How This Individual Rants

We’re gonna rant-y like it’s your birthday, we gonna sip bacardi like it’s your birthday, and ya know we don’t give a [bad-word-for-fornicate] it’s not your birthday!

So here lies the Lull before the Storm. I got runner’s up for my Presentation on Blogging – the prize was a Chocolate Frog. I don’t have class till Monday. This gives me 2 days of
Free Time.
I intend to:
-get my assignment written and printed before the due date of the 6th.
-watch a cricket match between Australia and South Africa live at the MCG (tix cost 30 Ozzie dollars or 900 rupees), and fail the Tebbitt Test (look it up on Google, too lazy to link).
-And blog/rant about a few things…well one specific thing.

A bunch of bloggers, who have issues with being labelled (let’s call them The Typist Cartel for now, shall we), has decided to get together and create a new blog. Now while I have immense respect for all of these bloggers, it’s a respect that extends to all creatures great and small for being part of that thing called Life. But you see, life is sometimes filled with people and things, whose purpose you may tend to disagree with. I always feared the result of Typists banding together to form a blog, and my fears were confirmed.

So, to quote an Ayn Rand character who shows up at a meeting of architects:

“I wanted to witness the birth of a felony”

and here we are, witnessing it.

Let’s start this off with the following:
“In this new team blog, we will step out of the air-conditioned comfort of the Metro to look at what we don’t want to look at; to confront A Reality Called India, to understand this Reality, punch it, kick it, make it speak, to let it weep through its emotions rather than maul them in statistics.”

It has not been explicitly stated (and based on past blogging history, nothing will ever be “mauled” with a direct statement, or “statistic”), but do I sense that the New Delhi Metro is not a part of India? The Metro is not a reality. It is not the Real India. In order to be Real, again, you have to be poor. You have to be dying. You have to be suffering, in pain, miserable. The Metro was not made by real people. It is not manned by real staff. It is not driven by real drivers (yes I know the Metro is partly autonomous) who have families and lives. All of these people have been dismissed in one go, because they (may) have enough to fill their stomach at the end of the day. The Criminals.

So welcome yourself to the Real India – where even positive achivements, and feats of engineering, intelligence and organisation are converted into daggers of guilt to be pointed at your well-fed gullets. Feel guilty for not having to beg for food with decapitated limbs. Feel ashamed, because your father has enough to pay for your education. But. Do. Not. Rejoice for the fact that you are alive, and have been given a gift that other people have not been. Don’t make the most of your life, because there are other people who aren’t able to. Your time is not yours. It belongs to the people in the slums. It belongs to the Real India in the village where food is made on dried cow dung.

Once upon a time there existed some Typists, and some Regular Human Beings (RHBs). The Typists dragged the RHBs round and round, shouting “You don’t see, you don’t see, you dont see!”
“Look down that dark well, look, look, LOOK!”, screaming and using their bare hands to force the RHBs to look:
“Keep your head buried in the well. Do not look out into the sunlight. The sunlight is Shining. It is Fake. The Rays Burn us. They force us to look to a place we are not used to looking. For we have been looking down this dark well for thousands of years. And we will smite those who dared to look at the Sun with the guilt of other people’s failure.

The RHBs looked down that well. And they saw what they expected to see. Darkness. And then possibly, the Bottom – If they Shone enough Light on it.

How the Other “Half” lives.

Once(2001), while waiting for the company bus, I saw a man come out of his hovel, walk down the sloped side of the sewage canal, lift his loincloth, and release 4 rancid turds into the sewer. I was disgusted, but I retained my morning’s breakfast.

The Other half has to suffer the indignity of of shitting rancid turds out in the open.

Once I was walking on the street, and I saw a policeman come out of nowhere, and start slapping a fruitseller.

The other half cannot buy its way out of police brutality.
The other half uses a discarded cardboard box for shelter.
The other half looks like you’d look if you were a skeleton
The other half cannot go buy a cup of coffee just because it feels like it.
The other half has to scrounge around the garbage dumps of new delhi to find scraps of vegetable peels to make up its dinner, while you eat Pizza, you selfish, evil scum.
The other half has to stand at a street corner in freezing Delhi winters, and boiling Delhi summers, to wheedle one paisa out of your smooth moisturised metrosexual hands
The other half has never known the joy of a brand new bicycle, or the feeling of clean sheets.
The other half will never make it to university or even school, because your callous disregard for the other half’s live got it kicked out onto the street corner.
The other half doesn’t know what the Internet is, because it has no electricity to run computers.
The other half digs into the bottom of shit-filled toilets to find some semblance of water to clean itself with.
The other half only consists of males, because all females are killed in the womb.
The other half has to secretly peep at the televisions in shop windows to get a glimpse of that other magic world which is oh-so-familiar to us Rich Criminals.
The other half does not have enough money to purchase the one tablet of aspirin which would get rid of their malnutrition-induced headache, and we haven’t even got to the other symptoms of malnutrition yet.
The other half gets used as guinea pigs by unscrupulous Multinational drug companies.
The other half breaks ships in Alang
The other half cleans your floors.
The other half has 8 mouths to feed, including itself.
The other half is at the service end of the Mafia’s stick
The other half gets its land (which it paid for, of course) stolen, by money-grubbing capitalists.
The other half scrapes the muck off your boots and uses it for food.
And on.
And on.
And on.

So tell me, young/old person, with money in your wallet, and food in your stomach. Have I inspired you to action? Have I lit a fire under your rear end and got you to stand up and yell YALGAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Are you motivated to do something? Do you feel empowered? Have you become enlightened after looking at the bottom of the dark well? Do you feel good knowing that there are people out there who will not attain your standard of living in this lifetime? Does it make you think that you should get out there and do something? Did I show you some Hope at the bottom of the Well?

There was once a very strict schoolteacher, who would not let the kids out to play. This left all kids very dulled out. But some were richer than others, so they scraped by with a little extra toys, hidden in class. When the school teacher found out about that, she took the toys away from the rich kids, and admonished them for having fun while their peers suffered. Then one day, the school relaxed the rules, and allowed everyone out to play. The rich kids rejoiced, for they now had access to their new toys, which were previously locked away from them. The poor kids didn’t see any difference. And when they wanted to go play with the Rich Kids, the Rich Kids kept making all of these different rules which were deemed Unfair. Then one day, a Typist observed this, and decided to help out the Poor Kids, and also point out that a relaxation of the Rules had not helped the poor kids get any happier. So they started doing the job of the Schoolteacher, and insisting that some of the rules be put back in. Now when you have typists doing the Schoolteacher’s job….what incentive does the SchoolTeacher have to help improve the situation?

That’s right folks, the solution to Poverty is to contribute to (or work for) an NGO. So that the Government no longer needs to do its job, for there are all these volunteers out there doing it instead. For free!

Sorry, I apologise. I’m just being mean and beating up on people who are doing things with the Best Intentions…. and we all know that it’s better to pave Roads with Good Intentions than Foreign/Local Direct Investment, Straw Men and other Logical Fallacies. Right?

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