A case against the PMK

Marakkanam is at once a rude reminder and a charming data point of small town northern Tamil Nadu. The smallness and the complete un-remarkability of it is a pointer to this state’s high degree of urbanization and the ugly sprawl that it entails. Marakkanam, as it happens across much of Tamil Nadu, has a visible government presence – a school, a primary health center and an administrative office – in terms of buildings. There is haphazard construction, poor traffic management and a general decay of civic sense on display as well.  The Police Station, owing to recent disturbances, was filled with bored policemen doing nothing.

Just to serve as a writing cliché for those who know nothing about the town and yet decide to write on it anyway, there is an ancient Chola temple at its entrance. The temple looks to pre-date the grandeur of later Chola marvels of the 11^th and 12^th Centuries that have a grand gopuram and a two way entrance; the untrained eye will hence date this temple between 9^th and 10^th Centuries. Internet fails to add insight lending this assumption greater credence than it deserves. The temple, stunningly, has a statue of Brahma inside; given how rare that is, it is a mystery as to why it isn’t more storied. Maybe be it is and a random city slicker and non-practicing Hindu is no one to judge. But the stench of bat-poop inside the temple lends some weight to that conclusion.

The state highway, the East Coast Road, that hugs the Bay of Bengal along much of the way, typically divides most nondescript towns and villages it passes through into two sections. As a rule, the strip of land that exists between the ocean and the highway is a Dalit Colony or a fisherman’s village – while the other side of the highway is the “actual” town. The nonchalance of this division is possibly far more tragic than any other impact it may have.

The PMK, largely looked at as the party of Vanniyars in Tamil Nadu, recently held its conclave nearby. Vanniyars typically include a lot of sub-castes and are essentially what the government classifies as ‘Most Backward Classes.’ That there is tension between the Vanniyars, who’ve had historically poor levels of education, literacy and per capita income, and Dalits is a fact in large swathes of northern Tamil Nadu. The caste conclave which is essentially a gathering of a lot of drunk men, and almost exclusively men, saw a large number of “cadre” who came in to attend and were, according to several eye witnesses, being a general nuisance to public order. A minor scuffle that broke out between Dalits and these visiting drunks resulted in burnt buses, houses and general violence.

The PMK leaders have in the past, and at the conclave, raised the issue of Dalit men marrying Vanniyar women. Yes, this is an “issue”. An issue serious enough that the PMK’s President, in that conclave, exhorted Vanniyar men to take up arms against Dalits if they attempted to woo “their” women[1]. Outside of this funny admission of a general inability to win women over, the party’s political platform is often indistinguishable from most other Social Democrat/ Populist parties in Tamil Nadu[2]. 

That the PMK cadre pelted stones at public transport and set a few government buses on fire, serious as they are, appear to be an administrative problem that can be handled effectively by a strong willed Police force. What is a far more serious issue is whether such a party should be allowed to contest elections. The blatant casteism of the PMK, with an implicit threat of violence against Dalits, is almost reminiscent of the KKK from Hollywood movies.

A factor in much of the indignation amongst Vanniyars and many other castes is that Dalits are now being instigated to ask for too much and are “looking for a fight.” If the status of their life in 2013 is still one of a colony separated by a highway and them being told whom they can or cannot woo, looking for a fight is hardly a proportional response. If I were Dalit, I’d look for far more than a mere fight. And there is the tragedy – in looking at them as the “other” that sort of have to prove their goodness is a trap that is casteist by design. One that the KKK used: putting the onus of proving that the oppressed are after all human on the oppressed themselves. That they forget individual men and women will always be that – individual men and individual women. With warts and moles and ingrown nails. That they are people is non-negotiable and that the PMK seeks to negotiate that is what is deeply troubling. That one’d think is grounds enough to ban the party from the next election.

[1] - Why "their" is not used when they refer to men or how Vanniyar men marrying Dalit women is not an issue worth raising is a topic for a young feminist at Madras University writing a thesis on Patriarchy.
[2] - Possible exception may be an insistence on prohibition. An amusing piece of principle given alcohol appears to be a necessary condition for its cadre mobilisation.

Anger vs Empathy

Sebastian Junger in reminiscing his friend Tim Hetherington said something, I forget what, that reminded me: for most  traumatic experiences, anger is reserved for the self and empathy for others.It never occurs to the truly stressed out self that pitying oneself is a possibility. That's a luxury only the armchair can afford. Either for others or oneself in the third person.

Maybe Zoloft is the physiological equivalent of shifting narrative person-hood.

Othering Happy

John Gray, in his latest book The Silence of Animals: On Progress and Other Modern Myths, quotes the German journalist Sebastian Haffner's account of society in Germany being comraded into happiness. A sort of environment where the not so active hater of the other still partakes in the happiness generated in the haters' non-hating activity. This must be true; for another author, Romesh Gunasekera, in a completely different context describes a happiness and preoccupation quite similar. And, with a war that's impending.

One is tempted to draw parallel to the Hindu right wing echo chamber of relatively strange people on Twitter who seem to enjoy othering Muslims. 

Two Men

There is a reason why literary fiction tends to touch love gingerly, if at all. It's difficult to be original, thoughtful and truthful about the said segment of human condition. In the past week however, there have been two  instances,

• Robert Peston's rendition of the British stiff upper lip when he selected his late wife Sian Busby's 'The Cruel Mother' in Radio 4's A Good Read. Mocking one's own vulnerability and being embarrassed about bringing personal suffering to a conversation and yet being honest about it is very moving.
• Marty Ginsburg's letter to his wife Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg that was reproduced in The New Yorker's profile of her,

On the question of living

The trouble with modern life, or life in the calorie abundant world with relatively advanced healthcare, is that mortality is left to degeneration. That is, having survived the threats of infant mortality, influenza, childhood diseases, risks of famine, war, maternal mortality, heart disease, many types of cancer and many other major "killers", what most people will be left with is death due to Diabetes, Alzheimer, Osteoporosis and the rest. Ones where managing survival is possibly more difficult than death owing to their irreversability.

When faced with that prospect, what does a reasonable person do? Let's assume one manages to live to be sprightly until 90 and then hits a degenerative disease; simply because for all the advances in healthcare, mankind hasn't yet managed to eliminate death. 

What does a reasonable young person do?

One option is to ignore the inevitability. Another is to keep working on the ways one can mitigate the burden one will impose on the world when one ceases to be of any immediate value -- assuming there is value of some sort to be extended at all. The third, and perhaps the more honest is to question, what will be the difference between now and then? Is there any? Even if there is, is the relative value generated by one's own life worth the costs imposed on society and on the physical world? It must take phenomenal arrogance to answer that question in the affirmative, shouldn't it? As healthcare normalizes life expectancy and its relative quality, whatever that means, the obvious question mankind will ask itself is, why wait?

After all, the earlier uncertainty at least created the illusion of life being interesting.

Thought. Dream.

The meeting was boring as usual. He'd dozed off, as usual.

It's not a dream if you can will it. Why not? Does this then qualify as thinking? You don't think so? Who the fuck are you arguing with? You don't know? What are you doing anyway? You know what's more embarrassing? That you care enough to think your life is embarrassing. That it is, isn't. That you think it is, is. 

His name was called out. He's travelling to Baltimore. Clients were more fun. At least they kept his honesty from himself.

He wanted to tell her he did not want to cry again. He did not.

The Aftermath

What Emily Dickinson did not mention when she wrote 'After great pain a formal feeling comes':  the struggle between stubbornness to maintain formality and the willingness to yield is just as painful.

Broken Promises & Disturbed Sleep

He wanted to announce that falling out of sleep at 3.30 AM was not waking up. That the broken promise of sleep still had a redemptive possibility. Waking up was reserved for 6 AM, when staring into the unforgiving empty day did not have the promise of a hiding place. 

Blending

Define it, he'd say. He tried. But that's merely solitude with an extended frame of reference, he'd point out.

Then it actually struck him. Down. The definition did. In solitude, the feedback of one's own definition still reiterates oneself. The absence of that last loop is what makes it isolation. 

Darkness is at least amorphous, he thought.

Aging emptiness

She wasn't the type to be moved by the depth of his torment. He was embarrassed. That had stopped moving anybody, let alone her. He wanted to ask her why. He did not.

Elsewhere she said, of course it's not Utopian if the goal of your life is to have your children grow up and claim to have been raised by a depressive.

Office

What do you mean you want a wider group?

Just to make sure we aren't too dependent on you.

And the wider group will help in that because?

Don't be antagonistic.

Okay, let me rephrase. Why do you assume inference approaches work better for power equations and not for the actual inference engine that's being built? 

What?

You just defeated your own argument.

Wish it on no one

Coming from anyone else, this would have sounded pretentious. Not Walser,

I would wish it on no one to be me.

Only I am capable of bearing myself.

To know so much, to have seen so much, and

To say nothing, just about nothing.

The day after

A desire to be tortured is not worth the effort in being that.

Relearning this is otherwise known as the human condition.

Consider the Ant

Philosophy classes usually teach the ethics of suicide as some sort of a cost benefit analysis, don't they? Or, they argue that the rationality of imposing death rests on the returns longer term life not outweighing the short term pain. The crucial aspect being that the point at which such a consideration is made is as critical. That is, if one were to consider a person X who had pain Y at time t1, it does not matter what the pain becomes at time t2. What matters is the judgment of the benefits of a life well lived at a later point as compared to the pain Y at the time t1. This has all sorts of inherent issues given the judgment at time t1 is by very definition under a 'cloud'. But that is not the point of whatever this is. Most Philosophy departments will deal that question in their introductory courses. 

What isn't clear is if Y weren't pain but insult. Not pain inflicted by insult but the epistemic insult of life itself. I wish to propose, there is a number unto which the external stimuli do outweigh the insult. Only time t1 here is the age of the person. 

Kettle

The woman in green was narrating a story. Some story. 

You were high but aware; that's one of the things that annoyed you about yourself. She must be a nice person. Her friends seem to pay attention. One of them seems hot.

She says she's got a song for everyone in the room. She stops at you second. She says something you can't follow. They'd assumed you were stoned. But others' reek isn't a problem of intoxication. They can't be expected to know that. They seem like happy people.

Incompleteness

She wasn't really the talking type.

He told her his pursuit was noble. It took half that sentence for him to be embarrassed by it. 

She was noble. That he had established; by definition. All else was unprovable.

He wanted to ask if her fist was full of clay.

Tell me more

She gave him a patient hearing. She always did that. After all, a person who had things to say, even if in bad faith, had things to say. He had a way of making his pettiness seem grand. Neither of them were sure if this was owing to his ability or because she had politely let it pass all those years ago and it'd assumed a character of its own. But it made the conversation appear elevated and burying their incompetence was a mutual goal anyway. Short term-ism isn't just a corporate phenomenon, he'd say; in the conversation itself, the self referencing will have passed for abstraction.

Reading gives the reader too much space. That must be why he had issues with writing. 

Others' reek

You have double parked your auto on a rather busy section of Sardar Patel Road. The man in the car wants to make a right; instead he makes noises that stem from righteous indignation. Smug motherfucker. You yell back and call him random names as a reflex. He stops and smiles back. You take the abuse up a notch, walk up and dare him to step out.  He does. And stands upright. The smile breaking into laughter is designed to insult; you know that. You dare him further to hit you. He gives it thought.

Yesterday reeks in the rum of your breadth. He must have smelt it too.

You were talking to the crowd. He was still contemplating the dare. He shows shame. That should teach him. 

Same Result, Faster

Or, if David Foster Wallace had lived in Madras he'd have died earlier.