing up, we didn’t have the concept of facebooks in our school.  You should know, you went to the same school.”

“You think you are so smart man, but you don’t fool anyone.  I can see through you.”

“Ok Bobby, why don’t you tell me what you see?”

“You are the biggest coward I’ve ever met man.  You plot your philosophies to cover up the fact that you are too afraid, too afraid to face the consequences of tough life choices, like falling in love, fighting through acceptance and rejections, asking for someone’s help to navigate your way through life, or bringing up a family.  Instead, you live behind the façade of some cynical bullshit.  You expect everything around you to be perfect, but you don’t want to do anything about it yourself.  You want everything in life to be neat and tidy, and don’t want to deal with it if gets messy, but life is sloppy and scuzzy and confusing and complex, and with your fear, you will always stay out of it.  You may spend a lot of time on this earth and die like the rest of us, but you would have never lived a life.  You know that saying about dying to live or living to die, you are a perfect example of living to die man, perfect example.”

Not sure if it was frustration from me needling him about Swapna or years of pent up resentment from my barbs, Bobby delivers the knockout punch.

Who needs a psychiatrist when you have friends like this?

I don’t have a response.  I don’t feel like providing one anymore.  I suddenly feel claustrophobic and get this urge to step out and get some air, but I dislike dramatic exits.  I start gobbling the remaining food on my plate so I can excuse myself.

“You don’t have to be mean Bobby!”  Maya interjects.

“Sorry man!  I didn’t mean to come out so strong.  I don’t know what I was saying; I didn’t mean anything by it anyway.”

I sense an impending doom of awkwardness coming, but perhaps for the first time in my life, suffer through a momentary loss of resourcefulness.

I finally recover after an awkward pause.

“No big deal dude.  Never apologize for telling what you believe is the truth.  If you can excuse me now, I have to go find a pet adoption center for some kitten.”

I get up with the emptied paper plate and pat him on the back on the way to the garbage can in the kitchen.

I see Swapna still playing with Varun, surrounded by a few more little dweebs.

“I feel like getting some air.  Actually, I am planning to get out of here.  Can we chat outside?”

“Only reason I stuck around was because I needed to talk to you.”

“OK then, let me say bye to Maya.”

I clean up, get some water and we both proceed to say good bye.

Maya insists on me staying longer.

“What’s the urgency?  Stick around.  We can watch a movie like the last time.”

“I’d love to, but I have to run some errands.  Where are Bobby and Vic?”

“They are hanging out on the deck.”

“Say bye for me, I’ll call them later.”

“OK, don’t wait for our invitation to stop by again.  Just swing by any time you are in the neighborhood.  Same goes to you Swapna.  You should stop by more often.”

We step out the front door into a fresh night.  The rains have passed us by and we walk back to our cars under a clear fall sky.


“Swapna, you still drink Coffee?”

“Yes, why?”

“There’s a Caribou Coffee couple of blocks south of here on Belmont.  Can you drive down there?”

“Sure, I will meet you there.”

As we drive down to the cafe, I wonder about what’s on Swapna’s mind.  She never made eye contact with Anjali and Bobby throughout the night, must have been really awkward for her to try and avoid them all night.  Not showing up would have been a much easier option.

We pick up our coffee and settle into the corner of the sparsely populated room.

“How are you doing Jitu?  How has your day gone so far?”

“Phenomenal.  You know, just another day in paradise.  How about you?”

“Not so phenomenal. “

“I know something is bothering you.”

“You mean beyond the lousiness of my divorce?”

“Yes, beyond the lousiness of your divorce and the awkwardness in that uncomfortable party.”

She circles her middle finger around the coffee cup, and notices me staring at her ring finger where the marks from her wedding ring she ones wore are still fresh.

“Luckily, I will not be attending any more of those uncomfortable parties.”

“I don’t blame you.  I will throw cool parties with cakes and clowns just for you, and we don’t have to invite the shady characters that you don’t talk to.”

She smiles, and it is still the same smile, a smile that can light up a room.

“Cakes and clowns?  That’s a bit creepy.”

“Oh come on!  We can throw in a few balloons, and add a few cocktails and add some Ricky Martin music – that would be perfect.”

She cracks up.

“Now you’re talking.  But you don’t have to. I will not be attending your parties either.”

“That hurts me.”

“No, Jitu, I took a new job out of town.  I am leaving next weekend.”

All remaining life gets sucked out of my soul.

“Out of town?  Where?”

“San Diego.”

The vacuum digs deeper.  San Diego?  She really wants to run far far away from us.

“You are going to miss the wonderful winters here for some lousy 70 degree weather over there?”

“Yeah, I’ll manage.”

“So you showed up to say goodbye?”


“But you didn’t tell anyone.”

“I am telling you now.”

The sick feeling in the stomach becomes worse.

“You are going to desert us?”

“Jitu, I am choking to death.”

“I never saw this coming.  Between Bobby and you, there should be no differences wide enough to pull you apart like this.”

“But Bobby feels he is stuck in mud, and he wants me to wait until he wiggles out of it and builds his utopian palace in the NeverNeverLand.  I am not interested in his palace.  Wherever we are, however we are doing, I want to enjoy a normal life with a loving husband, a decent house and lovable kids.  There is no such thing as a normal life with Bobby.  Bobby is always interested in the next big thing, and is incapable of enjoying the ride.  I guess he was always like this.  Even on those long summer road trips, the entire conversation was about how anything we do on the way would delay the time of arrival, his entire focus would be on how to get there faster, and once we get there it’s the same thing all over again.  He is incapable of stopping and smelling the roses.  I tried so hard, but unless it is his idea, anything anyone else has to say is in one ear out the other.  I probably sound like your stereotypical whining housewife to you, don’t I?”

“I wouldn’t know much about your stereotypical housewives, but I would never associate you with anything stereotypical.”

“I am in my 30s, I don’t have any kids and you know how much I love kids, and Bobby seems to be totally uninterested in parenting.  He uses his perceived job instability as a clutch anytime I bring up the topic, and after a lengthy argument one night, I woke up the next day and  realized the insanity of expecting him to change to see my point of view, because at the end of the day, a Tiger doesn’t change his stripes.  All of this would be so much easier if I hated him from the bottom of my heart.”

It probably doesn’t make it any easy on her that Bobby is seemingly over her so quickly and re-engaged to another girl.  I’d give them a year, year and a half most.

Swapna held up pretty well so far, at least publicly in the few times we met at such parties after their divorce.  But her voice begins to crack and she gazes down into the coffee cup to pull back the tears welling up.

“Jitu, you know him since childhood.  You understand what I am saying, right?”

“Of course I do.  Only difference between you and I is I am too self-centered to bother whether he listens to me or not, and I don’t give a shit if he doesn’t.  I guess that attitude doesn’t work for your marriage, eh?”

She shakes her head sideways and makes a feeble attempt to smile.

“I tell you what Swapna, if I didn’t know Bobby at all, and got to know him now, I would stay away from him just like I stay away from all the assholes of the world, and the world is full of them by the way.”

“Jitu, no rants please, not now.”

“What I am trying to say is, you don’t pick and choose your friends, they just happen, like life itself.  You don’t have a choice after that.  You try to enjoy their company, and you put up with their miserable inadequacies, debilities, whatever you want to call them.  Bobby will always be my friend, but so will you.  Marriage is a different beast altogether, and I stay away from that hypocritical charade, no offense.  But, just because that bonehead doesn’t deserve you, you don’t have to leave. You have many friends and well-wishers here in the ChicagoLand.  In time, you will get over him, and live your own life.  You don’t have to leave on account of him.  He doesn’t deserve such attention.”

“I don’t have many friends here, Bobby does.  Of course, I’ve always looked at Bobby’s friends as mine, but now it is different.  How many times will I meet with Maya and Vic without Bobby being there?  Even if I do, they act as constant reminders of him.”

I look into her eyes, and beneath the sadness and tears, I still see the kindness that defines her.  You look for all the different aspects of a person’s character, and to me, kindness trumps them all, and a person that embodies it is a special human being to be cherished.   Amidst all the disruptive forces of aggression and human proclivity for domination, the one remarkable balancing feature of our species that binds us together is kindness.  And I see that kindness in her actions, her every move, her very demeanor, and her core being, and I wonder why Bobby can’t see it.  Am I the only one who notices it and admires it?  Has the world gone blind?

“Swapna, you know I am here for you.  Don’t insult me by calling me a friend by allegiance.”

“No!  I don’t know what I would have done without you.  All these people and all these memories strangle the life out of me, but you are the one reason I’ve managed to survive so far.  Thank you.”

I don’t need her to thank me.  I need her to stay.

Tears swell up again in her eyes.

The cafe attendant stops by to remind us they are ready to close.

We get up and walk out to her car.  I give her a goodbye hug.

“When is your flight?  Let me drive you to the airport.”

“Next Saturday.  I’ll send you the flight times.  Can you please let Bobby and everyone else know, on my behalf?  I wanted to, but I couldn’t muster enough courage to do it myself.”

“To hell with Bobby and to hell with them all.”

“Jitu, I worry about you.  How long are you going to keep this up?”

“Keep what up?”

“This pseudo act of playing the villain.  You are not very good at it.  The fake rage, that edgy persona you try to adopt to protect against getting hurt, all of that.  How much longer?”

“What a night!  First Bobby calls me a coward.  Now you call me a fake.  Let me ask someone who actually hates my guts.  They might thrown in a compliment.”

“If you wear a mask for too long, it becomes a part of your face.  I worry that if you continue like this, this mask will become you.”

“Then, don’t leave!”

She begins to weep again,

“It’s too late.  That’s what I’ve been trying to explain…. apologize… to you.  Sorry…. I have to.”

It’s never too late damn it! Never!


The sun is setting in the valley,
behind sprawled pastures of fading light.
I no longer fear the shades of night,
but I clearly see the end in sight.

I came from the land of heaven and hell,
of off-the-beaten paths of wrongs and rights.
over the mountain tops of fleeting heights,
into this serene site of peace and quiet.

I feel no warmth from the departing sun,
I have no angst and I have no desire,
I feel no pain and I feel no pleasure,
I see no reason not to retire.

The sun will rise in the valley tomorrow,
this green grass will greet the morning sky.
I may not feel the heat of that first light,
but for now, I will rest here, my body and I.

For a while now, I kept the journey alive,
reclined merely to utopias of dreams bygone.
Now I see the stars sparkling in the dark,
I feel a breeze on the ground I sleep on.

Now is the time for fading memories to rest,
I have no regret and I feel no delight.
I no longer fear these shades of night,
as I can clearly see the end in sight.


He keeps waiting for that distant sun to arrive,
remnants of that warmth still glowing bright,
a vision of burst of light in his pliant mind
keeps his soul alive through the rein of fright.

Even as his large round eyes stare in ghastly horror
at malice in the living and all pervading strife,
and familiar ghouls of wicked rougues and monsters
forever loom large over the cradle of his life,

he peers through the mist into the dark clouds,
soaked numb to the marrow to the world of despise,
seeking that light of compassion from a flaming star
of balmy fantasies drawn in a ride of helpless cries.

He keeps sinking deeper into the abyss of time,
a silent rage of being, between wind and water,
a prisoner in an orb of demons in angels’ clothes,
he breathes in air,  of dejection and despair,

but within that sinister gloom of despondence
he kindles a ghost of illumination alive,
of those golden rays that bring his deliverance,
he keeps waiting for that distant sun to arrive.

Delhi Belly

The movie connoisseur that I am (who isn’t?), unable to digest a regular dose of insipid, uninspired, and unoriginal movies the past couple of decades, I’ve steadily gravitated towards the Independent film industry for my movie fix. A few months ago, I bought a Google TV set-top box and hooked it up to my Idiot Box. In my ongoing quest to reach the end of the Internet, which I am very close to achieving, I couldn’t afford to waste anytime without constant browsing even while watching TV.

Problem solved.

Now I am able to combine the Internet browsing experience with TV watching experience into one messy but strangely addictive media browsing experience. It is not perfect, but hey Logitech, why would you invest in a solid product like Revue and then walk away from it at the wrong time? Makes no sense. Anyway, one of the apps on Google TV (yup.. its apps gone wild.. even on TV) is Netflix. In spite of the built-up disillusionment towards Hollywood, Bollywood and every other movie industry that thinks it is cool to call itself something or the other plus ‘ollywood’, I finally caved in and got that Netflix subscription I was trying not to get lured into. After punching in my preferences and rating some movies, they came up with a few they thought matched my interests and one of them was Delhi Belly. I wasn’t immediately drawn to it, but I remembered a friend had recommended it and it had a look of an Indie flick and so I decided to give it a try against my better instincts.

I have to admit that I am fairly out of touch with the movie scene in Mumbai, and I didn’t know any of the actors in this movie, which is another reason I thought I could give it a shot. Lord knows I would have unsubscribed Netflix in a New York second if they showed anything involving Sharukh Khan to match my interests. I didn’t know it was from Aamir Khan Productions instead, until after I started watching it. The movie, made in English aiming for an overseas crossover appeal, is about a Delhi-based yuppie threesome, Tashi and his two roommates, and their unwitting encounters and wild escapades against a group of gangsters whose smuggled maal ends up in our protagonists’ hands unintentionally. While there’s nothing novel about the premise, the film makers were going for a cool and contemporary presentation that fits all audience alike – desi and phoren.

Delhi Belly Gangsters

As topsy-turvy comedies go, this is not a bad movie, but I couldn’t get over a couple of things. For me, it still feels odd to watch a Desi movie made in English regardless of the quality of the screenplay (more about that later). This is mainly because of a lack of native authenticity that goes with it. I have nothing against English. I am writing in it. Nothing against an honest effort to make Indian movie in English either, and to be fair, it is not a stretch to assume that desi yuppies of Facebook generation speak more in English than in their native language, and I could get over the fact that Tashi and his sidekicks only talk in English. It was more difficult for me to ignore the oddity of the smuggling ring leader and his cartoonish cronies, clearly looking like the goondas hanging around in your neighborhood gullies, talk in English. Every now and then, the gang leader would break into Hindi when he apparently gets angry and feels like unfurling a few choice profanities to show how tough he is. Just weird.

On the positive side, the photography was decent, Kunaal Roy Kapur, playing the role of Nitin, as one of Tashi’s roommates, stood out with his acting, and the screenplay was intelligent and well written, if you can tune out the liberal dose of “fucks” and “bastards” and “sister fuckers” in every other conversation. The coarseness of the obscenities was very intentional and carefully planned, again trying to “shock” the desi audience with a sense of “you haven’t heard anything like this before.” Generally, the movie is not boring and has its moments, but the whole thing feels a bit forced.

Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels vs Delhi Belly

The main problem I had with the movie was not its vulgarity. I am already desensitized beyond repair on that front, thanks to Hollywood and America in general, but the issue I had was this constant pretension throughout, that they are creating something original, with an attitude of here we are, cool new-age hipsters, we’ll mock at your status quo and thumb our noses at your boring and uncool societal decorum and etiquette. Fine, that’s a brave front to put on if you can back it up with some substance, but underneath their pretentious exterior is matter that is razor-thin superficial, creating a bits and pieces mixtape of popular off-beat American and English flicks from the past 15 years. A strong base of “Lock stock and two smoking barrels“, a pinch of “Oceans Eleven“, a touch of “Get Shorty“, a dash of “Tropic Thunder” with Aamir Khan dancing as “Disco Fighter” a. la. Tom Cruise dancing as “Les Grossman” during credit roll, a forced infusion of poop jokes from your average juvenile flick with a strong pretension of anarchism with only passing references to the so called taboo items, as if to say, “look, we are hip and progressive”, and yet not showing any courage at all to really push the envelope at any point, and all along mitigating it into a warm and fuzzy chaotic comedy along the lines of a Priyadarshan flick. That is Delhi Belly in a nutshell for you. At least Priyadarshan flicks like “Hera Pheri” and “Bagham Bagh” are not pretentious about what they are, and I would easily rate them above this one. I don’t pretend to know the desi Independent film scene. Trying to recall, in recent years, I’ve seen “Dev D“, “Gulaal“, “Udaan“, “Ek Chalis ki Last Local”, and I was more impressed with those movies than this one, even if they don’t provide that “cross-over” appeal that Aamir Khan seems to crave so much.

Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder vs Aamir Khan in Delhi Belly

Speaking of Aamir Khan, the most risk he ever took as an actor was in his role as Dil Nawaaz in Deepa Mehta’s 1947 Earth. Clearly, he was interested in expanding his horizons beyond your boy-meets-girl-dances-in-public-parks-beats-up-bad-guys roles unlike his contemporary movie stars, but his greatest strength is his ability to package mainstream material with an off-beat wrapper, and fooling those audience tired of your average masala cinema into believing that they watched something that is different. And with all that promise and potential, he seems to lack the courage to take the full leap into the artistic realm. Even in “Tare Zameen Par“, born out of a genuine artistic intention, and perhaps his best work so far, in my opinion, he couldn’t completely shed the angst of commercial appeal. 15 minutes into Delhi Belly, it was obvious this serving was nothing more than your commercial Hindi cinema carefully rearranged to look like an Indie delicacy. But over 90% rating in Rotten Tomatoes, over 7.5 rating in IMDB proves that he knows what sells. But so does Sharukh Khan and the scores of bullshit movies he and others make in Bollywood that set the Indian movie industry behind by decades. And for some reason I expect more from Aamir Khan, when in many ways he is no different, he just pretends to be different. And similarly, Delhi Belly doesn’t really appeal to my Indie predilection, it just pretends to do so.

It might appear like I set out to trash Aamir Khan here, but that was not my intention when I started typing this, and its not like he is getting to spend my money on his projects. But I am not in the film industry and I am just your average movie fan that likes to value movies as genuine art forms, and in the homogenized world of formulaic mainstream cinema, I do look to the Indie world for the rebellion, and to quote a wise young punk called Stevo from a quintessential Indie gem called SLC Punk, “Posers were people who looked like punks but they did it for fashion.” Searching for one word that best describes Delhi Belly, that’s what comes to mind – a Poser.