Ilogs

Sorry about this urgent digression:
Just got the news that there have been four (later news said two) bomb blasts in important parts of Mumbai...not sure, but somewhere in Marine Lines, Mumbadevi, Gateway...The cellphones are already on the blink at 2.10 pm here in most areas. Can`t get through to cousins who are out there.

All those in mumbai, please try and help by disallowing rumours to spread till we know the truth.

Take care and be safe, and pray for those that aren`t.

Hi Sameena:
Why did I know this was coming? The whole article states what everyone has said at some point in time or the other, and most are agreed that people can connect and do. However, your last sentence is rather presumptuous, considering those who read iLogs of others and do not agree are hardly likely to lose their peace of mind. They just might point out what they see as the hypocrisy inherent in the so-called honesty. Courage is a huge word. It must be used with utmost care.

Anyway, am glad my iLog got you to pen this...of course it did. And just for those who skip mine, here it is:

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August 21, 2003

Ooh-aah-blah

I-logs, as they appear, are not that great an idea. The only person who is truly doing his own thing without a care in the world is Goreja. He writes his poems ending with copyright to himself. Someone found that funny; it isn’t. He may truly believe his work is good, even great, and plagiarism is not unknown. Wasn’t there some trepidation on an Unplugged thread once about how iLog entries (not even a creative effort, mind you) might be used by others? So, I like Goreja. And I don’t have to read him.

Do I have to read anyone at all? No. But some I know…and it could be interesting to find out what they have to say. But what disgusts me is how suddenly people claim life-long allegiances, how interactors are being rated like it is some bazaar and your mundanities and rare moments of depth are being weighed on some scale. Worse, those who have talked about themselves are thrilled to bits by the accolades. Come on, is your life worth so little that someone who has gone through similar hot air gets to ride on the same blast and both get catapulted in the sky?

I am told there is a good deal of honesty going. Sure. I can count that on two fingers. For the rest, sure as hell. You show off your dirty linen, get the customary tut-tuts (oh, no….you don’t want that, you were merely being honest, but now that they are tut-tutting, bring on the stains anyway), when what should be done is inform the dhobi. But then dhobi will wash clothes again and life will be clean once more…and those sounds of tut-tuts won’t be there. This is sneaky emotional pornography where you get a hard-on somewhere and come to jerk off here.

But no one will say anything because it is all a back-scratching brigade. And this whole business of expressing angst in clone fashion has become like some trendy brand name. You must buy that label if you want to belong. Strangely the label is titled, ‘Outsider’. I believe the trend in not restricted to the Net. An editor friend was telling me the other day about the calls he gets from disillusioned people who cry about not being able to ‘fit in’. And sometimes they reach the office, demand a meeting, and they look like they are right there with the rest, but that little anguish is their designer label. Of course, he finally told me, “I used to think you were mad. But that was so different. These days I am beginning to measure sanity with you as the yardstick!” Of course, he was chuckling.

As my mother does when she tells me, “Agar tum kisika qat’l bhi karna chaahogee tau pehle phone mein usko bataa dogee ke tum usey maarne ke liye jaa rahee ho…” This is considered foolhardiness. It isn’t as though I have not written about myself and the people around me, but they knew from me what I thought as well as from my written words; they had access to it, and if for some reason they did not, I sent them clippings! I thought honesty is when the game is fair on an equal playing field.

But what is equality? If everyone is not equal in our scheme of things, how do we decipher our ‘specialness’? “I thought you were not possessive,” I was told. I was not because I would never ask someone to stop talking with or addressing another with affection only because I have a problem with that person. I have not done that. But, yes, I will not allow the same lingo to be used, the same terms of address, the same sense of oneness that is conveyed. Because I do not need to be a part of any herd. I dance to my own tune and if anyone wants to make music with me they will have come with the same sur and taal. If our thoughts can be read and our sentences can be completed, then I do not see why anyone needs the desperation to call out to the world to talk to them, be with them and reveal what is shared.

I know that despite my complete openness regarding views, I am extremely possessive about my privacy. It could mean routine things. Like travelling. My answering machine does not say so. I could be taking a shower, out for lunch, writing, sleeping or just being incommunicado. The whole world does not have to know, unless I choose to tell the world. Does the world even care? No. So? So, does it matter that I can take ill when I am away…okay so world knows something which I did not know world knew. Therefore, world will now be told that I dropped water, I got wet, I lay down and watched a film, I stood in the street late at night and had a tiff, I snuffed out a candle when I tried to run my finger through the flame, I cuddled a fluffy toy, I hummed several songs, I laughed, I cried, I pretty much made a fool of myself. And yes, when I was ill, I threw up and was crapping for two days. I guess all this is eventful enough to be told because it reveals dark, deep secrets.

I like shit. I have no choice.

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Regards and best wishes,
Farzana