Showing posts with label Conformism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Conformism. Show all posts
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Re-contamination
I feel contaminated. That tight embrace, that laughter, that pleasure, that mischief in her eye, which I could not see yet sense; that betrayal, which I saw and yet could not look at - all unwelcome, yet all are keeping on returning to me. Why? Why the fuck are they returning? My acquaintance with this dirt is so new; I never knew it even existed to contaminate me, yet now that it has touched me, bathed me in itself, she is being so loyal. Bitch! I don't know what to do with it. Can I get rid of it? Would it ever be possible for me to forget all that? Or would it be easier to forget she is my mother of 27 years? Twenty seven years, of which 26 I had lived with both of them - mom and dad.
She seeped into her past, and the past equally eagerly gobbled her up. That night, a truck, its driver and the 50 milliliters of alcohol in his body had decided, her dad had had enough of this living business.
Since that day, mom and I were united by grief, relation by blood was merely incidental. On so many occasions I had felt that tinge of happiness. But no, I had denied it to myself on all occasions. All! How could I have allowed ... allowed myself to be happy? My dad. Yes, my dad is no more. The truck, the driver, and the alcohol were mere excuses. I was responsible for his death. And mom was.
Her dad was in Nashik, to seal one of his bigger contracts. He was to stay overnight and return in the morning - the morning that was to be the one following her birthday. But she and her mom had insisted that he return to celebrate their daughter's birthday. When he had refused, they had used their ultimate weapon that had seemed innocuous to them till then - "Dad, when will you stop running after this money? Your daughter is not important for you?" Her mom had winked at this put on act. They had had a hearty laugh when she ended the call, and that was that; they had never laughed again. Till today, that is. Her mom had breached that unwritten, unstated contract.
My mother is a whore. Yes, why am I shying away from that fact. She is a whore, so what if she is my mother. She is a whore, a depraved woman. A woman belonging to the gutters. So what if she is my mother. How the hell did she fuck my uncle? Her brother-in-law? Since when all this must have been going on? How could she do that? I should have always suspected. He's a son of a bitch! I should have anticipated this. His wife had died 2 years back, and he must have been on look out of some easy-going pussy. Bastard! How could he do that? Did he not think of his deceased brother? Had dad been alive today? Ah, dad is dead. And so... and so my mom... She became available. How is it his fault. He saw an available pussy and...
No! I can't take this. She's such a professional. Such an accomplished whore. She had made 'kheer' for the lunch! She was humming. A god-damned r-o-m-a-n-t-i-c song! As if nothing had happened. As if dad had never died! As if dad had never lived! Why did I not spit in her face? Why did I not scratch it? Why did I not punch her nose into a pulp? Whore! Yes, why did I not call her that ... in her face? What did I fear? Why did that whore have to be my mother?
She had done none of those. But had cried, cried and cried. Still, her tears had not washed away her dirt. She was contaminated. She had taken an off from her work as she was not feeling well. And when she had returned unknown to her mother and the uncle were... what she saw returning to home made her even sicker. She had to return to her clinic. Yet even here, that scene, that depravity, betrayal all - kept on returning to haunt her. They played in her mind, and on it.
Having freshly completed her dermatology diploma, she was posted in the STD (sexually transmitted diseases)-clinic of her hospital. Rest of the staff was surprised to see her back. She took it upon herself to clear the backlog of patients. But the memory of what she had seen that morning would not leave her. Her next patient was a 30 year-old elderly lady. Syphilis! She saw the white patches on her palm with reddish rash sprinkled over them. She had got bored of seeing so many syphilis patients. The 30 year-old elderly lady was accompanied by her son - not elderly, barely 15. "Secondary syphilis, it must be", she thought. Must have acquired from her unfaithful husband. Bastards!
Somehow she felt touched. She could feel her mind developing an aptitude for things other than anger, viz., sympathy and a sincere urge to help.
That hit her like a barb!
These whores, they are everywhere! This bastard, he must not even know who his dad is. Oh, fuck! I can't stand this.
She sighed. She could not speak out all that. Every unformed word she was keeping inside of her was now banging against her ... from within. The pressure was building. Suddenly, she wanted to get it done with as quickly as possible.
He opened his wallet and started searching for the old prescription. It was taking some time, and she was getting irritated.
He panicked, searching a bit more frantically.
Bastard! He must not even know who his dad is. His mom must have made it out with countless pigs. Some random fucker impregnated her, she got pregnant and raised this basta...
Just then a small black-and-white photograph fell out of his wallet. She was holding him, hugging him, kissing him on his cheek, totally unconscious of the camera. And she did not look elderly. She was a girl, then. A child-mother. Her son picked up the photograph from the floor. Just a moment back he was panicking, but the moment his gaze fell on the photograph, there was certain steadiness about him. That photograph, the shared memory of a shared life... it was the anchor to a puny boat tossing in a tumultuous ocean that he was. A light smile played on his lips, and he placed the photograph back.
How could this bastard smile?!! What right has he got to smile. His mother is a fucking whore! Is he not ashamed? Is he not contaminated?
His smile too hit her like a barb. This bastard... Her mind jolted to a halt mid-thought. I have called so many men bastards in real life, yet they were all legitimate. But, this guy, he's truly a bastard and... And, I don't know what is wrong! Why did he smile? Why does he not hate his mother? She's a fucking whore? How could that be?
In the meantime, he produced the old prescription. Relief was writ all over his face. As if producing the prescription was the most important thing to cure his mother. In a way it was. That was the best he could do. Her head was now spinning faster. She had never known ambivalence could be so hard to bear. She had got so used to judging people! 'Good', 'bad', 'ugly', 'cruel', 'nice', 'interesting', 'asshole', 'whore', bastard'... But this guy, her contempt did not just touch him! Her judgment felt flat before his smile, That guileless, proud, smile. A smile with knowledge of an anchor to smile for. A smile for a reason. A smile with no reason. A smile, simply for existing, and being proud of that existence. He lived on an entirely different plane. And so must his mother, a fucking whore. By now, she was not even sure if 'whore' and 'bastard' were any longer vehicles of contempt. Oh, they were just... they were just a mode of existing - external trappings, conveying nothing about the beauty of the soul within.
So, this guy he does not even know who his father was. His mother brought him up with utmost dedication. He kept on loving her like any child would. What the world thought of his mother was not important to him. He knew what his mother meant for him, and what he meant for her. She is everything for him. He is everything for her. They are happy! Save this minor inconvenience of syphilis. Fucking bastards!
She smiled. She had somehow fallen in love with those words now. Her mind returned to her mother. And her uncle. Replaying everything right from the time of her dad's death. In her attempt to keep herself from being happy, she had replayed everything a countless times. She had not come to terms with it. Actually, she was afraid that she might.
Uncle, a widower since two years, who had been on very good terms with dad and us, helped us out of that chaos. He too was grieved. He had run around to get so many works done. Mom and I were incapable of doing that. We never realized, how many hassles must have been there to claim insurance money, the property papers and what not. We were just busy grieving and wallowing in our self-pity. Just like mom and I, mom and he too were united in their grief. They spent lot of time together, trying to pick up the threads of their life. I had my studies, my job to keep me busy. I had other things to look forward to, to plan ahead. What did they have? They both had a vacuum to fill. They both could fill a vacuum. That's it! They fell in love! Why the hell did I get so much bothered? I jealous of mom's happiness? How could I be? What kind of pathetic child I am? Had I accepted the society's terms that someone's death means eternal grieving. That feeling happiness is a sin? Why did I so eagerly embrace the guilt, the melancholy that the society is ever willing to distribute? Oh, fuck! What was I doing? How could I think that way about my mom? Yes, so what if she wanted to feel happy? What's wrong with the sincere warmth they both are sharing? Why should I let our contractual guilt and grief come in between?
She reached back home. She did not know how to face her mother. A most wonderful mother for whom her filthy mind had thought the most degraded thoughts and had engendered so much hatred. She realized, they were not united by grief, but were instead grieving in unison. Grieving was as an end in itself. Because... because, she had no answer. Because perhaps, she had accepted happiness to be a vice. Guilt and grief were virtues. Ha!
She looked at her mom, who had just asked, "how is your headache, beta?". She started crying! She was a sinner. She had sinned against her mother. Would she ever be able to confess. Would she ever be able to forgive herself?
She jerked off her mother's loving hand that was on her shoulder.
She seeped into her past, and the past equally eagerly gobbled her up. That night, a truck, its driver and the 50 milliliters of alcohol in his body had decided, her dad had had enough of this living business.
Since that day, mom and I were united by grief, relation by blood was merely incidental. On so many occasions I had felt that tinge of happiness. But no, I had denied it to myself on all occasions. All! How could I have allowed ... allowed myself to be happy? My dad. Yes, my dad is no more. The truck, the driver, and the alcohol were mere excuses. I was responsible for his death. And mom was.
Her dad was in Nashik, to seal one of his bigger contracts. He was to stay overnight and return in the morning - the morning that was to be the one following her birthday. But she and her mom had insisted that he return to celebrate their daughter's birthday. When he had refused, they had used their ultimate weapon that had seemed innocuous to them till then - "Dad, when will you stop running after this money? Your daughter is not important for you?" Her mom had winked at this put on act. They had had a hearty laugh when she ended the call, and that was that; they had never laughed again. Till today, that is. Her mom had breached that unwritten, unstated contract.
My mother is a whore. Yes, why am I shying away from that fact. She is a whore, so what if she is my mother. She is a whore, a depraved woman. A woman belonging to the gutters. So what if she is my mother. How the hell did she fuck my uncle? Her brother-in-law? Since when all this must have been going on? How could she do that? I should have always suspected. He's a son of a bitch! I should have anticipated this. His wife had died 2 years back, and he must have been on look out of some easy-going pussy. Bastard! How could he do that? Did he not think of his deceased brother? Had dad been alive today? Ah, dad is dead. And so... and so my mom... She became available. How is it his fault. He saw an available pussy and...
No! I can't take this. She's such a professional. Such an accomplished whore. She had made 'kheer' for the lunch! She was humming. A god-damned r-o-m-a-n-t-i-c song! As if nothing had happened. As if dad had never died! As if dad had never lived! Why did I not spit in her face? Why did I not scratch it? Why did I not punch her nose into a pulp? Whore! Yes, why did I not call her that ... in her face? What did I fear? Why did that whore have to be my mother?
She had done none of those. But had cried, cried and cried. Still, her tears had not washed away her dirt. She was contaminated. She had taken an off from her work as she was not feeling well. And when she had returned unknown to her mother and the uncle were... what she saw returning to home made her even sicker. She had to return to her clinic. Yet even here, that scene, that depravity, betrayal all - kept on returning to haunt her. They played in her mind, and on it.
Having freshly completed her dermatology diploma, she was posted in the STD (sexually transmitted diseases)-clinic of her hospital. Rest of the staff was surprised to see her back. She took it upon herself to clear the backlog of patients. But the memory of what she had seen that morning would not leave her. Her next patient was a 30 year-old elderly lady. Syphilis! She saw the white patches on her palm with reddish rash sprinkled over them. She had got bored of seeing so many syphilis patients. The 30 year-old elderly lady was accompanied by her son - not elderly, barely 15. "Secondary syphilis, it must be", she thought. Must have acquired from her unfaithful husband. Bastards!
"Kab se hai inhein yeh?" [Since when is she suffering from this?], she asked the son who was visibly at the helm of affairs.
"Do hafton se, madam." [Since two weeks, madam], he said with a gaze that betrayed pain as well as hope. Hope, that his mom would get well, be cured of her pains.
Somehow she felt touched. She could feel her mind developing an aptitude for things other than anger, viz., sympathy and a sincere urge to help.
"Tere pitaaji nahin aaye saath mein?" [Your dad did not accompany her?]
"Mere pitaaji nahin hai" [My dad is not there]. "Maan dhandha karti hai" [My mom is a prostitute]
That hit her like a barb!
These whores, they are everywhere! This bastard, he must not even know who his dad is. Oh, fuck! I can't stand this.
She sighed. She could not speak out all that. Every unformed word she was keeping inside of her was now banging against her ... from within. The pressure was building. Suddenly, she wanted to get it done with as quickly as possible.
"Is ke pehale is ko koi dawaai di thi" [Was she given any medication for this before], she could not keep the contempt out of her voice. She was not sure if she was trying extra hard to instead poison her conduct with as much contempt as possible.
He opened his wallet and started searching for the old prescription. It was taking some time, and she was getting irritated.
"Rehane de. Tum jaise log ek parcha bhi nahin sambhaal sakte." [Leave it, people like you cannot even preserve a scrap of paper]
He panicked, searching a bit more frantically.
Bastard! He must not even know who his dad is. His mom must have made it out with countless pigs. Some random fucker impregnated her, she got pregnant and raised this basta...
Just then a small black-and-white photograph fell out of his wallet. She was holding him, hugging him, kissing him on his cheek, totally unconscious of the camera. And she did not look elderly. She was a girl, then. A child-mother. Her son picked up the photograph from the floor. Just a moment back he was panicking, but the moment his gaze fell on the photograph, there was certain steadiness about him. That photograph, the shared memory of a shared life... it was the anchor to a puny boat tossing in a tumultuous ocean that he was. A light smile played on his lips, and he placed the photograph back.
How could this bastard smile?!! What right has he got to smile. His mother is a fucking whore! Is he not ashamed? Is he not contaminated?
His smile too hit her like a barb. This bastard... Her mind jolted to a halt mid-thought. I have called so many men bastards in real life, yet they were all legitimate. But, this guy, he's truly a bastard and... And, I don't know what is wrong! Why did he smile? Why does he not hate his mother? She's a fucking whore? How could that be?
In the meantime, he produced the old prescription. Relief was writ all over his face. As if producing the prescription was the most important thing to cure his mother. In a way it was. That was the best he could do. Her head was now spinning faster. She had never known ambivalence could be so hard to bear. She had got so used to judging people! 'Good', 'bad', 'ugly', 'cruel', 'nice', 'interesting', 'asshole', 'whore', bastard'... But this guy, her contempt did not just touch him! Her judgment felt flat before his smile, That guileless, proud, smile. A smile with knowledge of an anchor to smile for. A smile for a reason. A smile with no reason. A smile, simply for existing, and being proud of that existence. He lived on an entirely different plane. And so must his mother, a fucking whore. By now, she was not even sure if 'whore' and 'bastard' were any longer vehicles of contempt. Oh, they were just... they were just a mode of existing - external trappings, conveying nothing about the beauty of the soul within.
So, this guy he does not even know who his father was. His mother brought him up with utmost dedication. He kept on loving her like any child would. What the world thought of his mother was not important to him. He knew what his mother meant for him, and what he meant for her. She is everything for him. He is everything for her. They are happy! Save this minor inconvenience of syphilis. Fucking bastards!
She smiled. She had somehow fallen in love with those words now. Her mind returned to her mother. And her uncle. Replaying everything right from the time of her dad's death. In her attempt to keep herself from being happy, she had replayed everything a countless times. She had not come to terms with it. Actually, she was afraid that she might.
Uncle, a widower since two years, who had been on very good terms with dad and us, helped us out of that chaos. He too was grieved. He had run around to get so many works done. Mom and I were incapable of doing that. We never realized, how many hassles must have been there to claim insurance money, the property papers and what not. We were just busy grieving and wallowing in our self-pity. Just like mom and I, mom and he too were united in their grief. They spent lot of time together, trying to pick up the threads of their life. I had my studies, my job to keep me busy. I had other things to look forward to, to plan ahead. What did they have? They both had a vacuum to fill. They both could fill a vacuum. That's it! They fell in love! Why the hell did I get so much bothered? I jealous of mom's happiness? How could I be? What kind of pathetic child I am? Had I accepted the society's terms that someone's death means eternal grieving. That feeling happiness is a sin? Why did I so eagerly embrace the guilt, the melancholy that the society is ever willing to distribute? Oh, fuck! What was I doing? How could I think that way about my mom? Yes, so what if she wanted to feel happy? What's wrong with the sincere warmth they both are sharing? Why should I let our contractual guilt and grief come in between?
"Yeh injections hain, jo pehale diye the wahi hain. Aur do hafton tak lagaane honge. Aur, aur kahin mat jaana, mere paas hi dikhaane aana" [I'm prescribing the same injections she had been taking before and will have to be used for two more weeks. Come to show me after that, and do not go to show any other doctor], she said as she handed over the prescription. "Woh photo dikhaana" [Show me that photo (please)!]. He was somewhat taken aback, but gave it to her. She looked intently at it, and recalled days from her childhood. "Bahut pyaari photo hai." [A very lovely photo!].
"Thank you, madam!" The mother-son duo obviously, a bit surprised at her sudden turnaround, shuffled out of the room.
She reached back home. She did not know how to face her mother. A most wonderful mother for whom her filthy mind had thought the most degraded thoughts and had engendered so much hatred. She realized, they were not united by grief, but were instead grieving in unison. Grieving was as an end in itself. Because... because, she had no answer. Because perhaps, she had accepted happiness to be a vice. Guilt and grief were virtues. Ha!
She looked at her mom, who had just asked, "how is your headache, beta?". She started crying! She was a sinner. She had sinned against her mother. Would she ever be able to confess. Would she ever be able to forgive herself?
She jerked off her mother's loving hand that was on her shoulder.
"Don't touch me, mom! I'm contaminated."
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Counterintuitive Ideas on Career-Choice
Do not make that you are most passionate about, your source of livelihood
That is what I have told many people who I interact with online. A few disclaimers are in order, though. I have not yet practically begun my career, so great portion of my analysis is purely conjectural. Also, the above idea if taken as an advise would apply particularly to those who are faced with the prospect of making a career-related choice (in India). Of course, others who are already into their careers, and armed with the benefit of a hind-sight can provide their feedback.
I will begin with an anecdote.
I will begin with an anecdote.
---
During my MBBS-days, I had come in close contact with my psychiatry teacher. I would rate him as one of the best teachers I ever had. In a seminar a group of students was to present, it became apparent that even two years after the completion of his postgraduation course, he was remembering the respective functions of alpha-subunits (click) of various G-proteins (click). Those readers to who this statement won't make sense, suffice to say that his study was very detailed and he must have really loved his books and the field of psychiatry to have remembered all that. In short time he had become my idol. I had really started loving psychiatry, yet something was holding me back from thinking of it as a serious career-choice. Of course, he never nudged me into trying to take up psychiatry as a career, but on taking a stock of my own feelings, I concluded that my reservation was owing to the fact that despite knowing in great details the causes of many conditions at even molecular level, we as clinicians cannot do much to correct the 'root' causes!
This because, we cannot make the right molecule reach the right part of the brain to act on it. Molecules of any drug will reach even those parts of brain where nothing is wrong, and cause undesired effects. This in turn is because, brain actually uses a very limited number of molecules (called neurotransmitters [click]) to carry out the countless functions it performs. What brings specificity are not as much the particular type of neurtotransmitter released or the specific receptor for it, but more so the way the neurons are 'wired' to each other. E.g. a nerotransmitter 'M' when released by neroun '1' when acting on receptor 'R1' present on neuron '2' can activate it. In turn the neuron '2' activates neuron '3' by releasing molecule 'N' acting on receptor 'R2' present on the latter. Thus, final effect of release of M by neuron 1 would be the activation of neruon 3. But what if, instead of 'R1' present on neuron 2, we have receptor 'R3', which inhibits its function instead of activating it? Obviously, release of M by neuron 1 would cause inhibition of release of N, and neuron 3 would tend to remain inactivated. So now, think of a disorder wherein neurons in one region of the brain produce less of M. To counter this deficiency, if we deliver an oral dose of a drug that would enhance availability of M to neuron 2 it can compensate for the deficiency, right? The drug molecules upon crossing the blood brain barrier (click) will reach the fluid bathing the glial cells (click) that surround the individual neurons. The glial cells in turn would modulate the amount of drug reaching neuron 2. Now, the problem is that not all regions of brain are deficient in M! So the regions with normally functioning type 1 neurons will also receive additional amounts of M (because the administered drug would be supposed to do that). So, obviously depending upon whether neuron 2 in other regions inhibits or activates the 'downstream' neuron 3, this situation would result in derangement of many functions. Plus, not to mention the difficulty in making most drugs cross the blood brain barrier.
Of course, I did not have to explain what I wrote in the preceding paragraph to my teacher. It was only for the benefit of the reader. So our means to target specific disorders of brain (prominently, psychiatric disorders) are very limited. And that would remain so for the foreseeable future. This limitation would lead to imminent feeling of helplessness and frustration. The bottomline is: I had decided against being a psychiatrist. Some days before that, to look up something he had shown me one of his texts on psychiatry. It was a two (or three, I don't remember for sure)-volume set (easily over 3,000 pages in all), and it must be said that he had read each and every page more than once. I was surprised and impressed with his dedication. I mentioned that to him, so he smiled and showed me yet another textbook a with one volume more than the previous one, and which he had similarly 'ill-treated'! ;) Also, as a clinician, he was gentle and empathetic with patients. I realized, it takes a lot for a psychiatrist to not get emotionally involved with the patients. They cannot afford to do so. So, they take refuge in humor. But despite that he had never been contemptuous of patients and used to take great care in maintaining confidentiality despite the fact that most patients coming to that hospital were poor and quite uneducated, so there would be little chance of litigation; I was left with little doubt that this person just loved psychiatry. A lot. And that he was also a very suitable to be a psychiatrist.
He was to quit the college job to start his own practice in one of the bigger towns in Maharashtra. He had this fascination to have his own practice. He made his intentions clear that he would like to lead a comfortable life and earn sufficiently for that. His wife is a dermatologist. So, I could not make out how much would he have liked to earn! Anyway, for many people, private medical practice is enticing not merely because it would offer them chance to earn more (which by the way, does not happen in many cases), but also because it satisfies their entrepreneurial urges. At that time (in 2004-05) his and his wife's monthly salary had been Rs. 18,000 each. And he was 30. Obviously, it was a very low pay. But he explained that the situation was much the same in any college (now pay scales are better owing to implementation of the sixth pay commission).
So off he went to the town he had chosen. A few weeks later, he had returned to the college for some work. And as we were having a chat, he mentioned in passing that he had joined the local laughter club in his town. I was amused. I asked him if he indeed believed in the purported health benefits of such laughing. He told me, he had joined the club not for any health benefits, but for networking - to come into contact with more people, which in turn would bring him more patients (and more money)!
I was shattered.
This because, we cannot make the right molecule reach the right part of the brain to act on it. Molecules of any drug will reach even those parts of brain where nothing is wrong, and cause undesired effects. This in turn is because, brain actually uses a very limited number of molecules (called neurotransmitters [click]) to carry out the countless functions it performs. What brings specificity are not as much the particular type of neurtotransmitter released or the specific receptor for it, but more so the way the neurons are 'wired' to each other. E.g. a nerotransmitter 'M' when released by neroun '1' when acting on receptor 'R1' present on neuron '2' can activate it. In turn the neuron '2' activates neuron '3' by releasing molecule 'N' acting on receptor 'R2' present on the latter. Thus, final effect of release of M by neuron 1 would be the activation of neruon 3. But what if, instead of 'R1' present on neuron 2, we have receptor 'R3', which inhibits its function instead of activating it? Obviously, release of M by neuron 1 would cause inhibition of release of N, and neuron 3 would tend to remain inactivated. So now, think of a disorder wherein neurons in one region of the brain produce less of M. To counter this deficiency, if we deliver an oral dose of a drug that would enhance availability of M to neuron 2 it can compensate for the deficiency, right? The drug molecules upon crossing the blood brain barrier (click) will reach the fluid bathing the glial cells (click) that surround the individual neurons. The glial cells in turn would modulate the amount of drug reaching neuron 2. Now, the problem is that not all regions of brain are deficient in M! So the regions with normally functioning type 1 neurons will also receive additional amounts of M (because the administered drug would be supposed to do that). So, obviously depending upon whether neuron 2 in other regions inhibits or activates the 'downstream' neuron 3, this situation would result in derangement of many functions. Plus, not to mention the difficulty in making most drugs cross the blood brain barrier.
Of course, I did not have to explain what I wrote in the preceding paragraph to my teacher. It was only for the benefit of the reader. So our means to target specific disorders of brain (prominently, psychiatric disorders) are very limited. And that would remain so for the foreseeable future. This limitation would lead to imminent feeling of helplessness and frustration. The bottomline is: I had decided against being a psychiatrist. Some days before that, to look up something he had shown me one of his texts on psychiatry. It was a two (or three, I don't remember for sure)-volume set (easily over 3,000 pages in all), and it must be said that he had read each and every page more than once. I was surprised and impressed with his dedication. I mentioned that to him, so he smiled and showed me yet another textbook a with one volume more than the previous one, and which he had similarly 'ill-treated'! ;) Also, as a clinician, he was gentle and empathetic with patients. I realized, it takes a lot for a psychiatrist to not get emotionally involved with the patients. They cannot afford to do so. So, they take refuge in humor. But despite that he had never been contemptuous of patients and used to take great care in maintaining confidentiality despite the fact that most patients coming to that hospital were poor and quite uneducated, so there would be little chance of litigation; I was left with little doubt that this person just loved psychiatry. A lot. And that he was also a very suitable to be a psychiatrist.
He was to quit the college job to start his own practice in one of the bigger towns in Maharashtra. He had this fascination to have his own practice. He made his intentions clear that he would like to lead a comfortable life and earn sufficiently for that. His wife is a dermatologist. So, I could not make out how much would he have liked to earn! Anyway, for many people, private medical practice is enticing not merely because it would offer them chance to earn more (which by the way, does not happen in many cases), but also because it satisfies their entrepreneurial urges. At that time (in 2004-05) his and his wife's monthly salary had been Rs. 18,000 each. And he was 30. Obviously, it was a very low pay. But he explained that the situation was much the same in any college (now pay scales are better owing to implementation of the sixth pay commission).
So off he went to the town he had chosen. A few weeks later, he had returned to the college for some work. And as we were having a chat, he mentioned in passing that he had joined the local laughter club in his town. I was amused. I asked him if he indeed believed in the purported health benefits of such laughing. He told me, he had joined the club not for any health benefits, but for networking - to come into contact with more people, which in turn would bring him more patients (and more money)!
I was shattered.
---
Here was a man, perfect in my eyes to practice as a psychiatrist, also quite ethical, who loved psychiatry, and yet he had to resort to such dishonorable means to get patients to earn money? To me it was like his cheating on his love - the field of psychiatry. I cannot yet describe how I had felt listening to him say that. Did he care any longer for psychiatry? Would he still try to remember the G-protein subtypes? Would he still be curious to understand what was wrong with the patient or would he be more interested in getting the patient to come back to him only to dry the patient's pockets, or earn money from 'cuts' (anecdotally, the 30% commission) received by referring the patient for other (needless) investigations and consultations? I want to clarify here, that what had shocked me was not his eagerness to earn money, or even some of the unethical means that he might have come to use in the process, but what had happened between him and psychiatry! He had loved it. And, now?
I concluded that what we are most passionate about is like a romantic relationship. We hold highly idealistic views of our objects of love. We hold them in high regard. We reserve the best we could be for them, otherwise we would be afraid of defiling them. Imagine, having to lie on some very vital matter to someone you love and respect, how difficult is it? A lot, at least for me. But making that passion a means of sustenance is like marrying it! The attraction gradually dies. The small things we dislike about it amplify and start grating on our nerves. The compulsion to earn using what we are passionate about makes us hate what we had loved to begin with. This compulsion also compels us into making 'adjustments' in how we do what we do with our passion. It starts seeming like we are prostituting our skills and abilities and the passion that would have gone in acquiring them only to earn damn money!
To say the same thing in somewhat different words, when you earn, you are the supply, your client is the demand. More often than not owing to market forces, it is the demand that shapes the nature of supply. The supply cannot be arrogant to say, "hey dude, here's what I got. You want it? No? Sorry, look elsewhere", because our dude would indeed look elsewhere! As an obvious corollary, the supply has to mold according to what the demand is.
Of course, 'reasonable' compromises can be made with our passion. Really? Remember, wasn't your passion your Divine? If it was not, it was never passion in the first place. Wasn't it something that you had held dearest to you, always maintaining its sanctity, never defiling it? Wasn't that passion, the manner in which you let it unfold, an embodiment of what you were, what your deepest values and aspirations were? Now you have come to this, that you want to make reasonable compromises with it, eh? So, now your Divine is no longer Divine, but an agreeable neighbor who you could approach in times of need, or much worse, your 'host' who you parasite upon like a leech?
To give my example, I love to: observe; make sense of what I get to observe; think; organize my thoughts and articulate them in the most precise fashion possible through words. It is one of the greatest passions of mine. What would happen if I make a career out of it? E.g., if I have a mechanism for receiving donations on my blog, and each time I write something humorous I get Rs. 200, but each time I write on religion and god - criticizing the two, I get nothing. What would happen if my survival were to depend on how much money I make through blogging? Each time I feel like blogging on atheism, would I be able to do it with same passion and honesty as without any concern for how my write up is received?
Think of a school science teacher. What if she enjoys teaching concepts by giving analogies, and also likes to enlist the applications of such concepts? What if she enjoys making students think, and see their eyes fill with wonder on understanding something novel about something ubiquitous? But as you know, that is not what our education and exams are about! They are about mundane facts, or how to underline the most important "points" while answering; how to best convince the evaluator that you know the answers (irrespective of whether you actually know)! What if students do not want to learn what she teaches? Then our teacher might come down to the level of merely dictating notes. Or, if the students are to appear for entrance exams, and if the said teacher would be teaching in some 'coaching institute' then she would share 'tricks', 'shortcuts' and mnemonics with them. What would happen to science and her love for it; that would get buried somewhere? Can you imagine how miserable would she feel?
This clash between demand and supply has been very well exemplified by Howard Roark (click), the architect from Ayn Rand's (click) novel - 'The Fountainhead'. Though a great fan of Ayn Rand and her vision, I am stating here something almost contradictory to the 'moral' of her story. In her story, Roark triumphs against his adversaries. His complete antithesis - Peter Keating (mentioned in the same Wikipedia article on Roark) - initially succeeds a lot as an architect. Keating's only drives are approval by others and money. In the process, he loses everything - including the only one thing he had truly loved in all his life - his friend of childhood - Catherine. While, what happened to Keating is very likely to happen in real life, Howard Roark was plain lucky! Also, he had this incredible amount of tolerance. Tolerance of contempt, tolerance of physical hardships, tolerance of deceptions, tolerance of slow rate at which time passed (in other words, patience he showed in waiting for Dominique Francon to understand that he could not allow 'others' to dictate to him what he did with his life, and that what others thought of his work was not a determinant of whether he should do it), tolerance for failures. The only thing he did not have was tolerance for derision of his Divine, i.e., his vision of what buildings should be like. His Divine was intensely personal to him - he could not tolerate others' touching his building-designs, more specifically, the functionality behind them (Rand had sought to use functionality of building designs as the counterpart of 'truthfulness' in one's way of living). His vision of his Divine was sacrosanct to him. Others' visions, if not backed by the same passion, were mere contaminants for him. All this might make him seem arrogant, to be so unaccommodating, but what endeared him to me was his frank admission of the same! He had one true love - architecture - and he stayed loyal to it. On many occasions, by trading off his comfort and prospects of fulfillment of other desires. Thus, Howard Roark for me became the perfect human being that could be envisioned! He was my Divine (click), and still is. But I am not trying to emulate him. I know I do not have it in me to live the way he had. In fact, Ayn Rand had herself alluded to the fact that her (exemplary) characters are not to be found in the real life, but were extreme idealizations of traits that could be found in some extraordinary humans.To paraphrase her (and in turn, Aristotle), she had wanted to present characters, not as humans are, but could be and ought to be. And she had juxtaposed those perfect characters with the contemporary imperfect world, which was quite adversarial to perfection (as envisioned by Rand). She wanted to highlight the conflicts that perfection had to engage in to be able to survive in its purest form.
So, what is the solution? Should one abandon what one is most passionate about, and totally forget it, only for the fear of the difficulties that the world would pose?
In a way, yes. But of course, not totally. It is not as bad as it might sound. I think it is best to pursue what one generally likes but also has a few misgivings about as one's vocation (for income). This will ensure two things. First, you would be sensitized to the possibilities of disappointment and frustration. If your fears indeed turn out true, you would be emotionally prepared for that. Also, as you would not have invested all your emotions in the 'also-liked' activity, you would still have lot many things to look forward to in your life if your career does not shape up exactly the way you had wanted. The second thing that this would ensure is that you will still have fascination for your passion. Your romance with it can continue on the side. You can pursue it as your amateur interest, doing exactly what you want, exactly on your own terms, without any care of who says what or how much you get to earn from pursuing it. Additionally, one can use that amateur hobby as a source of supplementary income (e.g., photography, painting, writing, etc.). Another related idea is to try to save sufficiently in the early parts of your career, and when you have requisite financial security, you could try making a career out of your passion.
Of course, not all career-options are open to amateur pursuit. E.g., joining the army or being a civil engineer or a doctor. But if one looks at such choices carefully, it must be asked, how can one develop passion for them without any exposure to the actual work involved in those fields? I have seen many adolescents/children get fascinated by the white coat, the stethoscope and the respect that doctors command. But that is not what medical practice is about! Fascination for such things hardly amounts to passion! And I'm afraid, quite a few teenagers harbor wrong impressions about what a particular field of work entails.
Also, despite my never having been to any western country, I feel people there do not need to be as much apprehensive while selecting their career for many reasons. First, there seems to be lesser competition for college 'seats'. Second, work ethics are better, so it is easier to like one's work there (whereas, the situations seems to be quite the opposite in India!). Third, the society is more accepting of various kinds of career choices. There would not be neighbors or relatives gossipping about an unconventional career choice one makes. Also, they are more accommodating in general of choices people make. E.g., someone aged thirty-five making a career switch would not be ridiculed by his 15 years younger class mates, but in all likelihood would still be respected for exploring new things. Fourth, owing to greater availability of college seats it is easier to make a career switch. Fifth, on the whole less effort is required to be able to afford the basic amenities for living. Meaning, even if one makes a bad career choice, and income would be less, their existence would not be 'hand-to-mouth' so to say. Whereas in India, vast majority of employed people have to struggle real hard for even basic survival.
So basically through the preceding paragraph, I just wanted to point out that the extreme paranoia that forms the backdrop of my entire argument, would apply only to India or few other countries with comparable social milieu and economic condition.
I am aware that given the extremely loud message conveyed by the media (in form of career advise in 'educational' supplements) and movies like 3 idiots (click) of to go for career involving one's passion, my arguments to some might seem extremely wacky or deliberate attempt to be stand in opposition to common sense. However, that of course is not the case. :)
Your thoughts are welcome!
I concluded that what we are most passionate about is like a romantic relationship. We hold highly idealistic views of our objects of love. We hold them in high regard. We reserve the best we could be for them, otherwise we would be afraid of defiling them. Imagine, having to lie on some very vital matter to someone you love and respect, how difficult is it? A lot, at least for me. But making that passion a means of sustenance is like marrying it! The attraction gradually dies. The small things we dislike about it amplify and start grating on our nerves. The compulsion to earn using what we are passionate about makes us hate what we had loved to begin with. This compulsion also compels us into making 'adjustments' in how we do what we do with our passion. It starts seeming like we are prostituting our skills and abilities and the passion that would have gone in acquiring them only to earn damn money!
To say the same thing in somewhat different words, when you earn, you are the supply, your client is the demand. More often than not owing to market forces, it is the demand that shapes the nature of supply. The supply cannot be arrogant to say, "hey dude, here's what I got. You want it? No? Sorry, look elsewhere", because our dude would indeed look elsewhere! As an obvious corollary, the supply has to mold according to what the demand is.
Of course, 'reasonable' compromises can be made with our passion. Really? Remember, wasn't your passion your Divine? If it was not, it was never passion in the first place. Wasn't it something that you had held dearest to you, always maintaining its sanctity, never defiling it? Wasn't that passion, the manner in which you let it unfold, an embodiment of what you were, what your deepest values and aspirations were? Now you have come to this, that you want to make reasonable compromises with it, eh? So, now your Divine is no longer Divine, but an agreeable neighbor who you could approach in times of need, or much worse, your 'host' who you parasite upon like a leech?
To give my example, I love to: observe; make sense of what I get to observe; think; organize my thoughts and articulate them in the most precise fashion possible through words. It is one of the greatest passions of mine. What would happen if I make a career out of it? E.g., if I have a mechanism for receiving donations on my blog, and each time I write something humorous I get Rs. 200, but each time I write on religion and god - criticizing the two, I get nothing. What would happen if my survival were to depend on how much money I make through blogging? Each time I feel like blogging on atheism, would I be able to do it with same passion and honesty as without any concern for how my write up is received?
Think of a school science teacher. What if she enjoys teaching concepts by giving analogies, and also likes to enlist the applications of such concepts? What if she enjoys making students think, and see their eyes fill with wonder on understanding something novel about something ubiquitous? But as you know, that is not what our education and exams are about! They are about mundane facts, or how to underline the most important "points" while answering; how to best convince the evaluator that you know the answers (irrespective of whether you actually know)! What if students do not want to learn what she teaches? Then our teacher might come down to the level of merely dictating notes. Or, if the students are to appear for entrance exams, and if the said teacher would be teaching in some 'coaching institute' then she would share 'tricks', 'shortcuts' and mnemonics with them. What would happen to science and her love for it; that would get buried somewhere? Can you imagine how miserable would she feel?
This clash between demand and supply has been very well exemplified by Howard Roark (click), the architect from Ayn Rand's (click) novel - 'The Fountainhead'. Though a great fan of Ayn Rand and her vision, I am stating here something almost contradictory to the 'moral' of her story. In her story, Roark triumphs against his adversaries. His complete antithesis - Peter Keating (mentioned in the same Wikipedia article on Roark) - initially succeeds a lot as an architect. Keating's only drives are approval by others and money. In the process, he loses everything - including the only one thing he had truly loved in all his life - his friend of childhood - Catherine. While, what happened to Keating is very likely to happen in real life, Howard Roark was plain lucky! Also, he had this incredible amount of tolerance. Tolerance of contempt, tolerance of physical hardships, tolerance of deceptions, tolerance of slow rate at which time passed (in other words, patience he showed in waiting for Dominique Francon to understand that he could not allow 'others' to dictate to him what he did with his life, and that what others thought of his work was not a determinant of whether he should do it), tolerance for failures. The only thing he did not have was tolerance for derision of his Divine, i.e., his vision of what buildings should be like. His Divine was intensely personal to him - he could not tolerate others' touching his building-designs, more specifically, the functionality behind them (Rand had sought to use functionality of building designs as the counterpart of 'truthfulness' in one's way of living). His vision of his Divine was sacrosanct to him. Others' visions, if not backed by the same passion, were mere contaminants for him. All this might make him seem arrogant, to be so unaccommodating, but what endeared him to me was his frank admission of the same! He had one true love - architecture - and he stayed loyal to it. On many occasions, by trading off his comfort and prospects of fulfillment of other desires. Thus, Howard Roark for me became the perfect human being that could be envisioned! He was my Divine (click), and still is. But I am not trying to emulate him. I know I do not have it in me to live the way he had. In fact, Ayn Rand had herself alluded to the fact that her (exemplary) characters are not to be found in the real life, but were extreme idealizations of traits that could be found in some extraordinary humans.To paraphrase her (and in turn, Aristotle), she had wanted to present characters, not as humans are, but could be and ought to be. And she had juxtaposed those perfect characters with the contemporary imperfect world, which was quite adversarial to perfection (as envisioned by Rand). She wanted to highlight the conflicts that perfection had to engage in to be able to survive in its purest form.
So, what is the solution? Should one abandon what one is most passionate about, and totally forget it, only for the fear of the difficulties that the world would pose?
In a way, yes. But of course, not totally. It is not as bad as it might sound. I think it is best to pursue what one generally likes but also has a few misgivings about as one's vocation (for income). This will ensure two things. First, you would be sensitized to the possibilities of disappointment and frustration. If your fears indeed turn out true, you would be emotionally prepared for that. Also, as you would not have invested all your emotions in the 'also-liked' activity, you would still have lot many things to look forward to in your life if your career does not shape up exactly the way you had wanted. The second thing that this would ensure is that you will still have fascination for your passion. Your romance with it can continue on the side. You can pursue it as your amateur interest, doing exactly what you want, exactly on your own terms, without any care of who says what or how much you get to earn from pursuing it. Additionally, one can use that amateur hobby as a source of supplementary income (e.g., photography, painting, writing, etc.). Another related idea is to try to save sufficiently in the early parts of your career, and when you have requisite financial security, you could try making a career out of your passion.
Of course, not all career-options are open to amateur pursuit. E.g., joining the army or being a civil engineer or a doctor. But if one looks at such choices carefully, it must be asked, how can one develop passion for them without any exposure to the actual work involved in those fields? I have seen many adolescents/children get fascinated by the white coat, the stethoscope and the respect that doctors command. But that is not what medical practice is about! Fascination for such things hardly amounts to passion! And I'm afraid, quite a few teenagers harbor wrong impressions about what a particular field of work entails.
Also, despite my never having been to any western country, I feel people there do not need to be as much apprehensive while selecting their career for many reasons. First, there seems to be lesser competition for college 'seats'. Second, work ethics are better, so it is easier to like one's work there (whereas, the situations seems to be quite the opposite in India!). Third, the society is more accepting of various kinds of career choices. There would not be neighbors or relatives gossipping about an unconventional career choice one makes. Also, they are more accommodating in general of choices people make. E.g., someone aged thirty-five making a career switch would not be ridiculed by his 15 years younger class mates, but in all likelihood would still be respected for exploring new things. Fourth, owing to greater availability of college seats it is easier to make a career switch. Fifth, on the whole less effort is required to be able to afford the basic amenities for living. Meaning, even if one makes a bad career choice, and income would be less, their existence would not be 'hand-to-mouth' so to say. Whereas in India, vast majority of employed people have to struggle real hard for even basic survival.
So basically through the preceding paragraph, I just wanted to point out that the extreme paranoia that forms the backdrop of my entire argument, would apply only to India or few other countries with comparable social milieu and economic condition.
I am aware that given the extremely loud message conveyed by the media (in form of career advise in 'educational' supplements) and movies like 3 idiots (click) of to go for career involving one's passion, my arguments to some might seem extremely wacky or deliberate attempt to be stand in opposition to common sense. However, that of course is not the case. :)
Your thoughts are welcome!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Corrosion
I was born here over 20 years ago. Unlike you, I don't mind if you step on my toes, for that's what I've inferred the purpose of my life on a railway platform to be.
Despite having my feet literally firmly grounded, I've seen more humans, their humanity & its complements - indifference, deceit & cruelty - than you ever could have.
...Wait! Don't think it's another philosophical drivel only 'cuz I choose to speak through Ketan's blog! How many weighing machines' life-stories you've heard?
I used to like kids standing on my feet. Their big eyes would further widen when I'd make faces - my blinking lights & rotating disks - they'd chuckle, not bothered by their weight at all! They loved me - their entertainer. But now kids find my antics silly :( Why won't they? Having seen smart cards & ATMs, the idea of feeding me a coin & see me come to life no longer excites them.
But not just kids, even grown ups have changed. In those days, they were not bothered by the printed number. Except if too big, they would call themselves "healthy", smile & get down happy. But later on, no number could satisfy them. Most wanted it to be much smaller. They always left dejected.
Somehow I'd always wished that everyone be happy, & none be sad 'cuz of me. So I started showing 5% less weight. Some people got happy, but not others. So I started reducing 10%. This made many happy. They started praising me, wishfully calling me truthful, but that's not what I was! I longed to be known as nice! It was ironical that weight I showed wasn't accurate, yet I wanted the praise to be!
Once, I overheard a doctor explain something about BMI & how overweight people suffered more from heart attack & stroke. He also said obesity was an epidemic & was killing Indians at younger age. I was shocked! I wanted to mend my ways. But having got used to people's praise, I couldn't regain the courage to be truthful. I still showed reduced weight.
Then one day, a mechanical mechanic failing to understand I also had feelings, reported that my spring wasn't yielding enough 'cuz of corrosion & I must be taken away for showing wrong weight. Like all non-humans that die at the end of autobiographical school-essays, I too wanted to. But his boss reminded him of profits, & how his promotion hinged on it. I now understood the true purpose of my life.
Partly inspired by Insignia's post (click)
Despite having my feet literally firmly grounded, I've seen more humans, their humanity & its complements - indifference, deceit & cruelty - than you ever could have.
...Wait! Don't think it's another philosophical drivel only 'cuz I choose to speak through Ketan's blog! How many weighing machines' life-stories you've heard?
I used to like kids standing on my feet. Their big eyes would further widen when I'd make faces - my blinking lights & rotating disks - they'd chuckle, not bothered by their weight at all! They loved me - their entertainer. But now kids find my antics silly :( Why won't they? Having seen smart cards & ATMs, the idea of feeding me a coin & see me come to life no longer excites them.
But not just kids, even grown ups have changed. In those days, they were not bothered by the printed number. Except if too big, they would call themselves "healthy", smile & get down happy. But later on, no number could satisfy them. Most wanted it to be much smaller. They always left dejected.
Somehow I'd always wished that everyone be happy, & none be sad 'cuz of me. So I started showing 5% less weight. Some people got happy, but not others. So I started reducing 10%. This made many happy. They started praising me, wishfully calling me truthful, but that's not what I was! I longed to be known as nice! It was ironical that weight I showed wasn't accurate, yet I wanted the praise to be!
Once, I overheard a doctor explain something about BMI & how overweight people suffered more from heart attack & stroke. He also said obesity was an epidemic & was killing Indians at younger age. I was shocked! I wanted to mend my ways. But having got used to people's praise, I couldn't regain the courage to be truthful. I still showed reduced weight.
Then one day, a mechanical mechanic failing to understand I also had feelings, reported that my spring wasn't yielding enough 'cuz of corrosion & I must be taken away for showing wrong weight. Like all non-humans that die at the end of autobiographical school-essays, I too wanted to. But his boss reminded him of profits, & how his promotion hinged on it. I now understood the true purpose of my life.
Partly inspired by Insignia's post (click)
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Political Correctness and Me
(of language) not objectionable, especially in terms of avoiding offense based on race, gender, religion, ideology or any other social grouping such as disability.-Wikitionary definition of 'politically correct' (PC).
Usage notes
...sometimes (also) extended to cover political ideology and behavior, curriculum content, and many areas affected by law, regulation, and public pressure, and is often used pejoratively.
Many internet users euphemize and generalize, not to avoid causing offense, but labels of "commie", "Godless" or "Internet Hindu". The critic or perceived offender is then expected to counter a volley of criticisms of the category he is boxed into. The ensuing defensiveness causes indiscretions like: "all religions teach us love and tolerance", "all religions are (equally) bad", "all politicians are (equally) useless", etc.
This approach is wrong on at least two levels:
1. PC-statements are partial truths or completely false. One can conclude all religions teach love and tolerance only on deliberately overlooking or distorting available facts. This is dishonesty. This behavior follows from the flawed idea that pot must not call kettle black. No, both pot and kettle must call the other black, if relevant, and if possible, without contempt. For, the blackness cannot be removed without showing and acknowledging it.
Moreover, this defensiveness is a tacit acceptance of guilt merely by being born in a community or supporting an ideology. I am not responsible for misdeeds of others born in same community as me. I am not answerable for deeds of the ideologue, unless his ideology I support is the cause.
2. PC causes intellectual laziness. By saying "all politicians are same", I am discrediting the better ones. Through such generalizations, I would shy away from obligation to minutely analyze the available data before infering. PC will prevent incremental improvements in politics enabled through noticing and acting upon subtle differences between politicians.
I avoid and disapprove of PC, though I use some out of fear of physical harm and violating law, and those not doing even that can certainly hold me in contempt. I greatly admire two honest and courageous (for using their real identities) persons - Atanu Dey (click) and Marvi Sirmed (click).
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Error of Judgment and Judgment of Errors
-1-
The "prototypical" Bindass dude!
Image taken from: 'What I am': UTV Bindass' new campaign speaks through voice of youth (click) at Campaign India Online.
Can you see the disordered person?
The dude trying to pass off as a doctor? No?
Oh, and before it so happens that the dude actually happens to be a doctor and not some wannabe punk, which it seems could be the case, and I have to suffer the blushes, let me tell I have no issue with how a doctor is being portrayed. What is funny, though about the entire photo is that, our prototypical dude seems to be trying too hard to appear bindass making him hardly look interested in treatment of the patient in the background, but ironically, the very same patient has played her part too well in looking moribund! So much so that she might die in a flash. Flash, as in, camera's flash!
Full video at YouTube
Anyway, the disorder I am talking of is "conformism". Yes! Our dude suffers from it. It is a form of conformism - not even disguised well enough. In the video, his attitude reeks of "in your face"-confrontation (when there is no apparent need), and what his actual responsibility is, i.e., taking care of the patient hardly seems to be on his mind. This is that attitude that makes people conform to the image of a nonconformist (click). What an irony! Nonconformists also have prototypes!
Well, it is not a case that I have come across these portrayals of nonconformists for the first time. I came across the above photo and video after some "research"! I happened to travel in BEST buses in Mumbai after quite some time. And there was this hoarding that I had happened to see:
Just because I'm bindass doesn't mean I do drugs
Image taken from: UTV Bindass - great new ads! (click) at mumbaikar.com.
My first response was a zero decibel "Yeeeeeks"! I mean what is our dude even trying to prove? Oh, as the video dismisses the very idea of "trying to prove" something, it follows that I am asking the wrong question. My train of thought went thus:
As I was thinking on these lines, trying to play out both sides of the argument in my mind, I saw another hoarding...
Just because I'm bindass doesn't mean I sleep around
Image taken from: UTV Bindass - great new ads! (click) at mumbaikar.com.
Okay, point taken! But which made me think how have the makers of the ad assumed to "sleep around" to be inherently immoral or reprehensible? Are they not rather reinforcing a taboo? No! I am not trying to argue out which is better - fidelity or sleeping around, but still, I expect better sense of ethical propriety off people pushing at the boundaries of contemporary societal standards!
By the way, the video I had linked above has this girl shaking away seductively, either: to her own ignorance that her dance is seductive, or maybe her dance is, you know as they say, *a celebration of life emanating from deep within*, something I am incapable of understanding. And I have no problems with it. However, attempting to seduce is again a kind of conformation! It involves doing exactly those things that the one you want to seduce wants you to do! But what is surprising is that the basic idea being conveyed is that - it is alright to be seductive, but not alright to have sex. What an exercise in redundancy! The real expression of freedom would have been, had the girl said - "I'm not interested in you, dude 'cuz... (fill in with some "bindass" reason)! But no what she ultimately manages to say is just that I have a right to seduce you and not have sex, 'cuz having sex is bad! And who decided "sleeping around is bad"? Of course, not the society but our bindass gang. And then I saw yet another board...
Just because I'm bindass doesn't mean I don't believe in God
Image taken from: UTV Bindass - great new ads! (click) at mumbaikar.com.
I was just praying (to the nonexistent God), when the hell would these ads stop coming at every corner the bus turns? I can tell you, there are just too, too, toooooooo many of these ads. They just don't cease peeping from one hoarding or the other. Yes, my mistake that I happened to look at them, and think about them, and now, that I happen to be bugging you reader blogging about them, but please try to understand: these ads are bright, gaudy and BIG! And well, I realized the reason is this (click):
The dude trying to pass off as a doctor? No?
Oh, and before it so happens that the dude actually happens to be a doctor and not some wannabe punk, which it seems could be the case, and I have to suffer the blushes, let me tell I have no issue with how a doctor is being portrayed. What is funny, though about the entire photo is that, our prototypical dude seems to be trying too hard to appear bindass making him hardly look interested in treatment of the patient in the background, but ironically, the very same patient has played her part too well in looking moribund! So much so that she might die in a flash. Flash, as in, camera's flash!
Full video at YouTube
Anyway, the disorder I am talking of is "conformism". Yes! Our dude suffers from it. It is a form of conformism - not even disguised well enough. In the video, his attitude reeks of "in your face"-confrontation (when there is no apparent need), and what his actual responsibility is, i.e., taking care of the patient hardly seems to be on his mind. This is that attitude that makes people conform to the image of a nonconformist (click). What an irony! Nonconformists also have prototypes!
Well, it is not a case that I have come across these portrayals of nonconformists for the first time. I came across the above photo and video after some "research"! I happened to travel in BEST buses in Mumbai after quite some time. And there was this hoarding that I had happened to see:
Just because I'm bindass doesn't mean I do drugs
Image taken from: UTV Bindass - great new ads! (click) at mumbaikar.com.
My first response was a zero decibel "Yeeeeeks"! I mean what is our dude even trying to prove? Oh, as the video dismisses the very idea of "trying to prove" something, it follows that I am asking the wrong question. My train of thought went thus:
If someone can undergo a whole lot of pain to get extensively tattooed and intensively pierced only taking after some other certified "bindass" celebrity, which I don't know they do to what end, then certainly their threshold to experiment with drugs must be low. The thing about narcotic drugs is not that they are illegal, but they can result in self-harm. If someone could be a rebel without a cause to only not conform, the same impetus lies behind trying narcotic drugs and other substances that are not approved of by the society, like alcohol and nicotine. Likewise, an impetus exists to indulge in acts that are perceived to be despicable. So, though such a prototypical dude may not necessarily end up doing all of those things, the impetus to conform to an image of nonconformist, exists. So well, the proportion of such prototypical dudes who take to narcotic drugs or to smoking or excessive drinking must be higher than in those who do not try to conform to the image of a rebel. Is this supported by statistics?...
As I was thinking on these lines, trying to play out both sides of the argument in my mind, I saw another hoarding...
Just because I'm bindass doesn't mean I sleep around
Image taken from: UTV Bindass - great new ads! (click) at mumbaikar.com.
Okay, point taken! But which made me think how have the makers of the ad assumed to "sleep around" to be inherently immoral or reprehensible? Are they not rather reinforcing a taboo? No! I am not trying to argue out which is better - fidelity or sleeping around, but still, I expect better sense of ethical propriety off people pushing at the boundaries of contemporary societal standards!
By the way, the video I had linked above has this girl shaking away seductively, either: to her own ignorance that her dance is seductive, or maybe her dance is, you know as they say, *a celebration of life emanating from deep within*, something I am incapable of understanding. And I have no problems with it. However, attempting to seduce is again a kind of conformation! It involves doing exactly those things that the one you want to seduce wants you to do! But what is surprising is that the basic idea being conveyed is that - it is alright to be seductive, but not alright to have sex. What an exercise in redundancy! The real expression of freedom would have been, had the girl said - "I'm not interested in you, dude 'cuz... (fill in with some "bindass" reason)! But no what she ultimately manages to say is just that I have a right to seduce you and not have sex, 'cuz having sex is bad! And who decided "sleeping around is bad"? Of course, not the society but our bindass gang. And then I saw yet another board...
Just because I'm bindass doesn't mean I don't believe in God
Image taken from: UTV Bindass - great new ads! (click) at mumbaikar.com.
I was just praying (to the nonexistent God), when the hell would these ads stop coming at every corner the bus turns? I can tell you, there are just too, too, toooooooo many of these ads. They just don't cease peeping from one hoarding or the other. Yes, my mistake that I happened to look at them, and think about them, and now, that I happen to be bugging you reader blogging about them, but please try to understand: these ads are bright, gaudy and BIG! And well, I realized the reason is this (click):
The channel is spending Rs 3 crore on the campaign, spread across TV, outdoor, print and below-the-line (BTL) activities. It is concentrating on outdoor sites in cities including Mumbai, Delhi, Pune and Bengaluru. It has also taken up space in dailies such as The Times of India for print ads.
But, but, but...
Can we look at those ads, again? Please!
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Or in other words:
I do drugs = I sleep around = I don't believe in God
This is so not acceptable! This is the worst form of religious discrimination possible. In India, every form of courtesy and reverse discrimination is reserved for the minority. Smaller the community, weaker it is; more vulnerable it is to bullying by larger communities. We, atheists are the undisputed champs at being the vulnerable. Now do not ask me what religion do I follow to be considered a "religious" minority! Just like how "zero" is a number (a fact invented by Indians), we atheists worship "No God". And our God is bigger than yours, and mind you, it's "all naturals" - without using any pills for enhancement! :P Unlike your God, it has two words instead of just one. But now that I have established how proud I am of my religion let us get back to the point. Can you imagine the degree of discrimination used against us by the government! So much so that, everyone has to have a religion! Have you noticed, there are no options like "atheist" or "nontheist" in official forms? Basically, to not believe in the existence of a God is legally not possible in India (click)! Unless and until one converts to a specific religion, the religion of parents is automatically stuck to the child. And it remains stuck throughout life, and even thereafter because even their child will contract the same religion!
Anyway, was I too disturbed to see it splashed in a huge media campaign that atheists are (immoral) like those doing drugs or sleeping around?
Actually, no. I know this kind of prejudice against atheists does exist, not just in India, but even elsewhere. And I have even tried to refute the validity of this preconceived notion that fear in a deity prevents one from indulging in unethical acts. Here (click)
It is no wonder that believers do not believe something to be moral because God commands it to be moral, but rather they make their God command what they already consider to be moral! Read this interesting abstract from a scientific study (click), which derives its data partly from neuroimaging:
People often reason egocentrically about others' beliefs, using their own beliefs as an inductive guide. Correlational, experimental, and neuroimaging evidence suggests that people may be even more egocentric when reasoning about a religious agent's beliefs (e.g., God). In both nationally representative and more local samples, people's own beliefs on important social and ethical issues were consistently correlated more strongly with estimates of God's beliefs than with estimates of other people's beliefs (Studies 1-4). Manipulating people's beliefs similarly influenced estimates of God's beliefs but did not as consistently influence estimates of other people's beliefs (Studies 5 and 6). A final neuroimaging study demonstrated a clear convergence in neural activity when reasoning about one's own beliefs and God's beliefs, but clear divergences when reasoning about another person's beliefs (Study 7). In particular, reasoning about God's beliefs activated areas associated with self-referential thinking more so than did reasoning about another person's beliefs. Believers commonly use inferences about God's beliefs as a moral compass, but that compass appears especially dependent on one's own existing beliefs.
More about related ideas and arguments can be read here - My Imaginary Friend (click).
But then, if anyway I have been clubbed together with "immoral" people, why not use this license to be licentious! ;) Ummm... drugs and sleeping around sounds fun. Prick-ing around is allowed, but no piercing around, okay? This is no immoral indoctrination, just a note to the self. :P
Well, that was my 2 pence-worth angst at 3 crore (30 million)-rupee-worth ad campaign. I am so happy to be not bindass, and this conformist with broken sense of morality, but at least intact skin! :P
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And then I had seen another hoarding, and the only thing that caught my attention in it was:
Dr. B.R. Ambedkar.
The Architecture of the Indian Constituency
My first (zero decibel, again) response was - "What the fuck...", which of course amounts to nothing! "...How could someone with so bad an English design a hoarding meant for promotion to be read by so many people!". Then a conspiracy theory occurred to me, and I sincerely wish the theory to be true, which being: that it was a clever ploy to convince the "majority" that the Dalits have been so marginalized, that they cannot draft a single simple proper sentence in English! They need education. And they need it fast! Truly, reams of written word could not convince me about the need for reservations in educational institutes in India (click) the way that one sentence on the hoarding did. I do not know, which party's politicians' woeful condition of English the hoarding was attempting to advertise, but I suspect, it was the guy with the power of "ONE" (LS seat)! You know, that certain Republican Party of Certain Republic?
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Anyway to end this post, I leave you with an excellent piece of original research, telepathy or clairvoyance [Hey, I don't know more difficult English words than these :( ] or whatever you may call it (click) by a senior "journalist" Kuldip Nayyar (click):
The murder of police officer Hemant Karkare, who was probing the Malegaon blasts, was the doing of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad or Bajrang Dal.
And no, this statement does not appear on Wikipedia (which I have actually found to be quite reliable in being balanced), but the noted reliable and verifiable source, that is, Dawn (click), "Pakistan's oldest and most widely-read English-language newspaper".
Enough reasons to sigh in days to come. *Sigh*
Related blog post by G Saimukundhan: Guide to Dudehood (click).
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