Desicritics Author: Sonal Panse

In the Pink on Valentine's Day

Sonal Panse — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 05:42:46 EST

Happy Valentine's Day everybody!!!

This has probably been the best build up to Valentine's Day in recent times. The usual 'break shops, bash up couples' routine was getting so predictable. We needed something new. Something muthalikally new.

And then we got it.

I've been following The Pink Chaddi Campaign and the reactions to it with unreserved delight.

I'm happy with the amount of support pouring in. It was high time.

I'm not surprised with the amount of scorn and abuse pouring in. Nor ruffled by it. Freedom of expression after all works both ways. Besides as some one once said, nobody kicks a dead dog.

But I must say, if you had to give points for creativity here, the Pink gals and guys win hands down.

All the detractors have done is regurgitated the usual spiel - 'unDignified', 'unIndian' and 'unCultured'. Or they have turned copycats and started a campaign on pink condoms. In short, low on creativity, high on inspiration. Very Indian, that. Or rather very Bollywood. Or to be very precise, very some people in Bollywood (because I don't want to take due appreciation away from creative and talented Bollywood people like Farhan Akhtar and Zoya Akhtar, whose 'Luck By Chance' was such a wonderfully entertaining film).

I support the Pink Chaddi Campaign. Not because, as Sagarika Ghosh of the Hindustan Times implies, I want to be like the "characters from Sex In The City". I don't. And neither do I, as she suggests everyone ought to, want to "emulate Sarojini Naidu and Jawaharlal Nehru".

I'm happy being MY OWN PERSON, and I will like to continue being so without any interference from any "cultural custodians".

If I want to wear noodle straps and jeans, it's because I want to. Not because of some dumb TV show.

If I want to wear a sari, it's because I want to. Not because of some Nehruvian ideal.

If I don't drink or go to a pub, it's because I don't like the taste of alcohol and I don't like this form of socializing. Not because of any regard for 'Indian Culture'.

If I don't celebrate Valentine's Day, it's because I'm not a sentimental person. Again, not because of any regard for 'Indian Culture'. And neither from any horror of the 'commercial aspect' of V-Day. I'm an extremely commercial-minded person, actually. And I love it when people spend on cards and stuff. Spells riches and riches for designers like me.

Anyway.

Indian Culture or any other culture does not need to be guarded or preserved. It needs to BREATHE. It needs to lighten up, develop some SENSE OF HUMOR.

Otherwise it just turns into a ritual-riddled, shackled fossil. And as another wit said, beware of sacred cows that can't MOO (laugh).

Being undignified is better than being a humbug, toeing the line on dated principles from ancient texts. Never mind the ancient sages and the ancient times. That over-flogged bleat about being a cultured lot centuries and centuries ago doesn't give anyone the license to skip being cultured in the present age.

Being cultured = Being tolerant, being broad-minded, being more concerned with improving oneself rather than imposing on other people, being intelligent enough to understand that respecting national property is more praiseworthy than going over the bend about national symbols.

The whole point is PERSONAL FREEDOM.

Now my personal freedom ends where your nose begins.

Not when your "sentiments" starts hurting.

My Upcoming Film: CoolKat Urbanoir - Life in Amrika

Sonal Panse — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 13:42:16 EST

Inspired by Slumdog Millionaire, I'm going to make a movie featuring 'gritty realism' in the USA. The movie will be called CoolKat Urbanoir.

The story goes like this -

A young African man gets kidnapped and sold as a slave in the US of A. He goes through many trials and tribulations, marries a slave girl, they have children, the children are sold, the parents suffer, fall ill, try to escape, are caught and beaten, try again and escape, join the Native Indians, are uprooted from several reservations and starved, are hunted and die under horrible circumstances.

Flash forward several hundred years.

A descendant of these slaves is born in the most dangerous part of an Inner City neighborhood to an unwed teenage hooker with a cocaine habit. Father unknown. Child is abandoned in a garbage heap. Rescued by a church mission and taken to a hospital. Suffers terribly from drug withdrawal (got the habit from Ma during the pregnancy). Later put in an orphanage and shuffled through endless foster homes. Abused physically and sexually in the foster homes. Goes to an Inner City school infrequently and learns nothing there. Gets beaten up by street gangs to and fro from school. So, to save his own hide, joins up one of the brotherhoods. Condition is that he help them peddle drugs to school children. So he does.

Gets caught. Gets sent to jail. Gets raped in jail. And beaten. Many, many, many times. Gets plenty of tattoos too and decides to do a course in body building as well.

Comes out toughened and mean and with plenty of contacts to further advance the criminal career. Furthers criminal career. Adds pimping and armed robbery to the resume. Starts freelancing as a hitman for the Columbian, Korean, Chinese and Japanese drug cartels.

Gets involved with a white woman who wrote him love letters while he was in jail and 'true love' blooms for a while. Then she gets pregnant and wants to get married. He doesn't want to get married. She says he'll have to pay for child support anyway. He doesn't fancy paying child support for eighteen whole years. He's already been stealing money from the druglords to make ends meet. So he murders her and dumps her body over a bridge into a river.

But someone sees him do this and informs the police. He is arrested and tried.

And gets released on a technicality. The police that arrested him forgot to quote that Miranda dialogue, it seems, and subjected him to racist epithets besides.

Lays low for a while and then takes revenge on the informer (a white man, incidentally).

Then goes on a run. An exhilarating chase around and around the US of A follows. Wonderful scenic scenes. Lots of clambering around the Grand Canyon and so on. Ends up in the American South in a small town where the interbred population are still fanning the fires of the Ku Klux Klan ideology. They gladly beat up the new black man in town and strung him up from a tree outside the town. They leave him for dead....

But, of course, he is still alive. Another man comes along, sees him hanging from the tree and cuts him down (in a scene borrowed/inspired from Hang 'Em High, a tribute to lovely, wonderful Clint Eastwood).

This other man happens to be a smuggler involved in the trade of smuggling Mexicans into the USA. He's home on leave, but is off to the Mexican border again and our hero decides to go with him and see how much this type of smuggling business pays.

Unfortunately luck is not favoring our hero (like it ever did!), and, after a few smuggling rounds, he gets shot at by White Nationalists patrolling the border.

He is rescued by a black US Army sergeant, who gets him to a hospital, visits him, bonds with him and feeds him the 'Join the Army, it's a great life' spiel.

Our hero swallows, gets false identification and joins the army. And is nearly killed in basic training.

Somehow he survives and is sent to Iraq to fight the just war and protect the homeland from the wogs. Unfortunately the wogs know how to kick ass. So life in the army on the warfront is not exactly great. Our hero however gets the chance to rape plenty of enemy women and torture many enemy men. A conscientious fellow soldier complains about his behavior to the 'superiors', but the superiors exonerate him saying he is 'only following orders'.

Our hero is pleasantly surprised. This is the first time in his life that the 'establishment' ever spoke out in his support. However, pleased as he is, he ensures that the 'informant' dies in a friendly fire while out on patrol.

Later, he sees an army poster asking if anyone is interested in touring Afghanistan. Our hero volunteers and has a Rambo-like career there.

He is much decorated and felicitated and comes back home on leave as a 'hero'.

Unfortunately, those pesky people in the Police Department are still on his case. They read what Thomas Friedman wrote about our hero in his usual laudatory style in the New York Times, see his photograph and exclaim "Why, that's the man we've been loooookin' for!"

So they contact the Army. The Army hedges, prevaricates, obstructs, but finally 'honorably discharges' our hero and lets the wolves have him.

The wolves have him only for a short while. Some patriotic folks, indignant that a war hero be held accountable for a long-ago murder of a long-dead woman, help him break out of police custody and drive him all the way to Canada.

He applies to stay in Canada as a conscientious protester. The Canadians don't buy that. They read Thomas Friedman in the New York Times too. They don't want him there.

So he takes a plane to Venezuela. He figures he'll be welcome in Chavez's land. Enemy of my enemy is my friend, that sort of thing. He figures that Chavez, taking a cue from the New York Times, will feature him on his TV show. He day-dreams of using the TV show to kick-start a new career as a rap artist. Maybe he'll even write an autobiography and flog it on Oprah - over videophone, of course. Our hero, you see, after a lifetime of anonymity, is beginning to enjoy the taste of fame.

However, there's fame and there is fame. Sometimes fame hurts. The minute he lands in Venezuela, he is spotted by a Columbian drug-runner. After he disappeared from their midst earlier, the druglords had figured out that he was stealing from them and now they want their pound of flesh.

Our hero is on the run again. He's running out of places to run to though. The USA is out, so also the US Army, Canada and South America. And North Korea, South Korea, Japan, and China - remember the Japanese, Korean and Chinese drugpins? They want him too and they have long arms. Italy is out too. Our hero had run-ins with the Italian Mafia when he was in jail and they're not forgetting either.

Wondering what to do, our hero seeks shelter in a low-dive in a red light area. He is nursing a drink morosely, when a stranger at the bar strikes up a friendly conversation with him. Our hero is initially suspicious, but the stranger, who is called Moshe, appears to have no underhand motives. They get along well. Just then two Arabs jump Moshe and try to knife him. Our hero goes to his assistance, saves him and their friendship is really cemented.

Our hero, over another dozen drinks, finally confides to Moshe about his 'situation'.

Moshe is sympathetic and offers to help. He is on his way back home, and suggests our hero come with him. He'll be safe there.

And so our hero goes to Israel.....

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End of Part I. Sequel to follow, featuring lots of scenic scenes from Lebanon and Gaza. Stay glued.

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So that's the story. Anyone wants to come and act in it? No pay. At least not before we sweep the Golden Globes.

Maharashtra Riots - The Right to Uncultured Protest

Sonal Panse — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 13:09:38 EST

A riot broke out in town today because Mr. Thackeray was going to be arrested.

I heard this and I wondered what sort of a mindset these people have - I mean, what does go on in their mind, if anything?

I mean, is the scenario something like this -

You're sitting at home, doing nothing - because you are unemployed and it's not your fault - that you don't have an education or qualifications or sufficient work incentive is not your fault - that there may be other regrettably economic reasons for your unemployment is not even to be considered - no, the UP migrant workers are to blame for ALL your troubles.

And you hear on the radio/TV that Mr. T is going to be arrested and so you boil up in a rage - because this is the man who is championing your cause.

You're too naive/ignorant to see that he is championing himself first and foremost, to understand that if he really cared about you, he would -

Stop taking advantage of street-level discontent.
Busy himself starting new businesses.
Busy himself creating new job opportunities.
Busy himself creating better educational facilities.
Get his goons off their idle asses to keep the city clean, instead of littering it more with their mayhem.

But understanding this is too much brain-work for you, besides where would you be if you had to stop blaming other people for your troubles and take some responsibility instead yourself for your own situation?

So you shake off your lethargy and go out and pick up some rocks and hurl them at the first person that comes along, break up shops and businesses that are along your route.

This is how these people are 'protesting'. It is in this uncultured way they seek to protect the 'Marathi Culture'.

Rioting is becoming all too common in India on the whole. We riot because -

Someone said something we didn't like
Someone hurt our religious sentiments
Someone hurt our cultural sentiments
Someone hurt our social sentiments
Someone hurt our public sentiments
Someone hurt our nationalistic sentiments
Someone hurt our small-minded sentiments
Someone hurt our friends' sentiments
Nobody hurt our sentiments exactly, but our friends are rioting and breaking shop windows and we want to join in with the looting.

We also riot, because we can. Because the Indian government is very considerate of our sensitive feelings and lets us off easy every single time.

Poetry: The Genie Got Mugged in the Bottle

Sonal Panse — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 02:46:02 EST

The Genie got mugged in the bottle
We heard this morning from Mr. Cottle

Mr. Cottle is our milkman
He knows more than our newsman

He shook his head and said
Poor Genie, they left him for dead

We gather ‘round and asked, “Who?”
Mr. Cottle shrugged and said, "Ask my shoe.”

The point is not who done it
But why they done it

It is a sign of modern awful times
Why, people even attack glass window chimes

It’s that sort that went for poor Genie
Who else would bother with that weenie?

Why, if you asked him for one wish
You got pelted with spiny fish

The last time I asked him for three
I got to wash three dozen dirty dishes for free

It’s no wonder he couldna muster up no self-defense
You need powerful stuff to deal with the nonsense

They say he tried to conjure up a ferocious dog
And what hopped away was a large green frog

In this Age, magic don’t work
Or else, we said, Genie is too much of a dork

We mustn’t say it e’en if it’s true, said Mr. Cottle
Afterall the dork did get mugged in the bottle

Poetry: Say NO to Thanksgiving!

Sonal Panse — Sat, 24 Nov 2007 00:56:50 EST

Say NO to Thanksgiving
Gobbly, Gobbly, Gobbleeeydo

'Tis not day of thankfulness for OUR community
Gobbly, Gobbly, Gobbleeeydo

While YOU smile and think of chums and brethren in your homes
Gobbly, Gobbly, Gobbleeeydo

WE make a list of kin that make your tables as centerpiece domes
Gobbly, Gobbly, Gobbleeeydo

HOW is Thanksgiving about joy and about life?
Gobbly, Gobbly, Gobbleeeydo

When extinguishing OURS is so annually rife?
Gobbly, Gobbly, Gobbleeeydo

Poetry: Bush and Ahmadinejad - On the Internets

Sonal Panse — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 03:33:11 EDT

The Iranian President once started a blog
Mr. Bush read it after a good, hard slog.

Everything you write is so darned long, he said.
Your 18 page missile, you know, went FAR over my head

Missive, corrected Ahmadinejad, it was a peace missive
I ducked, chuckled Bush, and, gee, wasn't I dismissive

But then you went and started your blog
Endangering the world now with virtual smog.

But God's watching your anti-American rants
And everyone's going to hell wearing burning pants.

America and American threats, said Ahmadinejad,
You people would made the climate in hell go bad.

I'm saddened truly by the situation in your Homeland Block
Healthcare cover nil, and one percent population doing Jailhouse Rock.

Your approval rating is dropping and loathing level is rising
Change your behavior, open a new window, or, why, just sink.

Heed my message very carefully now, bro,
Misbehave more, and you will have to go.

When I have to go, said Bush, I hand Condi a note,
And then analysts world-over analyze what I wrote.

Ahmy, tell me, how do you know Chinese anyway?
Bushie, came the answer, that's Farsi, by the way.

And so on and on and on and on they went.
Isn't it great that you can just click and comment?

The Internet is truly priceless and beyond par.
The two new addicts will now never go to war.

Poetry: The Mess in Mess-O-Potomia

Sonal Panse — Fri, 17 Aug 2007 11:48:49 EDT

The Mess in Mess-O-Potomia is not our doing,
We're just as amazed as you by all the booing.

We never took a rosy view of the Mess-O-Potomia mess,
We had just naturally well and truly counted on a lot less.

But every crisis in Mess-O-Potomia turns into an opportunity for mayhem,
Even though we had really planned, you know, for a short and tidy game.

Six days, six weeks, or six months in Mess-O-Potomia at the max,
Who'd have thought it'd cost you citizens six years min in tax?

Sure is curious, but in Mess-O-Potomia we got to stay,
We got to remain and keep those Islamic Fundies all at bay.

We intend to impose our brand of liberty on Mess-O-Potomia soon,
The Hajis are all already acquainted with gun-fights at High Noon.

Everyone knows we came to Mess-O-Potomia as liberators,
No, we can't help it if there are now too many road craters!!

It's those Haji terrorists of Mess-O-Potomia and their crazy rockets,
One day soon we're going to nuke them right out of their dockets!!

Now ease up, Mess-O-Potomia doesn't need UN Resolutions and Geneva Conventions,
Besides the US Army doesn't adhere to those kind of hypothetical impositions.

We are going to do everything in Mess-O-Potomia that we militarily can,
To get those Hajis, down to every last child, woman and man.

The Mess-O-Potomia God knows, we've bombed enough of their houses,
It's amazing so many of them are still well and alive, the shitty louses!

But it'd be incorrect to call our Mess-O-Potomia adventure,
As a cruel, inhumane and degrading example of human nature.

Now we don't want to further stir up Mess-O-Potamia with semantics,
Shut up about electrified anal prods, or it'll cost you loose optics!!

Poetry: To the Fundamentalist Book Critic

Sonal Panse — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 00:05:56 EDT

So you don't like the matter in my book?
And you want to show it by turning into a crook?

Have you really come to advocate your religion here?
By throwing that chair and stool over there?

Are you screaming to vowelize your hurt sentiment?
Is it for a salve you stoop to scoop up the sediment?

Couldn't you express your sensitivity better than that?
You know, just hurl over the bouquet and leave out the brickbat.

Poetry: The Saga of Donato

Sonal Panse — Thu, 9 Aug 2007 00:51:25 EDT

It's hard to have a name like Donato,
The old folks ought to have known better, oh!

Donato sounds much too much like Donation,
Some people think begging is my vocation.

The other day when I was in Cafe Good Cheer,
A lady dropped a coin in my can of beer.

Hey, lady, I said, this isn't funny,
She said, every little bit helps, sonny.

I went home and said, change my name, Ma.
We argued and changed it that very day.

Now I have a new name and it's even harder,
People seem to think I've money in the larder.

Now, when they see my Ma in the street, girls come tarry,
Oh, Mrs. Gates, your Bill really ought to marry!!!

Poetry: God Said To The Fanatics

Sonal Panse — Tue, 15 May 2007 00:33:39 EDT

God said to the fanatics,
Lissen up, fellas, I'm SO fed-up with your lunatics!

STOP trying to put me into a strait-jacket!
And CUT out that there racket!!

Let the cartoonists and art students draw in peace,
And let that old painter paint me without a stitch.

If there is any shame here,
It's what you do in my name there!

I'm mighty tired of hearing about your 'hurt sentiments' now,
And I HATE being made the figurehead for your dumb-brained pow wow.

If I really needed any defense,
Don't you think I would pick someone with a little sense?

Now, people, I won't say this again,
I'll just send down mighty thunder and rain.

Chill it, damn you, on your part,
Because, goddamn it, I LIKE art!!