Thursday, January 25, 2007

January 26th

As all of us in India stay at home and avoid venturing out onto the roads, because there are 'Islamofascists' out there with IED's strapped to their bodies, and security is tighter than the cop's ass who has to stand out there in the cold and wait for the unthinkable, and pray for it all to end without incident; We come to a startling thought- have we have become so used to the presence of fully armed policemen with flak armour and sub-machine guns around every corner, that we may be already under a militaristic rule, and we just don't know it?

that, for the most part, is far from the truth, leaving aside those pesky northeasterners and kashmiris, whom the general Indian populace continues to keep out of their conscience, and continues to call 'chinky' or 'mullah' or whatever.

But the fact remains, we have been living under the shadow of the gun for over two decades now, and we have been bullied and coerced into accepting the presence of riot-control brigades and .303 slinging policemen through the years. And we seem to be okay with it.

I have rather sketchy memories of growing up under the fear of terrorism, when my home state was in the throes of a self-destructing war with itself, and the citizen was the one who could be crushed either under the heel of a power-crazy cop, or the rifle butt of a terrorist. I still remember the time when my school was specifically targeted upon, because our school's uniform included skirts for girls. For a brief period, our uniform code was changed to suit the fundamentalists's views. Now I look upon what the Taliban did to the women of Afghanistan, and I think, we were headed down the same path. We were that close. Thankfully, we never got to the point of where the Islamic Caliphate of Afghanistan (1997-2002) had reached.
There used to be sandbagged bunkers at every entry and exit into the city where I lived, and soon there would be watchtowers, some of which still exist(though not equipped with a LMG and a pair of sentries, like those times) Random stops of traffic, blackouts at seven PM, stories of terrorist abductions and police torture, these are the memories of anybody who lived through the eighties and the early nineties. We lived in a city, that was next to the state capital, so we were relatively safe. the situation in the villages was such- Don't come home before dark, and it could be assumed that you were either in an interrogation cell somewhere, or were running an errand for the terrorists, under the threat of certain death to you and your entire family.

I feel fortunate not to have lived through those times in the shoes of those who were older than me. Which brings me to my second question- How much of our personal liberty are we willing to sacrifice in order to ensure that someone does not detonate a few kilos of RDX next to you?

In the USA, where personal freedom is held in the highest regard, this is a highly debated issue. There is much protest in society about the means the current administration is using to fight terror at home. The general opinion is heavily favoured towards preserving the citizens' personal freedom. As a non-citizen, this stance is amusing for me, coming from a place where you are routinely frisked and your bags opened before you board a metro train. After all, the one minute of total freedom that you are denied also gives you the freedom from the fear of a backpack bomber blowing himself up in a crowded bogey. In today's world, it's a price i'm be willing to pay.
What seems okay to a guy like me, may be a cataclysmic breach of personal freedom for any American (or for that matter, anybody) who likes to live in a bubble.
The allegations that these means could be abused are not unfounded. If someone deliberately fondles your scrotum or your breast while frisking you, that is real abuse of power. Of course, frisking is only one part of the whole set-up. Things become very complicated when matters like phone taps and surveillance come into play. The official position is- If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to worry about. This position could also allegedly give cover to unscrupulous agencies or persons using whatever information they have on you for personal gain. It's hard to draw a line between what is legal and what is not, and this defining process cannot be fast-tracked, avoided or omitted.
I cannot say how far the Citizens of India will let the government go in the arena of anti-terrorism and counterintelligence. Could it be that we are already so under the cloud, that we cannot see the true position of things, to rephrase my first question?

Monday, January 22, 2007

Don't try this at home.

The last three days on the job, I have been working as the relief saute man on the line, and many a times, I have had to step in and take over the whole line with seven pans spitting and bubbling at the same time. It's an organizational nightmare, trying to keep track of the state of each pan on the flame, and correctly judging when it's ready to get the next ingredient, and periodically glancing at the POS terminal screen to see what's coming my way, and getting the pans ready for the next wave of orders.

Of course, such matters leave little room in your mind for things like your appearance, language, physical comfort and stress. It also keeps your mind diverted from the fact that little by little, you are also cooking your own body, as well as whatever is frying away in the saute pan. The bursts of fire that result from an ounce of wine or a few droplets of oil burning on direct contact with the plasma of gas coming from below continually sear your face, sometimes touching the brim of your baseball cap, an event that puts common sense to work, and makes you wisely wear your cap backwards. As your reach across the burners to ladle some sauce into your searing-hot pan, a pillar of intense heat cuts across your bare forearms, instantly wilting each strand of hair. Stay in that position long enough, pondering if you put in enough sauce, and the heat will give your entire arm a nice waxed appearance, with an extra dollop of agony thrown in just for fun.

A grill and an oven give off this invisible, intense heat that makes their presence felt at a distance. You try to avoid any contact between your flesh and the radiant surfaces, because you can still see the marks from the last time the two of you met. A deep-fat fryer is like a mirage of apparent calm, the illusion dissipating with the immersion of a cold, wet item into the pool, which results in a display of arrogant rage, the liquid spitting and sputtering in a fit of fury. With a gas range, the heat comes at you like the thrusts from a skilled fencer, hitting a tender spot each time, until you learn all its tricks, or just become impervious to the dance of the flames below. With my arms extending over the gas burners for a few seconds every now and then, I have estimated that over the course of a regular working day, I voluntarily roast my appendages for a combined period of about a minute everyday. In about a week's time, I should be cooked to a nice Roti au bleu (rare) degree. Just the way Dr. H.Lecter prefers it.

Gravy, anyone?

Music- Gioachino Rossini-The barber of Seville-Ouverture (1989 Zagreb music festival, Croatia)
Igor Stravinsky- The Firebird-finale (BRT Philharmonic, Brussels, 1990)