The killjoys.

After the defeat in Australia in the Test match series, P.Sainath of The Hindu did an exhaustive analysis and came up with this conclusion: 

Just weeks ago, the pundits said this was our best chance ever to beat Australia in Australia. Our best team possible. Did the best team ever age in weeks? What happened? 

IPL happened. And happened long before the disaster tours. A team full of players carrying injuries playing 90 days of sub-standard club-level cricket happened. That prepares you only for more sub-standard stuff, year after year, not cricket at the highest levels. They continue playing there with injuries because the BCCI-IPL has brought big bucks to the privately-owned side of the sport, not to the domestic game. 

What is the man’s credentials to make such an assessment? Zilch. 

Mukul Kesavan wrote in a column  that the IPL is stage-managed with nexus between the BCCI and the owners. But the most damning point, according to him, is the fact that there are cheerleaders: 

…the most obvious token of the IPL's decadence is the dancing girls. These aren't cheerleaders (though sometimes they pretend to be) because this isn't collegiate America. These are young women paid to tart up the tournament with their bodies, to strut their stuff for mainly male audiences in a country where every adult woman has suffered the predatory gaze (and worse) of Indian men.

This edition of the IPL has them in the television studio as well for the delectation of the anchors. When the governors of cricket in India begin to use female bodies to sell tickets and capture television ratings you know that a cricket tournament has lost its bearings and become something else. And when the journalists who enable the tamasha and the audiences who watch it begin to take the dancing girls for granted, there is a larger sickness abroad. 

Ramachandra Guha, in an op-ed in The Hindu has several points of criticism on the ‘smash and grab crony league”. Just to cite two of his points: 

The IPL has given capitalism and entrepreneurship a bad game. But it has also been bad for Indian democracy, in that it has vividly and even brazenly underlined the distance between the affluent, urban middle classes and the rest of India. Consider the fact that no city in India's largest State, Uttar Pradesh, which has an excellent Ranji Trophy team, was awarded a franchise. Nor any city in Bihar, Orissa, or Madhya Pradesh either. To leave out four of India's largest States — all cricket-mad, and which collectively account for close to half the country's population — must seriously disqualify the League's claim to be ‘Indian.' 

Yet it can still be called ‘Premier,' for it speaks for the more prosperous parts of India, and for the more prosperous sections within them. The very names of the teams are a clue to its elitist character — two ‘Kings,' two ‘Royals,' and one ‘Knight,' this in a democratic Republic whose Constitution and laws (rightly) did away with aristocratic titles of any kind. 

So, what this guy wants is an IPL which is a microcosm of the country, with every state and every tribe from far-flung hamlets represented. And, combining both his points on the states and the titles, we should name teams as “Patna Petty Paupers” and “Bhopal Wretched Beggars”. No kings or chargers or knights to figure in the titles, and no teams from decadent cities such as Chennai or Mumbai or Delhi. 

Why do these fellows constantly need to make us feel guilty for the entertainment we choose? Are they the only socially-conscious people around? Is it a zero-sum game? Is my watching the IPL at the expense of some farmer’s happiness? Who the hell are they to pontificate on what constitutes the right form of cricket? If the spectators didn’t like it, it wouldn’t have lasted 5 seasons. And the spectator has a right to choose his form of cricket. 

IPL was the reason for our loss in Australia? Damn it. There were cricketers in the Australian team who had played the IPL too. 

What’s immoral or vulgar about cheerleaders? Bloody hell, far worse things are shown in the most decent of Hindi or regional movies. 

Why are these fellows such killjoys? Why can’t they tolerate people having some legitimate fun? The only explanation that I can think of is this. 

These are all professional writers who have built their own individual brand by hyping some theory or other. And they make a living out of their writing, and must find as many outlets as they can to get their ‘writing’ published.

An event such as IPL is an excellent means to grab public attention by writing a column or two. For a professional writer, it’s too good an opportunity not to encash on. Sadly for these disgruntled writers, no newspaper would invite them to write a regular column on the IPL, for the simple reason that nobody will read their dreary stuff. Therefore, the only option is to somehow persuade their newspaper to allow them to write a contrarian piece bad-mouthing the IPL and to keep it in line with their brand image. So one guy can write that farmers are dying while we are fiddling, while the other guys can use the chance to hold forth on their respective pet theories cleverly weaving in the alleged ills of IPL. Their hope and intention is that such of their readers who are also IPL followers must die of guilt and shame. 

Ironically, all the papers that carried these critical articles on IPL benefited immensely from the advertisements placed by IPL and the franchisees.

Much as I hate it, ‘freedom of expression’ means that such writers who make a living by spreading gloom and guilt should be allowed to do so.  But I wish they would be socially ostracized for causing incalculable damage to the morale and happiness of the people. 

 “How dare you be happy?” is their refrain, as I blogged once. I would argue that even when the economy is depressed- or particularly when- people must be allowed to celebrate if, when and how they choose to, so long as such celebrations don’t come at the cost of someone else who is not a part of it.

Coromandel

According to general belief, the name of Coromandel coast is derived from the Tamil “ Cholamandalam” or “land of Cholas”.  Wikipedia says: 

The land of the Chola dynasty was called Cholamandalam in Tamil, literally translated as The realm of the Cholas, from which Coromandel is derived. Another research shows that the coast along the Chola country was called Cholamandalam which was later corrupted to Coromandel by the Europeans. According to The Periplus of the Erythræan Sea by Wilfred Harvey Schoff, the Chola coast was derived from the native Tamil name Chola-mandalam, from which the Portuguese derived our modern word Coromandel. 

“The CarnaticChronology” written by Charles Philip Brown and published in 1868 however provides the following explanation (page 68) digging into old records of the Dutch, dated 1623.

"Coromandel" is first named under this date in the Dutch accounts of India. Coromandel was the Dutch spelling of Kurumanil, that is, "Blacksand," a fishing village a little north of Madras. Among Europeans the entire coast has acquired this name, which also has been changed by pedantry into Kuru-mandalam (land of the Kurus; which it never was)  The name Coromandel as denoting a region is wholly unknown to the natives.

The latter explanation sounds more logical to me.

The argumentative Brahmin

Dr. Rev John W Dulles, a Christian missionary, set out from America one day in the year 1850 and arrived in Madras 130 days later. His avowed objective was to spread the gospel of Christ and liberate the poor masses out of their misery. He spent 4 years in India, mainly in the South, and later published a book called “Life in India” in which “he sought to show how he the missionary reached the shores of Southern India; what sights and sounds greeted him on landing; how Hindus lived, acted, and worshipped; in what ways they were approached by the missionary; and what were the effects of his labours among them.” 

As can be seen from the narration below ( pages 174-179 of the book), the conversion of the natives was not an easy task. The Hindus had an exasperating habit of countering every argument with a metaphor and make the poor missionary throw up his hands in despair. 

Here is Rev Dulles describing one of his meetings: (I urge you to read this with a humorous bent of mind and  not to take sides). 

You reach a favourable spot, and take your stand on some slight elevation—a housestep, a plank, or a block of wood or stone. The passing throng stops to hear what the padre has to say. Some rude fellows try to make sport; but the respectable old gentleman with the big turban and white robe bids them be silent, or go about their business. The coolie with a load on his head and the drops of perspiration standing on his brow, and the scholar with his books under his arm, the shop-keeper, the mechanic, and even a Brahmin or two, stop to listen to your discourse. 

Your theme is the folly of idolatry; you expose its absurdity and impiety, you deride the senseless block in the temple just before you, and ask them why immortal, soul-possessing men should bow down to a soulless, senseless, tongueless idol. The coolie grins; the carpenter nods approbation. "Why, indeed!" says the bazaar-man; "this is the iron age." "It is our folly," exclaims the scholar.

"But," asks the stout, oily Brahmin at your right, "do you not believe that God is everywhere?"

"Certainly."

"Then, if he is everywhere, is he not in the idol? And if he is in the idol, shall we not worship him as in the idol? It is not the idol, but God in the idol that we worship." 

The poor coolie did not before know how philosophic a thing idolatry was, and nods his approbation; so do others. 

This logic, however, does not satisfy you. You remark that if, because God is everywhere, he is to be worshipped as in the idol, for the same reason they must worship every stone in the street, every tree in the tope, (grove,) every dog in the street, and even the polluted leather shoes to which they would not touch a finger. Moreover, if God be everywhere, and hence in the idol, why is it that you, my Lord Brahmin, must be called, after the image has been made, to bring the god into it with your Prana Prathishta? Truly it is a waste of money to pay you for thus getting the god in, when he is already there." 

The coolie and his fellows smile again at this cut at the Brahmin. He, however, is in no wise disconcerted. "Ah!" says he, "you are labouring under the mistaken idea that we worship the stone. Are we fools? Do we not know that stone is stone, and God is God? Idiots may worship blocks—we do not. But where is God? Will you show him to us? Who can see him? How, then, shall the unthinking mob, the untaught, grovelling mass, worship him whom they see not? The idea of an unseen, intangible God is too abstract for them; they cannot grasp it. Devotion will die unless we give the vulgar mind something actual on which to rest. Therefore we give them idols. The mind is concentrated on this, and thence ascends to God."

Rev Dulles then describes another incident involving one of his brethren.

An account of a conversation of a missionary in Bengal with a Brahmin, whom he fell in with while preaching, gives a good idea of their mode of argumentation, and also of the importance of understanding their belief, that we may not be put to silence by them. 

The missionary, in answer to the question, "What do you preach here?" replied, "We teach the knowledge of the true God." 

"Who is he? I am God, "said the Hindu.

The missionary thought it would be an easy matter to confuse him, but he soon discovered his mistake. "This is very extraordinary," said he; "are you the Almighty?" 

"No," he replied: "had I created the sun I should be almighty; but that I have not done."

"How can you pretend to be God, if you are not almighty?" 

"This question shows your ignorance. What do you see here?" said the Brahmin, pointing to the Ganges. 

"Water." 

"And what is in this vessel?" at the same time pouring out a little into a cup. 

"This is water, likewise."

"What is the difference between this water and the Ganges?"  

"There is none," replied the missionary. 

"Oh! I see a great difference; that water carries ships, this does not; God is almighty; I am only a part of the Godhead, and therefore I am not almighty; and yet I am God, just as these drops in the cup are real water." 

"According to your teaching," said the missionary, "God is divided into many thousand portions; one is in me, another in you." 

"Oh!" said the Brahmin, "this remark is owing to your ignorance. How many suns do you see in the sky?" 

"Only one." 

"But if you fill a thousand vessels, what do you see in each?" 

"The image of the sun." 

"But if you see the image of the sun in so many thousand vessels, does it prove that there are a thousand suns in the firmament! No; there is only one sun in the heavens, and it is reflected a thousand times in the water. 

So likewise there is but one God, and his image and brightness are reflected in every human being." 

The missionary, instead of trying to point out the falsity of the comparison, wished to touch his conscience.

"God," he continued, "is holy; are you holy?"

"I am not," replied the Brahmin, "I am doing many things that are wrong, and that I know to be wrong."

"How, then, can you say that you are God?"

"Oh!" said the Hindu, "I see that you need a little more intellect to be put into your head before you can argue with us. God is fire—fire is the purest element in creation; but if you throw dirt upon it, a bad odour will arise; this is not the fault of the fire, but of that which is thrown upon it. Thus God in me is perfectly pure, but he is surrounded by matter, (that is, by the material, corporeal body;)  he does not desire sin, he hates it; the sin arises from matter." 

Dr Rev Dulles then concludes: 

It is often a shorter and surer way to answer these sophistical pantheists and transcendentalists with ridicule. To argue with them is an endless undertaking; a good-humoured cut at their pretensions is far more efficacious; and if it be a fair hit, will secure to yourself a hearing and the sympathy of the audience.

The Madras Hawker

“The Leisure Hour” in its issue of  June 16, 1853 (page 385) has this charming description of a “Madras Hawker” and how he manages to sell his goodies to the lady of the house, with the connivance of the servants of the house. 

Visiting hours are over at Madras by 2 pm, and the mess dinners are usually at three. At this juncture, the lady of the house, worn out with the excessive heat of the afternoon, will generally be found reclining listlessly upon a sofa, fanning herself: the weather being too oppressive even to read, the last book from the circulating library has perhaps dropped upon the floor, and there lies unheeded and unread. A victim to ennui, she is just dozing off, and the native ayah has been summoned to fan her mistress with a cuseus fan, when, lo! this listless state of apathy is agreeably broken in upon by the cry of, "Hawker, maam! very good things to-day, maam!"

 The ayah is immediately despatched into the verandah to summon the hawker into her mistress's presence. In comes the hawker, all smiles and salaams, redolent with sandal-wood and other perfumes, and his moustache shining with the best Rowlands' macassar (which he has purloined from his stock-in-trade, making good the deficit j with common cocoa-nut oil); his nose is surmounted with three gaily-coloured streaks, one green, one yellow, one red, and in addition to these  he has sometimes a brilliant wafer stuck between his eyebrows: these are symbols of his high caste, for the hawker always is, or always pretends to be, a lineal descendant from the highest Brahmin families. 

As regards his costume, our hawker is the beau ideal of Indian dandyism; his under-coats are finest silk, his nether garments cambric, whilst his long surtout, which fits tightly to the body and arms, is made of the finest flowered book muslin. The coolies that carry his boxes are not quite so elegantly clad; but these plebeians are only permitted to deposit their loads on the flue rattan matting, when they are expelled from the house, as much to their own satisfaction as to that of anybody else, for they immediately indulge in a much loved siesta, and, stretched beneath the shade of some mango trees, snore away the hour occupied by their employer in profitable bargains.

Meanwhile the hawker, having seated himself, undoes the cording of one of his three boxes, which he then opens. Click goes the lock with a loud spring, and up flies the cover, exposing to the anxious gaze of the lady-patroness the hidden treasures within. The hawker seats himself tailor fashion, and extracting a rupee from his moneybags, hits it against the lock until its clear silver tones ring again. This he does, as he will tell you, for custom's sake. Now servants who have interests at stake in this identical custom linger about the ante-chambers, peep through doors and windows, and listen, so that not a fraction be lost; occasionally too they compare notes, and not infrequently disagree in their reckonings.

"Now, hawker," asks the lady, "what have you got to sell to-day"

The hawker, who has a very good colloquial knowledge of English, invariably replies: "Very fine things, marm," and then, carefully unpacking the first trunk, these "very fine things" are one by one exposed to view.

"Fine book-muslin, marm; two rupees a yard." Of course two rupees is about ten times the value of the article displayed; but then, like all orientals, the hawker must be beat down, and as he has occasionally caught the unwary at his first offer, he thinks he loses nothing by making exorbitant demands.

The book-muslin is passed over as not required, and then comes jaconet, dimities, cambric, polampoors, silks, satins, palmarinocs—in short, a little of all things, including scents, soaps, hair oils, and even curry-combs and brushes for horses. Whenever anything is purchased, and the terms cannot be agreed upon, then the hawker conciliates the lady of the house by telling her that it shall be sold for whatever "missus pleases," and then the ayah is referred to as a kind of umpire, who usually, of course, decides in favour of the hawker, from the simple fact that the more money he gets the greater her share of the custom is likely to be.

The first box has now been emptied, and the hawker has only sold to the amount of about thirty rupees. He shakes his head and murmurs audibly as he replaces the things, that it is very bad gain for him to-day, forgetful perhaps that fifteen out of the thirty rupees have been net profit to him. 

The second box is next opened, and the baby screams with delight, for the hawker craftily displays the worst commodities first, shrewdly calculating that, if he can sell any of these, he is pretty sure of disposing of the others. What an assortment of toys does the hawker reveal! Dolls with eyes that open and shut, whole regiments of mounted cavalry carefully boxed up, ill-grown trees and houses, shepherds and sheep, lions, tigers, and all four-footed animals living on peaceable terms together, all within the precincts of large empty wafer boxes; and, best of all, a ready-cooked dinner for baby, comprising fictitious joints and turkeys. The small darling turns crimson with delight as the fond mamma pays the hawker for three or four of the largest boxes, and then the child and its treasures are handed over to the care of the amah (nurse) in the bed-room,' and the mother has at least purchased a few minutes' tranquility. Under the toys there are laces; under the laces, ribbons; under the ribbons, note-paper and ivory fans; and then a miscellaneous collection of goods, such as The Keepsake for 1831, the Souvenir for 1823, a view of London previous to the great fire, and a book or two of the fashions in 1779.

Upon the whole, the hawker makes unexceptionable bargains, so he displays more alacrity in undoing the third box, and it is now mamma's turn to play the child. "Oh, what a love of a dress!" exclaims the lady, as some Costly ball-dress catches her eye. The hawker perceives the admiration and turns it to account; and we are much mistaken in the man if he does not earn cent, per cent, by the bargain. Then come artificial flowers, Trichinopoly gold chains, and other jewellery; so that if the lady of the house be a Barra Bebee Sahib, or the wife of a wealthy civilian, he has sold to the amount of a thousand rupees before closing and strapping the last box; and if only a subaltern's lady, why a month's pay may be set aside for that evening's divertissement. 

His business thus transacted to his satisfaction, the coolies are again burdened, and the boxes are heavier, for the cash far outweighs the goods disposed of. The hawker makes his salaams and withdraws, and two minutes after a frightful wrangling is heard in the compound; the twenty servants, like so many vultures, have pounced upon their prey; the sturdy coolies are waylaid. 

One would think from the noise that there was murder being committed; but this is only paish (Tamul for talk). No Frenchman could compete with them for gestures. Suddenly there is a .lull, for the parties have agreed to treat under a banian tree; the boxes are placed upon the ground, and the disputants squat round them. After five minutes' mild argument, in which the hawker vainly endeavours to persuade his listeners into a belief that he has been rather a loser than otherwise by the bargain, he offers them one-tenth of what the servants, according to established usage, have a right to expect. This offer is received with violent acclamations, and a perfect roaring ensues, until eventually the hawker is compelled to comply with the usage, whereupon he is suffered to depart, and the servants get up a small scene amongst themselves about the proportioning of the said profits.

(Read the full piece here)

Indians and Guinness

As I’ve said before, the Olympic motto of “Citius, Altius, Fortius” was not written keeping Indians in mind, and we shouldn’t make asses of ourselves by attempting to jump longer or higher, run faster or dive deeper. Leave such trivial and mundane pursuits to lesser mortals.

What we should try to do is get into the Guinness Book of records for such activities as growing the longest nails, sporting the longest nose hair or sitting in the same position for 26 years.

Take Guinness Rishi, described in this article. He recently tried to get into the books as the world’s worst-losing politician by garnering zero votes in a municipal election. Unfortunately, his wife played a trick on him and got some 30 people to vote for him, just to deprive him of the record. But his records include most continuous time riding a motor scooter (1,001 hours with two accomplices); producer of the world's smallest Koran, even though he's Hindu; fastest consumption of ketchup, though he said, "I hate ketchup"; and most flag tattoos on his body (officially 220, although he's added 146 since then), including several across his forehead, cheeks, chin.

Guinness Ravi, the article points out, epitomizes India’s obsession with Guinness records.

Although every country has its share of glory seekers, India has really taken to this particular form of chest thumping. Guinness says applications from India are up 178% over the last five years, making it the world's third-most active nation of wannabes, after the U.S. and Britain, with actual records up almost fourfold. Guinness has just appointed a Mumbai-based representative to manage the crowds of record seekers, with plans to open a full office next year.

Among recent Indian records: most consecutive yoga positions on a motorcycle (23), most Mohandas Gandhi look-alikes photographed (485), most earthworms swallowed (200), longest ear hair (7 inches).

Most earthworms swallowed? Why do Indians want to do bizarre things? 

"Everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame," said Tharaileth Koshy Oommen, a sociologist at New Delhi's Schumacher Center for Development, a civic group. "People feel once they have world-level recognition, they'll get more recognition back home. It's a kind of anxiety."

But Guinness Ravi puts it honestly:

"I'm not tall enough, I'm not the best dressed, I don't wear the biggest turban to stand out in a crowd of millions," he said. "To be different and get recognized, I have little choice but to keep trying to break records, or else I'll be forgotten."

Somehow that seems to make sense.

The Brahmin and the microscope

The Scrinium, in two volumes, by Rebecca Edridge,  published in the year 1822, has the following anecdote on Page 336, about a Brahmin who was a die-hard vegetarian. 

The Bramins abstain not only from what Europeans call with limitations, animal food, but also from feeding on anything that has life. 

Once in India such abstinence had been the theme of conversation in the presence of a Bramin, who was a very learned and a very liberal minded man, strongly attached to the doctrines of the religion in which he had been brought up, and deeming himself perfectly innocent of deviation from its injunctions.

Mr. Forbes, to convince bim that in every morsel which he put into his mouth and in every drop of water which he swallowed he destroyed millions, produced a microscope of prodigious magnifying power: and gave him some fruit to examine through the glass. 

The astonished Bramin, when be beheld the myriads, whose existence constituted the bloom of the plumb, was overpowered by his conviction. He investigated by the same microscopic means many other things that were upon the table, and all proved the wonderful gradations of life, and the universal prey of animal on animal. He became extremely melancholy and pensive, and appeared to be much distressed by the discovery he had made.

The next morning Mr. Forbes heard a noise under his window, and looking out, he saw the Bramin, who with a large stone was crushing the microscope. When Mr. Forbes remonstrated with him, he said, that whatever might be the value of what he had destroyed, he would pay it; or he would pay double the value of it, or any sum that might be required; but that having been made unhappy by seeing that it was impossible to sustain his own life, without destroying other lives, he was determined to prevent the same knowledge from reaching his brethren, and making them as wretched as he should be forever.

Update 01/015/12:
 

I’ve read earlier ( as cited here) that Lord Tennyson used to narrate this anecdote in a manner as to depict the Brahmin as one who destroyed the microscope because he foolishly believed that we could destroy facts by refusing to see them. 

Whereas the above description of the same incident- as it really happened- reveals a different dimension. The Brahmin accepts the fact and reality of animal life, but did not want to burden his fellow-Brahmins with a sense of guilt.What they won't know won't hurt them.

Hair today, gone tomorrow.

According to this report in The Daily Mail, UK, a real-life Rapunzel girl cut her hair for the first time to earn $ 5000 to give her family the fairytale home they always dreamed of.

Natasha Moraes de Andrade, 12, wept as her 1.6m mane was sheared for the first time ever. But now she says it has given her a new life. It’s given her the much-needed freedom to do what she wants.

Incident has shades of O Henry’s story “ Gift of the Magi”, don’t you think? Just in case you've forgotten the story, Della had such long and beautiful hair that “had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts.” One day, she decides to sell her hair for $20 to gift a watch chain to her lover Jim, who at the exact moment is selling his watch to get money to buy ivory combs for her long hair.

Anyway, it’s good to hear that the real-life Rapunzel is happy that she’s cut her hair and is not regretting it.

Money, money, money

A favourite theme of e-mail forwards is that ‘money isn’t everything’ and ‘do what you love doing, answer your calling, money is secondary”. These mails make you feel good momentarily, especially when you don’t have too much money or not earning as much as your neighbor. The famous debates in Tamil TV channels invariably come out in favour of ‘love’ over “money” so that everyone can go home without regretting that they don’t have too much money.

Scientists don’t take such mail forwards or debates at face value. They dig deeper. They get hold of hundred people who are happy, another hundred who are not happy and question them to find out if money does play any role. Does more money lead to more happiness or less happiness?

Well, the answer is….

The researchers discovered that money is indeed a major factor in day-to-day happiness. You need to make as much money as to meet all your basic needs as well as cater to a higher Maslowian need- like buying an iPad product. But the money vs happiness curve reaches a plateau. In the US, the researchers found that the threshold was $75000. Up to this point, the happiness level keeps going up. Beyond this pojnt, it doesn’t make too much of a difference. A person making $250,000 a year has no greater emotional well-being or a sense of happiness than the person earning $75000. (source)

I wonder what’s the figure for us in India. What do you think?

"12 Angry Men" : The 1826 version.

“12 Angry Men”, a film starring Henry Fonda is considered a classic. It tells the story of a jury made up of 12 men as they deliberate the guilt or acquittal of a defendant on the basis of reasonable doubt. A young Mexican is facing trial for murder and, after the trial, the jury retires to a private room to discuss the verdict. At this point, the members of the jury are convinced that the defendant is guilty- with the exception of just one jury member, played by Henry Fonda. The rest of the film is how, on the basis of his doubt, he manages to convince the rest of the jury, one at a time, that there was reasonable doubt about the guilt and it wasn’t such a water-tight case. The jury finally comes up with a verdict of ‘not guilty”, all thanks to the seed of doubt planted by one member. The entire film, barring 3-4 minutes, is shot in a single room and is gripping throughout..

No doubt, the film must have won several awards, including 'best story', The story was refreshingly different and original.

Hang on, was it original?

Surprise. An incident narrated in page 117 of  "The Oriental Herald and journal of General Literature", published in 1826, appears almost similar to the plot of “12 Angry Men”. Here is the narration and the context:

In the island of Ceylon, soon after the introduction into it of the noble institution, Trial by Jury, a Native of some consideration was put upon his trial for murder. The rank of the parties implicated, and the circumstances attending the deed, had occasioned this trial to excite the greatest interest throughout the country, and the Court was crowded to witness the proceedings. After a patient investigation of the affair, the Jury retired to consider of their verdict; and so plausible was the evidence against the accused, that the whole of the Jury, with one single exception, considered his guilt to be completely established. The individual who did not concur in this opinion, was a young Native, of about five-and twenty, of superior understanding; and the reasons stated by him for his dissent were sufficiently powerful to induce the rest of the Jury to consent to return to the Court, and give him an opportunity to cross-examine the witnesses whose evidence had made so strong an impression of the prisoner's guilt. The witnesses being recalled, this young Indian went through their cross-examination with so much skill, yet in so inartificial and straight-forward a manner, as to elicit the most complete proof of the innocence of the accused, and to establish, beyond all doubt, the existence of a conspiracy against his life by parties interested in succeeding to his property. The result was, that the arraigned individual, who, but for this subsequent examination of the witnesses, would have been condemned, and executed within four-and-twenty hours, was restored to his family, his reputation, and his property, by the superior intelligence of one of his fellow countrymen.

When the trial was over, the Chief Justice sent for the young Native, and expressed a desire to know what had been the course of study and occupation which could have given him such penetration and such skill; when he understood from him that he had been educated only in the usual mode adopted for persons of good condition in the country, and that there was nothing peculiar in this to account for the qualities which had excited the judge's admiration. But, he observed, that being naturally of a studious disposition, he sought out and read all the books he could procure on the learning of Europe, both in ancient and modern authors ; and having met with a Persian translation from the Greek of Aristotle's Dialectics, he had sufficient acquaintance with the language into which it had been translated to understand it well, and was so struck with its importance, that he made a translation of it from the Persian into the Sanscrit. It was to th;s masterly production of the mind of a Greek philosopher that he owed all his powers of analysis and reasoning; and the present instance of its successful application tq the great ends of justice would only stimulate him, he said, to new researches into the wisdom of other countries and of other days.

This fact is of itself sufficient to show what wonders might be wrought by a proper encouragement of such a feeling on the part of the nation in whose hands the destinies of the countless millions of Asia are now placed: Sir Alexander Johnston's introduction of Trial by Jury into Ceylon, is one example that has already produced immense benefit.

There it is. The same story, in real life, 130 years before the film came out.

If there is any award for investigative journalism, please be kind enough to nominate me.

Getting boulder.

As I had noted in an earlier post, different methods have been adopted in different countries in ancient times, to move large objects. The 80-ton stone placed on top of the Brihadeswara temple in Thanjavur was moved from a quarry 200 km away, with the help of elephants and logs. A 200-ton stone was moved by the Chinese to the Forbidden City in Beijing by rolling it over ice in winter.

Recently, a 340-ton boulder was transported over 100 km, in 12 days in California. No elephants were necessary. They used a 200 feet long trailer. This feat will now feature in the Guinness Book of World Records. (source)

To make perfect hats.

In the short story,“ The Amazing Hat Mystery”, P.G.Wodehouse describes a hat-maker called Bodin’s who made the most perfect hats possible.

“People can say what they please about the modern young man believing in nothing nowadays, but there is one thing every right-minded young man believes in, and that’s the infallibility of Bodmin’s hats. It is one of the eternal verities. Once admit that it is possible for a Bodmin hat not to fit, and you leave the door open for Doubt, Schism and Chaos generally."

And when one of the characters, Nelson, is told by his girlfriend Diana that his Bodmin’s hat did not fit him, this is how he responds.

Over the door of his emporium in Vigo Street the passer-by may read a significant legend. It runs: “ Bespoke Hatter to the Royal Family”. That means, in simple language adapted to the lay intelligence that if the king wants a new topper, he simply ankles round to Bodmin’s and says     “Good Morning, Bodmin, we want a topper”. He does not ask if it will fit. He takes it for granted that it will fit. He has bespoken Jno.Bodmin and he trusts him blindly. You don’t suppose His gracious Majesty would bespeak a hatter whose hats did not fit. The whole essence of being a hatter is to make hats that fit, and it is to this end that Jno bodmin has strained every nerve for years.

Unfortunately, Wodehouse doesn’t explain in that story what magic or technique was used by Bodmin’s to achieve that degree of perfection. But I found a possible explanation in this lovely piece titled, “The magical way hats are made” :  "After dark, in the millinery workroom, mini maintenance workers construct hats in the most clandestine way." Straight out of Gulliver’s Tales.

Is that a plane?

Sitting on the sands of the Marina Beach in Chennai at night (sadly such occasions are getting to be less frequent ) I like to stare into the distance and watch the planes flying in from over the horizon. Quite a few planes come in at that hour and they – especially the Kolkata, Hyderabad and Delhi flights- cross the beach while approaching the airport.

The fascinating thing about the planes at night is that they would look like small dots of light located many miles away and appear to be stationary. One can easily mistake them for stars till- after a minute or two- they come closer and the movement becomes obvious. It is fun to engage kids with the question, “Is that a star, or is that a plane?”

For me and the kids, it was an idle pastime and no harm was done if we guessed it wrong. Not so with the pilot of an Air Canada plane who, two days back, mistook the planet Venus for an aircraft, and then sent his airliner diving toward the Atlantic to prevent an imaginary collision with another plane. This report from Reuters says:

"Under the effects of significant sleep inertia (when performance and situational awareness are degraded immediately after waking up), the first officer perceived the oncoming aircraft as being on a collision course and began a descent to avoid it," Canada's Transportation Safety Board said.

"This occurrence underscores the challenge of managing fatigue on the flight deck," said chief investigator Jon Lee.

The incident occurred at night on board a Boeing 767 twin engine passenger plane flying from Toronto to Zurich in Switzerland with 95 passengers and eight crew.

So, idle pastime for me. But a matter of life and death when a pilot of a real plane mistakes a planet for a plane or vice versa.

The Macguffin methods.

Have you ever wondered why they make you remove the laptops before you push your bag into the X-ray machine at Airport Security? As every second passenger carries a laptop, this ritual holds up the queue and causes much annoyance.

Is it really necessary? Do laptops have some special components that can defeat an X-ray machine, if kept inside a bag? Or do they help hide other dangerous items? What is the basis for the elaborate procedure?

Matt Richtel decided to investigate and contacted several agencies before publishing his findings in this piece in the New York Times. He writes:

As I did more reporting, the logic behind the rule grew as elusive as a free power outlet in the boarding area. Is size the issue? If so, security experts counter, today’s laptops are far thinner than they used to be.

Could it be because laptops, unlike tablet computers, have an easily removable battery compartment and hard drive that could be used to hide homemade bombs? But some netbooks and ultrabooks have similar compartments, and they don’t require separate screening. Strike two.

Perhaps, I thought, it’s because the circuitry of a laptop can be replaced with a device to send an electromagnetic signal to jam an airplane’s controls at takeoff or landing. But, as I soon learned, the same circuitry could be embedded just as easily in phones, watches or game players, all of which stay in the bag.

He finally stumbled upon the real reason:

. Until I happened upon a security expert who asked that he not be identified because he has worked on related issues with the Department of Homeland Security. He said that the laptop rule is about appearances, giving people a sense that something is being done to protect them. “Security theater,” he called it.

That’s it. The Security agencies merely adopt what Hitchcock described as a Macguffin technique in his thrillers. He explained that the plot was not so important. What was important was that the actors must be shown to be engaged in some plot, hurrying, agonising, fretting, fuming, etc. What they were hurrying for, agonising over, fretting and fuming about was immaterial.

Same it is with the Security agencies. What they are searching for or why they are searching for anything is not relevant at all. It’s the show that’s important. Seen those guys at the gate of a 5-star hotel searching under the bonnet of the car with a mirror? None of them know what they are looking for.

Not just Security, but almost all actions of the Govt follow the Macguffin method. When there’s an accident, even before the body count is done, an announcement will be made that “ Rs 1 lakh will be given to the family of the deceased”. When there’s a storm warning, TV ticker will proclaim that “fisherman have been asked not to venture into the sea”. All this is to give the impression that the Govt machinery is working and is responsive. But, nothing tangible needs to be done and the Govt knows this. The perception of action is what matters more than the action itself.

The tribal drive.

The thing about the IPL is that it promotes a new form of tribalism. Members drawn from different parts of India and different countries get together as a team. How do the local spectators relate to their team at all? Why would they root for a team that has just one or two local players?

This piece by biologist, E.O.Wilson, provides some answers.

The answer is that everyone, no exception, must have a tribe, an alliance with which to jockey for power and territory, to demonize the enemy, to organize rallies and raise flags.

And so it has ever been. In ancient history and prehistory, tribes gave visceral comfort and pride from familiar fellowship, and a way to defend the group enthusiastically against rival groups. It gave people a name in addition to their own and social meaning in a chaotic world. It made the environment less disorienting and dangerous. Human nature has not changed. Modern groups are psychologically equivalent to the tribes of ancient history. As such, these groups are directly descended from the bands of primitive humans and prehumans.

.. Today, the social world of each modern human is not a single tribe but rather a system of interlocking tribes, among which it is often difficult to find a single compass. People savor the company of like-minded friends, and they yearn to be in one of the best—a combat Marine regiment, perhaps, an elite college, the executive committee of a company, a religious sect, a fraternity, a garden club—any collectivity that can be compared favorably with other, competing groups of the same category.

.. Our bloody nature, it can now be argued in the context of modern biology, is ingrained because group-versus-group was a principal driving force that made us what we are. In prehistory, group selection lifted the hominids to heights of solidarity, to genius, to enterprise. And to fear. Each tribe knew with justification that if it was not armed and ready, its very existence was imperiled. Throughout history, the escalation of a large part of technology has had combat as its central purpose. Today, public support is best fired up by appeal to the emotions of deadly combat, over which the amygdala is grandmaster. We find ourselves in the battle to stem an oil spill, the fight to tame inflation, the war against cancer. Wherever there is an enemy, animate or inanimate, there must be a victory.

So, that’s what surrogate warfare such as the IPL does. Appeal to the emotions of deadly combat and to the innate tribal instinct in each one of us. Nothing wrong about that, but it’s interesting to know what the biological drive is.