Thinning Red Line

It wasn't unexpected. Tempus Fugit. When the ringer went off in the middle of a rather hectic day, I wondered if anything was wrong. Lost in the churn of a big city, any transplant would recognise the shudder that welcomes an unexpected call from hometown. Followed by the relief when a familiar voice sounds anything but urgent. My friend of two decades, all cheer as always, salutation censored, life ho-hum etc. And as we meandered, he lowered the boom. Marrying in a month. Convincing him of my inability to get to his wedding wasn't pleasant; even less would have been the state of the poor souls overhearing the colorful epithets he lavished me with in response.

Long after the day had wound down, I was still wondering what I was left with. It still seemed not too long ago, when heading into a weekend was more akin to a plundering horde. Too many of us, and too few of everything else, as in glasses, cigarettes, tickets, seats in a cab and of course fine women. You might call it a long bachelor party, until the least likely of the crowd decided to take the plunge into familydom. It remained a party through many of the regulars falling away, as if autumn was upon this single oak. Much like a picnic where one of the crowd decides to stay back at the hut. Until now, that is. For now it's down to the last man. In danger of sounding vain, but, it seems I am the man.

Surviving those dreaded weekends. Picture this. No one to fight with over the remote, all fine crystal and no griping, no gossip to swap (meaner n' fleshier than the sista variety), none to finish the punchlines. This time the joke's on me, it seems. And forget it, there's no chance in hell that anyone of the married crowd would join you. Statistically, population and sample converge. It used to be true for lovers, robbers and footballers that they should never go back (to their last beau, heist or club). Add the wedded gent to the list, for fear of being lynched. The gent walks the long and narrow whilst the new sheriff holds the short and curly. Finally, only a better half busy with a promised parenthood seem to draw the old firm back around a table. Whenever that happens, its like ol' times. Almost. With atleast one among us deciding to make up for the Vegetarianism, Prohibition, curfew, no-late-cable, no-cigarette, no-exposed-torso and other assorted shackles ordained by the dame back home, with a bingeing trip which would bring a tear to those who witnesseth. Ever more misery if the newly (and only fleetingly) emancipated forgets the barf-bag.

So it ends, seemingly sooner that it started. The lady does return cradling the pinkish coo-magnet. Work beckons. While I fend off queries as "So you're next, eh?" with as much civility that I could muster. At times it seems the married are in an ethical dilemma when faced with a singleton; to coopt the latter seems the only solution available. That's why you are faced with otherwise rational friends trying to play matchmaker for you: "You know there's this lady in my office, a mallu you see...". With the lady of the house chiming in with "It's about time for you..", with a finality that would eke a shudder out of the Grim Reaper. Duck, dive, scoot. Never easy changing the subject to "Ford has a new car.."

Meanwhile, winter gains on the oak. Let's see how this one goes. The neighborhood punk has recently switched from 'Yo, dude' to 'hi, uncle' as greeting. That cannot be good. I shall embrace vanity, just once, by mentioning 'Lion in Winter' in passing. Spring cannot be far away.

As it stands the drink is warm, the chips are cold, and the food is chineze. If it's not upto you to join me, then it's just cheers to me.

Good thing I get to keep the remote.

Playing Somebody's Game

I wonder how our memories get stirred. With nothing more than a wisp, a long stretch of dominoes come tumbling down. Or why would anyone want them to be. For they force us to look at ourselves in the mirror, for what we are, all that we wanted to be, and all that transpired in between. At the end of it all, it’s up to us to painstakingly rearrange those dominoes again.

So there I was, oblivious to the impending total-recall, as the interviewer leaned back and passed the mallet to the compatriot. Now I just had a mildly unpleasant Q & A with Domain. A carefully deadpan face, buttressed with Teflon; no emotion seemed to stick, and I'd no idea if any of my spiel had an effect. Over to HR. Now anybody worth his/her CV would tell you that HR is not, repeat not, to be taken lightly. Their seemingly inane queries are borne out of centuries of scientific enquiry, and are not to be dismissed as boilerplate.
Even those that go like:

"You're from Kerala, so what are you doing in Bombay?"
Gratuitous Answer: To find a job, you moron.
Gratuity Earning Answer: My skill-sets demanded a certain profile...blah.. blah..

Dour sounding Techie & Intelligent looking HR is how corporates play Good Cop/Dud Cop. As in:

God: Go build a boat. And put two of every species in it.
Moses: Yes, my Lord.
HR: Why no shave?
Moses: Lord, I've found one mule already.

So it came finally, like a pebble skipping over water, "Who's your favorite sportsperson?" (Please note the gender neuter. How very equal op). I would have jumped for Isinbayeva (any time, from 5m high) or for Federer (will kill for backhand). Slowly arching forward, I mentally removed the Domain Guru tape & inserted Team-Builder & Affable Employee tape. Good to go. Hit Play.
But very oddly, and at that very inopportune moment, I lost auto-pilot. As my mind shuffled & blinked, I realised I had an awkward situation to handle.

For genuinely, and that's not meant for job interviews, I had a favorite. Very much a favorite. Too long ago, and may be too unfashionable to mention. Even my memory seems too grainy and distorted. Ivan Lendl. Around him revolved all my childhood delusions of grandeur. He was my famous double, what I wanted to be. Rather, what I would be. Destined for glories in lands I'd never been, in a sport I could only watch, winning adulation I could never imagine. His days of glory, made mine; however wretched that might seem. I copied his walk, sucked in my cheeks, and ridiculously tapped my badminton racket against my soles before serving. I read and re-read his comments, his outbursts at Court No.1, and secretly fantasized trying that during PT. I mourned when he lost at Wimbledon; twice over.

Late 80s meant Tennis was more like Disney cartoons; appears rarely, and happens only on TV. A TV called DD, and nothing else. In spite of state broadcasting, I still stalked my Doppel. Color pages of Sportstar. More DD. Over Grand Slams. Fidgeting through News Breaks and Parliament blah. Praying that on the other side of the interminable wait, I find Gaunt Face hale, hearty, and a two-set lead. Patting sweat off his brow with his wrist band. Cool. So do I.

Not that there weren't others who mesmerized this impressionable mind. van Basten, Socrates and Wilander no less. But loyalties are bound in blood at the age of fourteen, and mine was not meant to be any less. It was never fashionable then, what with the likes of Becker & Edberg around, but I stuck with it.

Somewhere along, I grew up, and made my peace with obscurity. Then Lendl retired. I never became a fan again. My racket still finds the soles of my feet, though.

Yes, HR. For once, I speak my mind. Never mind that I had to repeat the name twice; HR mistook him for the Tsar.

Should have played tape.

On a Water Break

"Water, Water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink" was always the plaintive wail of the indiscreet who let himself be ambushed by a State Gazetted holiday celebrating/mourning somebody, but definitely damning Bacchus. Now, he might have aired plaints of his parched palette in dialects never ever found in parchments. At other times of ill fortune, he also might have questioned the mystic standing of his Luck (no Lady this, quit owin' to the swearin'), referred to farm animals in passing (esp. the cute, little, pink type), as also to the One above, inter alia. All in the rush of things. Never intended as blasphemy. Until the said mallu realised how much he'd offended his Almighty, and as events unfolded, how severely His patience has been tested.

For one who hails from a land which entices tourists to turn up to watch it rain (all from nations where water does fall down from the clouds), the thought never occured to me that all the perceived ingratitutde & wanton griping would attract a particularly watery retort. In football lingo, a yellow for simulation.

So, while I wait for the travelling press-guy (nope, not the satellite dish, live-microphone, bozo trio; only guy with hot iron on wheels) to return my pale(d) orange bedsheet which shall henceforth be my garb matching my new found spirituality, let's reminisce...

For a July, this year seemed like more of the same out here in B'bay. Loads of dark clouds, but nothing to show for it. Until, the 26th. As a mere pawn at the hands of the pissed-One, I had to be at BKC on that day. To give you a topographical refresher, BKC consists of just around half dozen steel-glass buildings that pass for India's Shanghai, perfectly nestling on a vast area of land reclaimed from the sea. Picture dying mangroves & filthy creek, with legal skyscrapers and illegal hutments on either side. If I had to drown, this had to be the place.

It got better for me. For till noon of that fateful day, I was in the basement of one of these buildings minding my own business. Oblivious to the clouds that had long turned bad, with high winds to boot. Basement, for God's sake. Every viewing space from Ground to Seventh has heads bobbing in & out, making predictions, cancelling options, running for the door.... and all the while I am in the well-lit, well-enclosed basement killing time with the day's paper; knowledge being power. In the basement wondering why I carry that umbrella around so much; so uncool.

Aww, that was the turning point in the rush to the pits that was the next 24 hours.

Events unfolded, or rather went for a goddam toss, in no time. Starting with a rather innocuous sounding query from the janitor at 2.00pm as to why I wasn't headed home. Home?. What the..? Up the stairs to the Ground Floor where I joined 100 other spectators in gawking at what I could swear (at it, even today) was but a sheet of water pouring from somewhere up. Now BKC floods if you leave a tap running; this wasn't meant to flood, this deluge had a particularly homicidal approach that had me scurrying to... where?? Good chance trains are out. And buses that barely funnel into the narrow lanes opening into BKC would be just too crowded. So, let's hit the roads. Ok. Cool me retrieves bag, umbrella (!), and newspaper (for the ride home) and rushes into, The Devil's Water Park.

That was the last I saw of the sky. For the next half-hour I was pinned into my umbrella by a wind that had me pirouetting in knee-deep water, all the while fighting a losing battle against getting wet. The water, was everywhere. Climbing fast. So were the populance. Everywhere, and seemingly headed nowhere. And the water level maintained its steady climb. It had long risen from soaking my ankles to threatening my trouser pockets. Then it hit me. In the rush, I had left my mobile in my hip pocket. Brave young thing let out not a whimper before hanging up on me. I could see water inside the screen. The first casualty of the day was buried in the inner folds of my bag.

Travel from that point on was quite a blur. Bag held over my head, like a surrendering brigand, I trudged till the speed and volume of the fluid (with enough filth to give microbes a flu), simply put paid to my hopes of reaching home that day. I wonder if the water reached my brains, but it surely threatened my stubble before I found myself being hauled atop a bus, in the process allowing myself two rather unpleasant immersions in the swirling waters. My fellow travellers numbered around 50. So space was at a premium. You nod off, you fall off. That's 12 feet to the ground, or 2 feet to the current. Oh, yes. Lest I forget, the buckets from the heavens never emptied once. So with umbrellas open, and strangely getting wetter than if I hadn't bothered to, I spend the night on the roof of a red bus. My teeth chattering away in Morse. And myself contemplating the futility of Life, and the godforsaken Met dept. At first light, I moved out. Crawled home almost 4 hours later, wading through waters ranging from neck to elbow depth.

Did it all make me wiser? Surely. The rains are still on, but I've given up on carrying my umbrella. What's left to wet anyway? Moreover, the vedas claim that the ethereal is kinda teflon. Only the corporeal is uncoated e.g., my dead mobile was corpor, so Ericsson could ring in the Kronor; whereas my Faith is ether, hence the following:

Caught in the middle of the swirl the following morning, I wondered whether it was actually a good idea to leave my perch atop the bus. Out of somewhere a hand shot out. Calloused, grimy, decidedly of one who works in the innumerable nameless iron shops that line LBS. As I stood there wondering whether I had it in me to trust both my luck and a stranger, the only thing that tipped in his favor was his decidedly earnest confidence. Not what I'd in plenty, when faced with four feet of water running at forty miles an hour. He took my arm and plunged in, and I was sort of water-skied onto higher ground, where awaited still more hands and eager help. While I splashed onto land, he was headed for the next leap of faith.

From one migrant to another, thanks a lot.

Dud on the Dance Floor

It's that time of the evening. The crowd melts away from the bar, and singly or coupled, swing towards the makeshift dance floor. And there I am, holding onto my near-empty drink for dear life. In prolonging that drink to the latest sip (or evaporation, if it comes to that), and hence the ritual visit to the dance floor, lies my key to self-preservation. Any interested party urging me over could so easily be deflected by a wave of the glass and a "li'l drink remaining... be there soon". For I can't dance. Not to save my life. From this ringside seat, reserved for the pitiable, I get an untrammeled view of the swaying masses of rhythm-haves and yes, that pretty thing from Accounts apparently auditioning for MTV Grind. As I artfully down another shot of poison, here's one to the naturally deselected.

So let's talk about the sore dancers, the rhythm-less creations, the ones that God's Wisdom and not his Grace sent down. The ones normally left alone (and best so) at dance parties. Two left-feet they call it. But whoever has attempted dance would tell you (if you don't know already), it's not the feet dammit! It's that your two hands too get in the way of your self-expression. As also a certain disconnect that creeps in as soon as you have to attempt anything wilier than foot tapping. For want of a better excuse, the blame lies with our genes. And the far-Southie misses the Jiggy strand.

As for cultural conditioning, it's only fortunate that being a Mallu I don't have too many brethren in moviedom to set the bar. And therein lies salvation. Mallu stars can't dance. And salivation too. Mallu starlets can sure shake their booty. But then, I digress. "Wow, you dance like superstar M___", therefore, is not meant to be a compliment. It's only mallu male-bonding in a twisted sense. The genres of dancing out there are but two: (I) the walkabout where “character-actor” star & nubile starlet ‘recite’ the song, struggling to make it look as ‘normal’ as crooning on a bus could be, and generally get it all done with, (II) an attempt is made by “commercial” star and underaged starlet to go head to head with non-unionized extras from Chennai. What follows invariably prompts Mallus in mixed company to gingerly reach for the remotes; there are enough horrors in our lives already.

Historically, there are fine dances that originated in Kerala. Most of them, Ladies singles or Ladies group. Picture that dusky lady with hair tied in a floral bun, head tilted by its weight. Crowned with a fine smile that launched a thousand fleets, all headed the other way. Incidentally, it’s not the considerable amount of oil in South Pars, Khobar or Kirkuk that drove our menfolk onto the Gulf, hitching rides on catamarans, camel-trains or Air India (listed in order of safety). It’s the inconsiderate amount of oil in her considerable hair. Ya Sidi, it’s cruel, but God is Merciful. The Gulf carries her faint aroma. Only you have to dig for it. And she be blessed. But no man, she do no cha-cha. Neither do her friends. Because all her dances are performed rigor mortis. Around an oil-lamp, to complete the picture. The sort Egyptians would have performed minutes before stuffing a mummy down the side of a pyramid.

In the meantime, none for the gentlemen to stretch their legs with, to jolly. Even the Scots do their own thingy while bag-piping. (It is this sad state that drove the barren souls to grape-nectar, popularised as Brandy. Parched as I am, let’s not go there.) Barring maybe, Kathakali, to which let me say just one thing. When you dance with a large skirt and all that paint on, don't you still expect the gals to fall for anyone but the bare-chested drummer out in front. For an ethnicity that celebrates a harvest festival, there is as much joy in our dances as Mr. Baby facing Customs at Kochi Airport.

Unlike our agrarian northern brethren. Who need no more than a stick popping on a drum to throw both their hands (and one leg) up, and do some early-Harappan calisthenics. With the feet alternating to aid lower body circulation. My historical research suggests otherwise: that was how they lined up to surrender. The moves came along to cut the boredom. The prevalent thought of that time being 'how many times would you give yourself up, no fight in any case, and all with a long face?' Cheerio! Look, even Genghis can't gag his grin.

I still can’t really figure out why I cannot dance. While I contemplate the dignified reticence of my ilk, my friend from the North seems to have solved his tax filing worries; I reckon he might even find it a lot more fun than usual. Coward.

But why mope, while there's enough drink to go around. Next weekend I will try Scotch and see if it works. But will anyone want to dance with a guy wearing a skirt?

To The One I Left Behind

You were not supposed to die. My friend. I am all of thirty, and so should you be. Though I suspect you were a year or two older. Overaged brat. For you had a silly beard in Class X, if that's what you could call a rash of facial hair, when we never had one; now that's a dead giveaway. You would have gone bald too by now, while my superior genes shine through in their brave albeit receding lines. And fat, for that's what you were in school. That truth I never told you, for fear of an aching butt.

Our 'golden mile' is still much the same. Just the way we left it. All the way from Women's College to "Red Bag's" house. (By the way, the 'baggie' is married with two kids, I'm single & the kids ain't mine, thank you so). Same old twisting lane, with nothing but empty balconies staring into it. And, as before, after the gaggle have sashayed by, it's just that same old prof peering over the green gate as the world passes by. Now, how the hell does he have more hair..? Maybe I'll just call him a dirty ol' man, and make my peace!

Whenever I pass by, I make sure I take the scenic tour. On foot. Not for the birds, but for the memories. Every corner, every fork, all those sights, sounds and the gossip. Stay long enough and they all come up swirling.
I know you wouldn't agree, but the ladies of our time were a class by themselves. Oh, to be fifteen and hopelessly in love. With all of them! I would not take names, and I deny in advance all those link-ups your sick mind is throwing up. Oh, and remember how we signed truce with the threesome - the 'nancies'. Not easy considering the number of chalk pieces expended in pretty much one-sided artillery barrages. Now, don't be a whiner when I tell you that they whipped you good in your only foray into a game of Scrabble. Your triple-word effort being "Mices", which was one mouse too many in your vocab. Yuck. I had to miss three tuition classes for two weeks to escape the sniggering lady-bugs.

We did become good friends through college though, and may be a little more with Ms.Spex. Yup, that's another story. Now don't wonder, why all the women. Of course, because that's all you had on your mind. Except maybe weekends at the old Dutch fort. All the beach to ourselves, and some spicy gossip to go around. So much fun that used to be; and surprisingly, sans tobacco & liquor!

I moved out not long after we last met. It was not easy to accept, and in a way I needed to put some distance between me and all this. I did all that engine-study, as we had planned, and much more. For the kind of job i got into, all that seems ridiculous now. These days I meet up with my folks once a month. Time flies. It's never the same without you, or for that matter, "that-moped-gal". Gotcha there! Her dad being a fat cop never dimmed your enthu for her.

Now it's only a long trudge, to and from work. Throw in a few hours for food, sleep and a 100 channel TV, I live a full life. It all seems like yesterday, like the lingering taste of icecream soda from the corner shop. Ah well, those folks sell instant lotteries these days.

Did all this end too soon? Is growing up a prelude to parting of ways? Like when you left. As if you knew then, as I've begun to accept now, that those were the best days of our lives. Leaving on a high. Maybe we are wrong, maybe we would have had bigger and better, but those days will never see a re-run.

Yet there was so much more we could have had. To grow old together. With memories to cuddle and losses to mourn. Not gone when we were fifteen. There must be some mistake.

One of Us

"So in the Libyan fable it is told
That once an eagle, stricken with a dart,
Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,
'With our own feathers, not by others' hands
Are we now smitten"
(Wisdom of the Ages - Aeschylus)

Haven't we caressed those scars left within and without and wondered of the hands that smote, the words that marred. How we tried to fend them off, but unkind words cut the deepest. Awash in shame and loss, we realised what a lonely business life is turning out to be. Not that help was not at hand, it was just out of grasp. Too proud to seek, we rolled with them punches. Now as dawn breaks, and we caress our bluish jowls, we realise what we should have always known.
It's the swipe from the one you knew, the closest, that has cleaved the deepest.

Then there are the ones amongst us, soaked in self-righteousness, offering to lead us, the astray. Advice not reckoned for, or solicited. As smearing a burn with scent, the foulness lost for the injury to worsen. The same act plays out in various garbs all round. The woman violated, is offered neither solace nor justice, but the antipathy otherwise reserved for the suicidal. As if, unbenknownst to her, she tempted woe upon herself. Or the commoner, wronged by the mighty, served nothing more than a pious dose extolling the 'hand of fate'. We wonder for a moment whether it is the perpetrator or the placebo that has caused the most harm.

What we'd give for us to be with nobody but ourselves, none to confer with, none to intrude. The vast expanses within that would sponge up all that's thrown at us.

For deep within ourselves lies a well-spring of content. Of hope. Virtues that have healed us many a time before. As they would this time too.

We wash our souls with it, and live, to fight another day.

Chin up.

Soldiers Never Die

In each one of us lies a patriot, waiting for the opportune moment to literally charge out of the trenches, take the battle to the enemy, and eke glory from amongst the gore. As early as a dimple-cheeked child, knocking imaginary enemy jets out of the summer sky, to an eager youth when Defence Entrance exams symbolised a coming-of-age ritual. Essentially, our early life is spotted with grand fantasies of battles wherein we would fight, kill and earn a gallantry award, most preferably non-posthumous.

But as adolescence turns to youth, and the truth begins to dawn that one would never fly a MiG outside PS2, or command a division other than Regional Sales, we make our own compromises. No, we don't settle for the Coast Guard, but Infosys would do just fine, thank you. In fact, that is pretty much the story of our lives. Small compromises. As life goes on, we don't dream much of charging out of the trenches as before. Though, not as much as scalping a rail ticket from , what else, the defence quota. Or a Chivas from the canteen. Maybe we would watch our kids make the season-finale cameo at the NDA exam. Rousing. Boys would be boys. Worrying all the same that your kid might actually make it.

Finally, when somebody else's son who chose to wear green fails to make it home, you say a silent prayer; as much for the departed as your own offspring.

It is not that personal loss makes one a greater patriot, or that love for a nation should be confined to the ones shouldering arms. Yet our earliest memories of loving one's own nation is colored by stories of valour, honor and lives lost for the same. With perspective and age we may question such a singular approach, yet deep inside we are all soldiers. Plodding at our lives, inconsequential as they might be. For we don't love this land any less.

We are only glad that they fight on our behalf, and relieved that they are taking our place.

How would soldiers die, for aren't they reborn in each one of us?

Three Times Lucky

tri·fec·ta (n.) : A system of betting in which the bettor must pick the first three winners in the correct sequence. Also called triple.

From portals plugging anything from jobs to partners, to the matron angling for a "suitable boy" & the school counsellor evangelising the future. It's the same path to salvation for everyone. Graduate in Engineering, followed by a
Postgrad in Management. A plum job being the bonus. A jolly trio that rule our destiny. The ones to pull their cards right, by genes or means, are afforded the awe once reserved for the privileged. The rest, branded as also-rans. Fawning masses, who clearly missed the bus. And woe befall the one born with not as much ambition as the go-getter.

What chance does society offer a 'differently' abled child? The one the Gods did not favor with a scientific bend. Or a knack for numbers. The Lesser God whose children turned out with talents far removed from what the mob demanded. From experience, very little. Countless are disgorged from innumerable technical schools, and many were simply Shanghaied into it. Peer pressure or regimentation, they are the lost generation among us. Accursed to a life-path imposed on them by those who should have known better.

Ours is a society that has decided for itself that being a qualified engineer with no sense of science is eminently preferable to being a natural artist with a heightened sense of color. A world where acquired knowledge, acquired at any or all costs, should stump the gifts born with. With no shelter from the searing competition, these are allowed to die. Killed, in some cases. In later life remembered only as an afterthought. Sometimes carefully tucked into the last para of our Resumes, duly accounted as "extra-curriculars"; for even the emperor needs a jester. Ensuring that this officious piece of paper says as little about ourselves as we could allow it.

There is only space for achievers here, and the trifecta take the first row. Four years of singular devotion to exams and grades qualify them to end up in the same basement.

At code shops. At Process floors. At work.

That being the final badge of recognition. For it's not the love of Mechanics that drove us to JEE, it's the moolah. Chem to Civil, let the good times roll. And the second pull from the deck is our card to the next heaven. Two more years, and
promised land. Another life achieved.

Matters to none whether he could have felt a color, rhymed a poem, or lead the meek. For no one gave him another chance. To be himself.

This is our generation of underachievers. Blessed thrice over.

The coming of the lifestyle fascist

And so it has been legalised. Coming right on the heels of the Thought Police deeming live dances vulgar, maybe we should have seen it coming. Did I put Thought, Police AND Vulgar all in the same line? The hapless victim at Marine Drive probably never suspected the purveyors of virtue to be so heartless.

As some worthy put it, it's the dress sense.

Let's only discuss legally sound issues then. The first "it" in all this.
The right to live, breed and raise a Ghetto. It used to be called an enclave, with a well rounded 'e'.
Well, that's what it used to be. Until they decided to extern any undesirables from the vicinity. And beyond. And the highest court in the land deems it legal.

So much for Equality & Fraternity.

Do we really live in a free country? Is freedom the right to choose one's neighbor? As happens in Mumbai, the ones with the same culinary tastes. Or religious denomination?
Are we a nation of racists? (A reality check would be to have a chat with any foreigner, preferably an African national, out here on scholarship. They'd tell you what they put up with. Everyday.) Does fraternity mean comparable color, creed or denomination ?

The most disturbing trend is the increasing acceptance of such exclusivism. From the endorsers of vegan to the disciples of the jet-set healer. From the opinionated regulars on the news, to the silent majority going about the daily drudge. Once the breeding ground for the naive, misty-eyed socialist, the upper-class nowadays finds instant gratification and solace in social herding. Their herd only reviled the social climber and the sans culotte, but these days it has plumbed to the level of ethnic and religious profiling.

It's as if we have resigned to the fact that there exists untouchability. And our lives and that of those around us would be better off so. It is as if our lifestyles, our faith, our gods have preordained our lives to such an extent that the rich should look further than pelf to prejudge his fellow schmoozer; no honor among thieves one might say. While the poor is accursed to his ghetto as long as he is poor, and the millions in between have no voice to anguish.

Is this the Shanghai we are aiming to be, or the West Bank that's there for all to see.