Of Signals And Blunders

I don't know what's going on, but suddenly, it seems like everyone is hooking up, or breaking up, or getting married.

A friend of mine was talking to me about how her boyfriend's "advice" had messed up his friend's potential love-life. Twice.

Another friend of mine keeps telling me he's "just friends" with this girl from some North Indian town (forgot the name), who keeps calling him up at 2 in the night to ask him what he's doing. And from there, through the haze of slumber, I can hear them mumble nothings on the phone till 4 or 5. Of course, they're just friends. That phrase has always made me want to ask "Are there 'unjust' friends?". Maybe next time, I will.

Anways, this set me thinking about the whole guy-girl thing, and how it's the only thing that's standing between Stephen Hawking and the Theory of Everything. So, let's try to break it down into scenarios, and try to take it ahead from there.

Scenario 1. The Smooth Hook-up

Guy meets girl. Guy likes girl. Girl likes guy. The universe conveniently looks the other way, as everything quietly slips into place. Some people have all the luck, what you gonna do about it.

Boring.

Scenario 2. The Saga

Guy meets girl. Guy likes girl. Girl can't decide. Guy loses interest. Girl likes guy. Guy likes another girl. And so on and so forth. Their "like" is so out of phase. Like sine and cosine waves. But eventually, they somehow clank into place. This is the stuff Karan Johar movies are made of. I think.

The Best Friend has the best seat in the house. Bring on the popcorn! But, he/she may feel like offing himself/herself at any of the million, endless fights the mismatched couple go through, and then think that The Best Friend has the answer to all of Life's Questions.

Scenario 3. The Crash-and-Burn
Ah! My personal favourite. This is completely guys' domain. Because, I am yet to see a girl who has crashed and burned because the guy wanted to be "just friends". Whereas every other guy is literally a phoenix (...now you know why the blog is named so.).

So, as I was saying. This usually involves painful, usually unreciprocated affection/attraction/crush/luuurve.

It follows a fairly predictable pattern. Guy sees girl. Guys falls for girl. Girl is still unaware of guy's existence. Guy befriends girl. Guy gets "signals". Guy goes for the Hail Mary pass. Bam! Just friend-ed. Or even worse, brother-ed.

Let's pause for a minute here. Signals. The one word responsible for more Crash-and-Burns around the world than bird hits. But let's make one thing very, very clear. Guys suck at reading "signals". In fact we suck so bad we shouldn't even be trying. I don't know if it's the Y Chromosome messing up the reception, or what. But we as a gender CANNOT read signals. We just can't.

Just like girls have no idea they're sending said signals.


Coming back to the point, when all is said and done, the guy finds he's been shut out with clinical efficiency. Still, the damage is reparable. The guy can pick up what remains of his dignity, and make a dash for it. Preferably to sub-Saharan Africa, where they speak in clicks and whistles. And hide for a long, long time. IF he has brains. But, the Crash-and-Burn usually indicates the lack of one. So some of us choose to hang on to that tiny, microscopic thread of hope left trailing behind her skirt hem. "Maybe, I can still get her to come around...".

There is only one way that particular line of thought has been known to end. And it has been documented extensively through binge-ing sessions which involve our Ragged Romeo sobbing his way through several bottles of spirits. Ending with the declaration, "I hate women! No more women for me!". Despite this very-nearly-gay outburst, it leads him on to Rebound (TM), and Relapse (TM). Yes, it is a Vicious Cycle, I tell you.

Guys, there are plenty of fish in the sea. Cliched, but true. Move on. It's less painful. Ladies, ladies. Tell us you don't like us, tell us you hate our guts. But please don't tell us you want to be "just friends". You know you don't really mean it. It's just that sympathy alarm ringing. You know it, the one which makes the guy with a broken leg irresistible. Switch off the alarm. Shoot us in the head.

In extreme cases, girls have been known to employ that much-feared WMD. Brotherification. "But you're like a brother to me!". This is the relationship equivalent of Chinese Water Toruture. It's like, "You're family! Except, not in the way you want to." The guys is supposed to feel happy about the neutering. After all, he's practically family. Ladies, Ladies. Spare us the sympathy. We didn't spend all that time being totally out of character being gentlemanly and all, just so that we could qualify as your elder sibling. Again, switch off that alarm. Headshot, please.

Yeah, yeah, I had to have had some experience, being able to dissect such a tricky topic so professionally. Yeah, I've done my time. And I've come out an older, if not wiser man. Guys, word of advice. Switch off those Signal Receptors next time you see a girl you like. Girls, well, just switch off that alarm.

Red Skies.

Once upon a time.

Somewhere in Kerala. Or is it? I have been here before. I think I have. On a day like this when the sky shone red.

The temple gopuram rises majestically into a cloudless sky. I glance up, seeing its sepia tones light up the earth like a long forgotten photograph.

As I enter through the temple gate, I can see the sparse crowd of devotees making their way around the temple. The steady chant of mantras echo from the inner sanctum. Why am I here?

I see you. A face so familiar, and yet a memory of a life that's so far away in the past that it seems like a half-forgotten dream. Do I know you?

Your eyes are still the same. But how do I know that?

And an eternity passed but the sun still hovered, just above the horizon, as the sky shone red.

The throng of devotees glance at us as they pass by. There is no time. We have to complete the pradakshina, before the sun sets. Why? Why do we have to? Why can't we just stay like this, here, as the sky shines red?

It's raining, you say, looking up. Your eyes blink as raindrops fall from a cloudless, red sky. I raise my palms skywards, feeling them splash on my skin. I have to keep my eyes open.

Around us, I see the devotees walking faster now. Don't we have to make the pradakshina, before the sun sets, I hear myself asking you. You smile, as if humouring me.

You said, I start, my voice sounding accusing. I know, but there's still time, you say, taking my hand in yours. I have known you, from a long time ago. When we met on the banks of the Sarayu.

You told me then, that you would see me again. On the banks of the Sarayu.

The sounds of a raging river fill the air, as the rushing water tumbles over craggy rocks, throwing a mistry spray into the air. The stones paving the temple courtyard are dotted with the remnants of raindrops from the cloudless, red sky.

The sun hides halfway below the horizon now, the last rays of the day lighting up the gopuram. The rain has all but stopped, leaving us both standing below the fading light of a red sky. It is time, you say, coming closer. But you said there was time, I say, feeling an inexplicable sadness. You said there was time to make the pradakshina, I say, petulantly.

I know, you say, but the sun is setting.

We just have halfway to go, I say. I don't know why, but we have to make the pradakshina. We have to. You glance westward, wistfully, and for a moment, the fading rays dance off the tears welling in your eyes. Or are they raindrops?

This is as far as we can go, you say, but I will always be here, on the banks of the Sarayu.

My fingers close around nothing.

Wait, I stumble, as I grasp at thin air. My voice echoes through the empty courtyard.

I must complete the pradakshina. I cannot turn back. The right shoulder always faces the deity. The shadow of the gopuram waits ahead, as red skies glow, and the sun slowly sinks below the horizon.

The light from the garbhagriham spills over into the courtyard, sparkling from the raindrops on the stones, like a thousand diamonds scattered on the ground. Like a thousand mirrors shattered. I look up and the rain comes down again, from a cloudless, red sky.

This time, I close my eyes, and wake up.

We Didn't Start The Fire.

19 years ago. A series of events that eventually led to Ruchika Girhotra's suicide, were set in motion by the horniness of one man. After over 400 hearings and impassioned calls for justice, the Indian Judiciary finally sounded out their verdict. Six months imprisonment, and, dig this, a fine, of 1000 rupees. And that's not all. SPS Rathore gets out on bail almost immediately. All smiles.

18 years ago. Sister Abhaya, a 19 year old nun, went down to get a glass of water. She never got it. Her body was eventually found at the bottom of a well, in the premises of her convent. Evidence was tampered with. Evidence went missing. Sometimes brazenly so. For 16 years, the case was a mockery of justice.

36 years ago. Aruna Shanbag, a 24 yr old nurse at King Edward Memorial Hospital, Mumbai, was sexually assaulted by janitor, Sohanlal Valmiki. Using a leather belt to choke her into submission, Valmiki brutally had his way with her, after which he calmly disappeared into world. He was later arrested, but the charge of rape was never proved. Valmiki spent 6 years in jail for "robbery". And what of Aruna? The brain damage she suffered while she choked, left her in a vegetative state. She lives a shadow of a life in the same hospital where she used to tend to patients. She is looked after by the nurses there, who plead that she be allowed to live, despite many calls for euthanasia. Sohanlal Valmiki, long since free, is believed to be working as a janitor for a private hospital in Mumbai.

11 years ago. Model Jessica Lall is shot dead in plain view of the creme de la creme of Delhi's party circuit, by Siddharth Vashisht, aka Manu Sharma. Unsurprisingly, most of the witnesses turned hostile. Manu Sharma, used loophole after loophole and walked free. Finally, somehow, he was put behind bars. But, soon, he got out on bail. The reason? He wanted to party.

3 years ago. Aarushi Talwar, a 14 year student is murdered at her home. By who? The police points fingers at the domestic help, Hemraj, her father, Rajesh Talwar, and then goes on to add more names to the list as time progresses. Pretty soon the case fades into oblivion.

2 years ago. Pakistani gunmen open fire at crowded places in Mumbai, killing hundreds. Their faces are in plain view of the security cameras. Fidayeen are not meant to live through the attack. But Tukaram Omble gets in the way and one of them is captured alive. Ajmal Qasab spills everything from his nationality, to his past, to his training, in the frenzied initial stages of the trial. But slowly he learns of the innumerable loopholes in the Indian Judiciary. Pretty soon, the case assumes status quo. Already, two lawyers have been sent packing. The fires of Mumbai have died out.

These are only some of the stories that come to mind as I sit here on this cold night, a few days into a new decade. A million such cases lie unattended to in our incompetent courts. A million more never reach them.

"What will you do? File a case?" is a repartee that most auto drivers today use to silence newly-nicked car owners. That truly defines the competence of our judicial system, or the lack of it. The Indian Judiciary is the a punchline of a joke. It is without doubt the biggest failure of the Great Indian Democracy, for what is such a Democracy, that cannot protect the rights of her subjects, truly worth?

Welcome to India, where Justice is truly blind. Where killers laugh at the pathetic sentences meted out to them. Where they party on parole. Where character assassination by the police is a way of life. Where a rape trial is even more humiliating than the rape itself. Where money and might is what justice is.

"What will you do? File a case?"

"...the only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous..."