By the Power of Emoticons

I have noticed distinct characteristics in men and women on Facebook. Some men, who tolerate no criticism, disagreement, or even a suggestion, resort to the easiest course—abuse and slander! This behaviour seems endemic among Sanghis and unrefined Marxists. Even fans of the snake wrangler Vava Suresh hurled such astounding expletives at me that they would outdo the venom of the most poisonous snakes. Meanwhile, women, true to themselves, often walk out and block you when you disagree. Both groups seem intellectually bankrupt. What do you think?

Recently, three women slammed the virtual door in my face on Facebook. One returned a few months later, rather subdued, as if she were never the termagant who stormed off with a snort. “Hi, can you tell me what you think of this?” she asked. I sidestepped, replying, “Why are you back here asking me? Why should I engage with someone overflowing with cussedness?” “Oh, sorry about that,” she said. But in less than a month, she walked out again when I disagreed with her conspiracy theories on matters ranging from the moon landing and climate change to the necessity of a Covid-19 vaccine. She boasted that she had never vaccinated her daughter or her pet dogs and never would. I asked, “Not even for polio?” She was imperious, declaring, “Yes, and never.” I responded, “Oh, lady, your daughter is 25 and tremendously lucky, and you were reckless.” She unfriended me on Facebook and blocked my phone too.

Another woman, with a strong detestation for Narendra Modi, caught my attention on Facebook. She seemed knowledgeable and concerned about matters around us, unafraid to express herself strongly. But I soon realised that disdain for Moditva is no guarantee of amicable social relationships. She wrote on her page that no one was to share her opinions or posts without her permission. I wondered if what we write or post on social media attracts copyright law to demand that others not copy. I suggested that the share button implies an allowance for copying, and acknowledging or tagging the source might suffice. I also recommended consulting an expert on copyright laws. That peeved her. She veered off on a tangent, accusing me of insensitivity and disregard for another person’s misfortune. She claimed I expressed amusement through a laughing emoji when she wrote in a brief review of the film Thappad that she thanked her stars she chose to be single.

Gosh, the power of emoticons struck me. I was truly amused now!

I explained that her comment amused me because these days, we often hear young people say such things, and I knew of a few amusing cases where extreme views were raised for frivolous reasons. Besides, I hadn’t watched the film to critique it, and my expression was neither disapproving nor approving of the story’s premise. She later wrote that she had walked out on an abusive spouse, asserting that no man may hit her or have a say over her body, and accused me of being a true misogynistic sod. By the time I wrote to apologise for the misunderstanding, clarifying that I had no knowledge of her past, that I admired her courage, and that my emoji was not meant to offend, she had blocked me and vanished.

What a fascinating and convoluted place this virtual world of social media and emojis is!

Do I Hate Modi? A citizen's Posit

The usual refrain is, “You ignorant Modi haters, your dislike for the man blinds you, and you refuse to acknowledge the good he has done. You sickular, urban-Naxal, anti-national commies.” This comment has become so hackneyed that it glaringly reveals who is truly ignorant, if not blinded and biased.

Am I biased in my opinion of Narendra Damodardas Modi, the Prime Minister of India? Do I hate the man so much that my assumptions and opinions are prejudiced against him and his nearly six years as the country’s leader? Often, I have paused to reflect: could these critics be right? Are my opinions and comments—though a constitutionally guaranteed right—driven by hatred for the man? Do I hate him?

Heads of state often occupy unenviable positions, and as the Shakespearean lament goes, “…and in the calmest and stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

I pondered deeply, even setting aside Godhra and the Gujarat pogrom, and juxtaposed Narendra Modi with King Henry bemoaning his crown’s burdens, unable to find peace unlike even the poorest. I drew a blank. In his exalted role as the master of all he surveys, Modi, over the past six years as Prime Minister, has failed himself, the people, and the nation. One must be incorrigibly blind or utterly foolish to think otherwise.

Before explaining my stance, I asked his supporters to highlight a few of his achievements that transformed the country for the better, hoping they might sway my view. But each time, I received only invectives and even lost a long-standing friendship. Thus, I hasten to clarify my perspective as an ordinary voter who exercised his right in the past two general elections, unaffiliated with any political party.

True, I had serious reservations about Narendra Modi coming to power, and even more about him retaining it in the previous election. That aside, when he rode into New Delhi in his first term, I fervently hoped I was wrong. His symbolic gesture of genuflecting at the doors of Parliament sparked hope that I had misjudged him. I recalled how his predecessor, Indira Gandhi, treated Parliament like a juggler’s pins, rendering the cabinet and house servile, mauling the Constitution, superseding judges with pliable ones, deracinating democratic institutions, and suspending fundamental rights for 18 long months. Here was a lesser-known, controversial figure—a commoner—prostrating at the doorstep of democracy, as he put it. It was a moment to inspire hope and trust.

I thought his resounding election victory might have chastened him, prompting a call for unity, urging the nation to set aside parochial, communal, and religious intolerances, fostering camaraderie and universal brotherhood. I hoped he would end the inertia of the second UPA government, tackle corruption strangling the nation, restore confidence in the economy, and provide succour to the needy, underprivileged, and marginalised. I expected him to shun the divisive, hate-filled saffron-Hindutva ideology he wielded in Gujarat and strive to build an inclusive, rainbow nation, to paraphrase Bishop Desmond Tutu. I hoped he would uplift the underprivileged, give meaning to Dalit lives by cracking down on casteism and untouchability—still a scourge in many parts of the country—ensure tribals were treated as humans and citizens, not dispossessed, and heed scientific advice to address climate change, protecting the environment rather than ravaging it in the name of development. I believed he would honour the confidence of the youth swayed by his “sab ka sath, sab ka vikas” and “acche din” slogans, halt the disastrous slide in Kashmir, deal with Pakistan and China as a statesman, bolster underfunded health and education sectors, and uphold the scientific temper exhorted by Jawaharlal Nehru and enshrined in the Constitution’s Directive Principles.

Yet, as days, weeks, months, and years passed, Modi’s intentions became less and less curious, to borrow from Alice. As Arun Shourie famously put it, Modi’s rule is “UPA plus the cow.”

1. It became clear we were saddled with a thespian nonpareil, thriving on theatrics, spectacles, gimmicks, and foolery—a sophist peddling falsehoods at every turn. Even his academic qualifications have become an apparent lie and a joke, much like the fantastical tales of his childhood.
2. His ego is so immense that his sole intent is to burnish his image. His knowledge of economics is woefully inadequate, yet his conceit and hubris prevent him from admitting mistakes or surrounding himself with talent and scholarship.
3. Indebted to crony capitalist friends who placed him in the Prime Minister’s chair, he made quid pro quo blatant.
4. Instead of tackling corruption, he effectively legalised it through the egregious instrument of “electoral bonds.”
5. He unleashed sectarianism, granting the Sangh Parivar carte blanche to unleash Hindutva goons on society, targeting Muslims, minorities, Dalits, and tribals, paving the way for lynchings in the name of the cow, Lord Ram, and religion. The gentle cow became a predatory symbol, with law enforcers facilitating crimes by saffron goons.
6. Bigotry became the official religion, and daily doses of outlandish, bizarre idiocy from BJP ministers and parliamentarians became an embarrassment to common sense and the nation.
7. The extent of fear and emasculation among the intelligentsia was evident as early as 2014, when physicians sat mutely through Modi’s speech claiming cosmetic surgery and reproductive genetics existed in ancient India, citing the mythical Karna and the elephant-headed Ganesha. Stupidity seemed seamless under his rule.
8. The most ridiculous, quixotic, and heartless decision—demonetisation—was inflicted on the nation.
9. The GST, a novel tax regime mooted by former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and opposed by Modi as Gujarat’s Chief Minister, was rolled out hastily without proper planning, botching commerce and tax generation. His yearning for theatrics and a place among the nation’s founders led to a midnight Parliament session to announce it, throwing the economy into a tailspin.
10. For the first time in independent India, global financial institutions began sceptically eyeing the statistical figures dished out by the Modi government. The country’s own Department of Statistics distanced itself from the government’s data.
11. Lies and falsehoods became the norm, with cyber cells set up to spread innuendos and canards.
12. The massive defence deal with France was arrogated by Modi himself, with his government stonewalling legitimate queries.
13. Parliamentary procedures were steamrolled with scant regard for conventions and propriety.
14. The Constitution was defenestrated with the abrogation of Article 370.
15. Important legislation was passed as money bills to circumvent debate in the opposition-controlled Rajya Sabha.
16. An egregious law enabling religious profiling, reminiscent of the Third Reich, was passed to identify and sequester Muslims, throwing the nation into turmoil. Modi’s unstatesmanlike remark that protesters could be identified by their dress was infamous.
17. Institutions were systematically encroached upon and packed with ideologues; textbooks were rewritten with Hindutva narratives and mumbo jumbo.
18. Courts and media were bought or bludgeoned into submission, and institutions of higher learning were targeted with canards. Criminals escorted by police were given free rein to attack faculty and students on campuses.
19. Police aided rioters, allowing the capital to burn for three days while targeting Muslims.
20. International reports and WHO warnings about Covid-19’s pandemic potential were ignored for over a month, as Modi prioritised toppling the Madhya Pradesh government and hosting Donald Trump’s visit. By then, the damage was done, and proactive measures were non-starters.
21. Intolerance towards criticism and dissent outdid Indira Gandhi’s Emergency.
22. Contempt for scholarship, intellect, and science was evident, with central funding for research slashed to 0.8% of GDP and funds for education and health cut.
23. If he claims to be a democrat, why has he not faced the media? Not one candid press conference in his tenure proves his reluctance to face the truth.
24. As a Keralite, I cannot forget how malevolently Modi finessed aid from friendly Arab nations promised to the state after the devastating floods two years ago.

Modi’s penchant for theatrics and symbolic gestures has consistently beguiled Indians over the past six years. His plea to “burn him at the stake” if demonetisation failed moved people, but they forgot his offer when it proved a monumental blunder, fraud, and crime against Indians. The drama over the Pulwama attack, where 40 soldiers perished in a high-security zone, remains a mystery like Godhra but stirred such emotion that people rallied behind him. The supposed surgical strikes across the border, evading Pakistani radars to hunt terrorists, anointed him as India’s fearless Napoleon or Lancelot. These incidents propelled him to a thumping majority, but over the bodies of thousands of farmers who ended their lives amid farm distress, 40-year-high unemployment, an economic tailspin, atrocities on Dalits, marginalisation of Muslims and minorities, dispossession of tribals, and unprecedented mutual suspicion in society.

Before the recent theatrics of clanging vessels and lighting lamps, the nationwide lockdown, announced with just four hours’ notice, led to an exodus of lakhs of migrant labourers, defeating its purpose. Modi’s penchant for drama without planning or empathy was evident. These spectacles proved clownish and disastrous, undermining physical distancing. His call for clanging and banging would have been welcome had he shown an iota of sincerity in tackling the communal hatred fanned by his party and the Sangh. I would have joined these symbolic gestures if he had uttered one effective sentence to his bhakts and Sanghi stormtroopers, stressing that unity means inclusiveness across religion, caste, and creed, and that symbolism must translate into reality. I would have volunteered had he not infamously profiled dissenters by their attire—an outrageous remark from a Prime Minister. Let him first target bigotry, regardless of religious hue, if he sincerely seeks unity. Symbolic drama is an irritating comedy and utter dishonesty when Modi has not shown one act of carrying all Indians with him.

It is not just hatred; it is detestation of what he stands for. I am offended that the Prime Minister has created more division than the British did in their imperial history. Mr Modi, there is still time to make amends and leave a legacy that allows posterity to overlook your fallibilities and see you as a statesman.

The nation has been changed forever. Even if Modi is voted out in 2024 or beyond—if elections occur—it will take years to repair the social fabric, for people to trust their neighbours, and for ethnicity, religion, and caste to become insignificant, with harmony, food, shelter, security, and a clean environment becoming existential priorities.

The Wizard King

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a man with a broad chest who ruled over a kingdom where the people’s lack of intelligence astonished even him. He rightly observed this to his coterie. But his subjects, blinkered in their lives, had never seen a donkey and thus could not compare themselves to the timid, foolish beast. They believed their King was clever, and they were as clever as he.

The King was as canny as a fox, though he also fancied himself smart with a high IQ. Kings from other kingdoms longed to politely remind him he was an idiot, like his subjects, but he hastened to hug and charm them upon meeting, so they refrained from candour to avoid rudeness.

The truth was stark: the King frequently appeared on national television, issuing mad decrees he claimed were for the greater common good, demanding compliance that his donkey-like subjects, the fools, gleefully obliged, eagerly awaiting more. He was a sorcerer, hypnotising his subjects, who followed him with a fervour that would make the Pied Piper of Hamelin envious. He proclaimed decrees at night, and the next day, he would wail, beating his chest, urging them to burn him at the stake if he was wrong. They forgave him, unable to bear the sight of tears in his eyes, unaware that his marble-like eyes could not produce tears. Often, he sent a decoy—some say his real old mother—to perform the same tasks he asked of his subjects, and they went wild, dancing and singing eulogies to the King and his old mother. The King spared not even his mother! How noble! In his castle, the King laughed heartily, rocking in his chair, while his donkey subjects brayed in unison, “Oh, great leader, you are the shining star, the burning sun, son of gods; you could never be wrong. You are infallible, the light, and our deliverance.”

One day, shortly before midnight, the King appeared on television, dressed in splendid silk attire with an appliquéd tapestry that, upon closer inspection, bore his name embroidered in gold thread. His snow-white mane was immaculately groomed and waxed with ancient Indian herbs, its aroma stifling even through television screens, yet perceived as fragrant incense by his hallucinating subjects in their dreamy indolence. He decreed that from midnight, he would suspend the earth’s gravity so his subjects could spread their wings, hitherto tethered by evil forces, and fly with abandon. As midnight struck, his donkey subjects flocked and jostled to leap from apartment windows, expecting to float like fairies in zero gravity. Those in hutments scampered up coconut palms to jump and fly. Such was his commanding sway over them that they gleefully leapt and flew—only to fall flat on their skulls and faces, crashing to the ground like hailstones. Their craniums, ribs, and bones snapped like twigs, yet they believed they were flying, feeling the cold wind against their faces. They were in awe, convinced they soared. The wizard King effortlessly held them under his spell, and their broken skulls, dying hearts, and aching bodies refused to accept they had not flown. They bled and bled.

The Circus after the Hanging

Early yesterday morning, after switching on the television, I began to wonder if Covid-19 had vanished from the country overnight. Not a word about the contagion was mentioned; instead, all channels were dominated by the news of the execution of four rapists in the early hours at Tihar Jail. It seemed like a carnival at the gates of Tihar. Placards proclaiming “We trust the judiciary” signalled a newfound faith in the system. Bizarre slogans, which I now struggle to recall, filled the air. Men and women alike were jubilant. It resembled a medieval circus where public executions drew crowds baying for blood. After seven years of waiting, the Indian judicial system, moving at a tortoise’s pace, had finally closed a sordid chapter of gang rape, brutality, and murder that would shame even the wildest of barbarians, including the Vikings.

Seven years ago, on a wintry night, a young Delhi girl was stalked by six savage men. After thrashing her companion to near incapacity, the brutes gang-raped her in the most heinous and dreadful manner imaginable. That night, India as a nation and we as a society failed her miserably. We failed because we allowed six depraved individuals to violate her physically—she was mauled and torn apart. The brutality was beyond what even wild beasts would inflict. We failed again when we outrageously christened her “Nirbhaya,” meaning fearless. How dare we? How dare we presume she wasn’t gripped by mortal fear when six hellish, debauched men pounced on her, ignoring her pleas, cries, and entreaties, ripping her apart like ravenous wild dogs? How dare we bestow upon her grandiose names, ostensibly to elevate her to a pedestal of courage and bravery, thereby assuaging our collective guilt? She, a frail teenager, could surely do little to resist when six cannibals pinned her down and set upon her in a manner words fail to describe. Yet we call her “fearless”! It sickens me and makes me retch when I hear her referred to as “Nirbhaya.” We should hang our heads in shame. She ought to be known by her given name; her memory must not endure under a pseudonym granted by a hypocritical society. That is the least justice we can offer her.

One can empathise with her parents, who pleaded for the execution of their daughter’s rapists. Their anguished minds could not see beyond retribution, nor grapple with the moral and ethical nuances of jurisprudence. When the mother expressed relief, saying her late daughter had finally received justice, we could understand her feelings. What else could a mother feel? But it makes me wonder when the public declares, “Justice served for ‘Nirbhaya.’” What justice can a dead person possibly receive? Someone claimed her writhing soul would now be at peace. Semantics and fanciful phrases aside, the soul is a mirage we humans invented to appease our longing for immortality—a satisfaction derived from believing a part of us persists after death.

What justice can we give a girl now dead, when we, as a society, collectively failed to protect her while she lived? What justice awaits the teenage Unnao girl, brutally raped and later murdered? What justice can we offer Asifa, the seven-year-old raped repeatedly for days and murdered in a temple in Kathua, Kashmir? How many more individual acts of justice must we pursue for the daily rapes and murders of women and girls in this country? It is offensive to think we can find satisfaction or clear our consciences by invoking the phrase “justice served.” Nonsense!

Yesterday morning, tribal instincts came alive outside Tihar, and television channels, barring a few like Asianet News and NDTV, revelled in the news of the hanging of the four men while simultaneously questioning the foundation of capital punishment in countries like India, which we call civilised. The “rarest of rare” benchmark is a flawed premise. Protesting capital punishment in today’s India would be deemed as seditious and anti-national as criticising Hindutva. The humane Kiran Bedi, the fiery cop who, as the first female Inspector General of Prisons, introduced reforms aligned with a civilised society, was upbraided for attempting to reform the incorrigible and advocating for prisoners’ human rights. It is a primitive tribal notion that prisoners forfeit their rights as humans. One might even hear the hackneyed cliché: “If what happened to the Delhi girl happened to your kin, you’d think differently.”

There is a sine qua non for calling ourselves civilised. We must first eradicate patriarchal mindsets and misogyny from society and teach children from a young age to respect women. If an accused person is found guilty and punished as per the law, that law must either facilitate their transformation during incarceration or acknowledge that retributive justice is not justice but vendetta, as offensive as the crime itself. Look at those baying for the blood of the accused or guilty—it’s a trait of primitive tribal societies. It doesn’t take much to realise that the men vociferous outside Tihar yesterday might readily stalk, violate, molest, grope, or harass a woman if they believed they could escape apprehension or punishment. That is the duality of people: they hunt the victim and later cry for her.

A few months ago, much of the country applauded when the Hyderabad police staged an encounter and killed three alleged rapist-murderers. Like fools, we eagerly accepted their alibi that the men attacked the police before attempting to flee. We were content to believe extrajudicial killings delivered swift “justice.” We failed to question whether a diligent trial confirmed their guilt or if they were decoys planted by the real culprits. Did we consider the anarchy such extrajudicial, instant retribution could wreak on society’s fabric and its legal system? Not a word was spoken thereafter; we moved on—or rather, backward.

When we passionately claim retributive justice for the Delhi girl, believing she has finally received justice, we are lying to ourselves and, dare I say, mocking her soul, if you will. There is no evidence that retributive justice or capital punishment—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—serves as a deterrent. Only uncivilised, barbaric societies, citing antediluvian practices and bizarre texts, justify chopping off hands for theft, stoning for adultery, or decapitation for murder. When societies worldwide have abolished capital punishment, I see no reason why this medieval, retributive punishment should remain on the statute books of a country like India, which claims to be civilised. Lifelong incarceration, with or without the possibility of parole, would torment the criminal, potentially leading to reform or psychological decay.

To quote Henry Ford, “Capital punishment is as fundamentally wrong as a cure for crime as charity is wrong as a cure for poverty.”

The Little Whore House

The little whorehouse stood next to a well-known and respected family home on Ambujavilasom Road in the heart of Thiruvananthapuram, about five minutes’ walk from the main thoroughfare and the State Secretariat. It was an unassuming place with a tiled roof and a single door opening directly onto the street. The occasional drama and minor melee we witnessed as we passed by each morning and evening were all we were privy to—nothing more.

It was roughly 200 metres from where I lived, and my friend and I walked past the little whorehouse each morning to school and on our way back in the evening. I was in the fifth standard when I was told about this strange, and to me then, fascinating place in our neighbourhood. My friend, two years my senior, introduced me to its intrigues. Being eight or nine and fresh from the sheltered environment of a convent education, many things were inexplicable yet curious and amusing. The amusement was particularly strong when, on our way to or from school, we witnessed police raids at the whorehouse. A ramshackle police van would park by the door, and potbellied, fearsome-looking policemen—along with a few scrawny ones sporting only handlebar moustaches to evoke trepidation—would bundle a few women inmates and their plebeian clientele into the van. Looking back, those policemen now seem clownish, attired in odd short trousers with ample ventilation around their hairy thighs, allowing fresh air to waft up to their groins. I recall the day after a raid, when we passed by, the old woman who ran the place—a hag, perhaps in her early seventies, always with sandalwood paste and a few flower petals in her grey hair—sat at the door, forlorn and sad, having lost her clientele, women, and business to the police action.

She lived there with her daughter, a single woman, and her teenage son. I noticed no disenchantment in the daughter or son, who seemed to allow the old woman to run her cottage industry.

There were occasional arguments at the door between petulant patrons and the inmates. One day, I saw a man forcibly ejected by a few women inmates. He was agitated, quite inebriated, and shouting expletives—an unhappy and dissatisfied customer, perhaps! “Caveat Emptor,” I would now suggest to him.

Looking back, there was no evident discomfort, annoyance, or moralistic angst from the people living nearby—an impossibility in today’s phoney, voyeuristic Malayali society. The place seemed to survive on its own, ignored by the elite residents of the neighbourhood. Whether the local men frequented the whorehouse under the cover of night, I can only guess with some amusement.

The story ended abruptly with the death of the old woman. Rumours abounded that someone had poisoned her, but no one could say for certain. Her passing marked the end, perhaps, of the saga of “the little whorehouse.” The daughter and son vanished soon after, and now a multistorey office building stands on the five cents of land where, perhaps, much of Vatsyayana’s exhortations were religiously indulged, albeit at a price.

The Shooting Star

I haven’t met her, nor spoken to her; our communication was solely through text messages. She was reticent, perhaps shy and unassuming, preferring to remain unnoticed. She distanced herself from the garishness and chaos of modern life, staying far from its edges. Though a trained Mohiniyattam danseuse, immersed in the art since the age of six and having performed at temples and other venues, she downplayed her talent. Her outgoing peers had little sway over her choice to stand apart. In an era of social media, where attention-seekers vie for visibility, this captivating maiden, for reasons of her own, chose to remain unobtrusive, almost hidden.

She was virtually faceless on social media, yet maintained a quiet presence. Her pages revealed no clear image of her, but with a discerning eye, one might glimpse her among the faces in the rare group photographs she shared. Even then, it would be mere conjecture. Yet, I felt certain: the vivacious, mesmerising eyes and the grace of a danseuse shone unmistakably in one figure among those pictures. The allure of her eyes was arresting. Still, without confirmation, even the most confident guesses remain just that—guesses.

When asked why she chose this path, she replied simply that she loved it. A recluse? Certainly not. At 23 or 24, her eyes beckoned alluringly from her pages, but her perspective on life was equally striking. At such a young age, few ponder deeply about existence, yet she mused about infusing meaning into life’s inherent frivolity: “We are born without purpose, but we can create one, can’t we?” she once texted. That was some time ago, and now no trace of her remains; she simply vanished, perhaps deliberately leaving no footprints.

Her final message lingers, stirring an eerie unease, though she may have faded like a shooting star, whose wanderlust she admired. She first reached out after reading my blog post, “My Gods of Small Things,” shared on my social media, inspired by Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. The content differed, reflecting on individuals from my life, now gone, whose small acts were profoundly meaningful.

Through our extensive exchanges—spanning religion, love, morality, humanity, life’s apparent triviality, idleness, and even vintage Malayalam and Hindi film songs—I found her to be a keen listener and reader with a sharp, reasoned perspective on nearly every topic. Why, then, was she training to be a chartered accountant, a profession often marked by dullness? The answer was straightforward: her father’s wish.

Her mother, a dancer herself, had instilled in her a love for Mohiniyattam but had sacrificed her own passion under her husband’s domineering will, ensuring her daughter faced no such constraints. She occasionally spoke of her younger sister, about ten years her junior, who followed her like a devoted shadow.

“Sir,” she always addressed me, “what do you make of this clichéd notion of ‘settling down’? Why should it mean conforming to society’s or even family’s expectations? Can you tell me?”

“Indeed, why can’t settling down be about finding meaning in life’s frivolity?”

“Exactly! That’s why I believe being attractive isn’t about a chiseled body, an arrogant swagger, Rhett Butler whiskers, or high cheekbones.” (She added a smiley emoji.) “It’s about how one thinks—the mind shines through the face. You can’t fake it with bravado. Men are terribly mistaken, don’t you agree?”

“Ha, indeed!”

“Thank you for agreeing. Remember that girl you mentioned, who abandoned a lucrative job in the Far East, slung a backpack, and travelled the world? Was she my age?”

“Hmm.”

“Sir, I quote from her book: ‘Four years ago, I gave up my home, sold most of my possessions, and embraced a nomadic life. This journey has taken me as far within as with my feet.’” A pause followed, then: “I hate him, the bastard!”

“What?” I asked, confused. I had recommended the book, and those words weren’t from the passage she cited, nor related to her text about the author she cherished. If spoken, I might have dismissed them as misheard, but they were typed.

Ignoring my question, she continued: “…how travelling changed my perspective on marriage and not wanting children. ‘Sir, I felt sick after that.’ I wrote this post for dreamers, adventurers, and rebels who feel stifled by a lack of choice.”

“What?” I pressed again. After a prolonged pause, when I asked about her abrupt remark, she explained.

“I needed to get this off my chest. It’s him.”

“Who?”

“My father.”

“What about him?”

“He hugged and kissed me today.”

“What’s wrong with a father hugging his daughter? I do. Hasn’t he before?”

“No, it’s not that. He has, but this was different. I felt it when he touched me—nauseating, terrifying.”

“What are you saying?”

“Exactly that. I feel sick and scared. He kissed me, biting my cheeks, nearly my lips, and I felt… his thing pressing against me through his lungi. It was deliberate, all in seconds.”

Speechless, I asked, “Are you sure?”

“Please, Sir, I’m not a child. This never happened before, but I felt it, saw it in his eyes. I was frozen, unable to pull away. Lately, I’ve felt uneasy around him, a vague discomfort… but now…!”

“Have you told your mother?”

“No, I can’t. It would worsen things. They’re not getting along, and it might affect my sister too.”

“Is he your stepfather?”

“No.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I just needed to unburden this.”

“If anything untoward happens, tell someone. Call me if you need to.”

“Hmm, yes. Instead of longing for the next holiday, perhaps build a life you don’t need to escape.”

Was that a quote? I’m unsure. It was her last message before the line went dead. Months have passed, and she’s vanished without a trace. Perhaps her footprints linger in the sands of time—across deserts, mountains, South American river basins, or the forests she dreamt of. Maybe she found the courage to flee, to live without needing escape. I pray she didn’t yield and become trapped.

Narendra Modi & Alladin's Magic Lantern

A Sanghi enthusiast is touting what he claims is an excerpt from Narendra Modi’s scripted interview with Akshay Kumar, a less accomplished actor. He asserts that Modi’s response left everyone in awe.

According to this enthusiast, Akshay Kumar asked Modi what he would do if he found Aladdin’s fabled magic lamp. Modi reportedly replied that he would urge academicians to stop narrating such fables to children, as they promote a culture of idleness and lotus-eating, alien to India’s ethos. He then allegedly critiqued Indian education for belittling the country’s past and instilling foreign values in children. Does this thespian realise that One Thousand and One Nights is a collection of Middle Eastern fables?

Even a cursory glance at this claim reveals the absurdity of Modi’s purported stance, likely a scripted answer. We’ve seen what happens when his responses aren’t rehearsed—he fantasises about an elephant’s head grafted onto a human child and calls it plastic surgery! 😁😂

What’s startling is that Modi seems unaware of Arabian Nights and the myriad fables that enchanted our childhoods. Can anyone point to contemporaries who became lotus-eaters, languishing in dreamy indolence, awaiting lady luck? He overlooks how fables, Indian and foreign alike, shaped our formative years. Unlike Modi, we drew values from Aladdin’s fortunes, wary of the scheming uncle; from Sinbad’s voyages, which introduced us to distant lands and cultures; from Ali Baba and the forty thieves; from the cunning “Fisherman and the Jinni,” the “Tale of the Vizier and the Sage Duban,” or “The Fox and the Crow.” The list is endless. Does he know many of these tales carry Indian and Persian influences?

Venturing further west, are we to believe that Little Red Riding Hood, Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella, or The Pied Piper of Hamelin are corrosive to young Indian minds, as Modi might suggest?

If we entertain Modi’s convoluted (nay, devious) logic, we’d miss the richness of Anton Chekhov’s The Bet or Leo Tolstoy’s God Sees the Truth, But Waits—a tale prescient of Modi’s era! He likely hasn’t heard of O. Henry’s The Trembling Leaf, conveniently alien as it’s American. Nor, perhaps, of Kerala’s Aythihiya Mala, a collection akin to Arabian fables, which he might dismiss as foreign to his sensibilities, despite its uniquely Malayali essence. Herein lies the contradiction in his bizarre understanding of culture, fables, and literature, however commonplace.

Does he know that W. Somerset Maugham’s Appointment in Samarra draws from the Katha Upanishad and an ancient Mesopotamian fable?

What distinguishes ordinary mortals like us from Sanghis is our exposure to a kaleidoscope of inspiring tales from diverse cultures. These stories enrich our lives with values of moral courage, ethics, and goodness, regardless of their origin. It’s a pity we have a Prime Minister who rejects inclusivity and the universal appeal of such narratives. Perhaps Modi had little time for fables, reportedly spending his childhood meditating in dense jungles or on the icy peaks of the Himalayas. What a sacrifice he made—and now we bear the brunt! Poor us!