Poly-this, poly-that

One of the base, simplistic, reactions to the last post is often, why polygamy, why not polyandry? I’m for poly-anything as long as it works in a social setting to the betterment of all involved. I don’t actually think polygamy would work in a setting that is based on Pauline (St Paul) Christian values. Or say, a post-modern Western urban setting. The woman has evolved weaker, physically, than the male and therefore, quite simply, will struggle to overthrow a polygamist regime and replace it with a polyandrist one. Guile and charm can always be employed of course, but, unlikely.

Morality

What is morality? Is morality part of human DNA? Or is morality simply humans being conditioned to live in a certain type of societal setting? After three years in an Arab Muslim social setting, polygamy is no more an issue of morality in my mind. I know and have met educated, beautiful, successful, modern Arab women, who out of choosing and even love, are second or third wives. They are not ashamed and there is no stigmata attached. They show no sign of subjugation, exploitation or denigration of the woman, that is attached to the moral stand on polygamy.

Overpunctuated

I have never been one for the technical aspect of language. Etymology fascinates me but that’s it. As a serious writer surely all aspects of language must be given a serious look at. Grammar is my biggest nemesis. Don’t ask me subject, verb or predicate, because I don’t know. Recently, recognizing that if I ever did win the Booker, it would be handy to know some Grammar, I embarked upon a book called Eats Shoots and Leaves. It’s an absolutely brilliant book on punctuation. I love punctuation now. To the point, where, if you notice, I might overpunctuate myself.

Steal my thunder

When I got my tattoos no one in my circle of acquaintances had one. And I know a lot of people. Now, every second person I meet has his/her body inked.
When I did cocaine, it was still a hard drug that you could do hard time for, and therefore, once word got around, you were looked on with awe, fear, a bit of pity and some disgust. Just before the cops in Maharashtra and Goa went ape shit on the drug scene recently, every body was powdering their noses.
Populism of the anti-culture is stealing my thunder. Damn!

The Sexiest Olympian

And just like that, the Beijing Olympics 2008 are over. I thought of doing the usual roundup – Athlete of the Games, Moment of the Games, Loser of the Games. Instead, I decided to do the Sexiest Olympian. Immediately, all male athletes were out of contention. It’s not just about the looks. To be the ultimate Olympian turn-on, you must have a super body, and more importantly, have won a medal. The sexiest athlete for me at this games, given the above criteria – Russian Yelena Isinbayeva.
The title of her autobiography will be, ‘It’s not about the pole’.

Let Kashmir go

India should be broken up into a confederation of states with a common army, but each on their own for money. The old hack stories – Bombay’s municipal taxes footing the entire bill for Parliament; Karnataka’s economic growth when taken alone, rivaling that of China’s – shaped this early view of mine. But nowhere does this argument augment itself more, than in happenings of Kashmir. For the first time the nation’s top political experts and commentators have roundly raised the issue of an Independent Kashmir. And I could not agree more. It is just not worth it any more.

Mum, skip this one. Really.

I took my kids, a girl and boy, to see the annual boob parade, where porn stars cycle down the road topless in a tribute to glory and power and mesmerizing beauty of the mammary glands. I thought it was fitting that they learnt to appreciate that a nice pair of tits is a thing to be admired, devoid of all guilt and sexual pretension. After that we went for a sandwich and coke to the local strip bar, where we discussed morality and the female body. And pole dancing. Then, headed home.
I wonder if this is possible.

Here we go, one last time now

My beloved Manchester United began its Premier League title defence the other day in typical style – with a draw, at home, to Newcastle United. Everything was auspicious about this. I missed the match, as I was stuck at work. I had also missed the opening match last season for the very same reason. Man Utd also drew their opening encounter last season, against Reading. I sense that Man U need to win the double again – league and Champions League – to sign, seal and deliver their status as the best club in the world. Once and for all.

Lezak can Phelp it

I saw all of Michael Phelps’ gold medal wins. Phelps needs to forever worship his teammate Jason Lezak. The crux of his winning eight gold medals was not he, himself, but, Lezak. Phelps’ dream would have ended on the second gold medal quest itself – the 4x100 team relay. On the last leg, freestyle, the US is trailing to Alain Bernard of France (a man who would later destroy the field in the 100 mts freestyle individual), and all hope was lost. Lezak, then swam what is for me the greatest comeback of these games. He won it for Phelps.

Pride and country

In a world of sport that is so commercialized and hype-driven; where globalization has doused the fire of nationalism, the Olympics bring tears of joy and relief. I cried as Tirunesh Dibaba ran a last lap that defied human limitation in the women’s 10,000 metres and as Shawn Johnson lost the gold in the gymnastics all-round to Nastia Liukin. These were superhero performances devoid of monetary gain, lucrative deals or sponsorship plans. They were for pride and country. Now, two of our boxers are one bout away, each, from a guaranteed medal. I’ll be happy to cry again.

Get more out

Life is a writer’s lifeblood. Experience is the very fountain that inks the parchment of prose or poetry. So basically, the idea is to get as much life and experience as possible, so that when you write, you have slightly more perspective than the drunk guy at the next table. This is precisely what life in the Gulf does not allow you. It straightjackets you into a certain fixed lifestyle all depending on your income. So, I find myself increasingly only writing about – Sports, Music, Movies, Books and Myself. I’ve got to get out more, or get more out.

Routine

Instinctively, I abhor routine. Discipline and me are enemies. I have been accused of being a lover of angst, a purportedly restless soul and an emotional cripple. All of which, may be true. To be these things, though, you can’t afford routine. Yet, at specific periods in my past it has been routine that has led me to pastures of peace, where having grazed for a bit, I, with alarming routine, took off again. Now, I find myself with no choice but to adopt routine again. This time though, likely forever. I do hope the peace is worth it.

Literary legends

Some are writers and some, storytellers. Have I said this before? It sounds a bit déjà vu-ic. I probably will harp on this everytime I come across one or the other. You see, very few are both. Those that are, are the true literary legends. Nobel Prize winners for literature should be judged by this yardstick, not by body of work. Rushdie - great writer, awful storyteller. Jeffery Archer - great storyteller, decent writer; as is Khaled Hosseini. I am struggling to think of one who is both – Shakespeare, Joyce, Naipaul? Maybe I haven’t read enough. Any suggestions?

Columnitis

To be a columnist you need to be pompous, opinionated in the extreme, totally self-absorbed, and myopic of view. And then, you should know how to write. I’ve had the chance to be a columnist. I know. At the time, when I met a new person and they asked, ‘So, what do you do?’ I would reply, ‘I decide what 100,000 people will read first thing in the morning, what do you do?’ That’s called suffering from columnitis. Sundays is my favourite newspaper day because most columnists are on display. Most fit the criteria, except, knowing how to write.

Dating me

One of the modern male’s pursuits is to be fashionably up-to date. Yet, everyone actually subconsciously leans towards a particular period. It’s a subconscious choice of self-expression based on strange mix of exposure, conditioning and comfort levels. And it’s a bit karmic.
I’m a child of the 70s, a youth of the 80s, a hell-raiser of the 90s, a Svengali of the 2000s… But I peeked into my subconscious and find it’s the 1970s that date me. Boots and jeans mixed with the Saturday Night Fever angst. I may well be past my best-before date, but I’m all 70s.

China rocks

My holidays are over. And the Olympics have begun. Whatever else China might be, boy, can they put up a show. The standard for an opening Olympic ceremony has been raised so high, that it would take a Sergei Bubka-like effort to clear this bar. I hope London has it to match the most creatively brilliant orchestration of human movement, light, sound and electronic wizardry I have ever seen.
Which is why going back to work always sucks. Especially in the Gulf, where the air quickly becomes rarefied the first few moments you step back after a break. Breathe.