The Happy Alien Cometh

If you respect God, Bhikku, respect the Devil too. He must be good. He is, after all, running neck and neck with God.

-- A Summer Evening, Year Unknown.

Every morning, His Supreme Whiteness Shah-eh-Shah Dick Cheney, King of Kings, leads a prayer meeting. There the faithful gather and give thanks to Jesus. "Thank you, Jesus," they say, "for all you have given us. And please keep it up. We have a shit-load of cash. Give us some more. We have heap-big-heap moral values. Give us some more. We have drugs for heart disease and performance enhancement and bladder control. Give us some more. We have power over the world. Give us some more. And above all, Jesus! Protect us from You-know-what and You-know-what-else."

'Tis wondrous strange, but true. Hard as it is to believe, our White Rulers have their fears too. To be precise, they are terrified of two things--Their first fear is that their beloved homeland will be run over by grass-eating brown people, dog-eating yellow people, sinister bearded terrorists and all manner of sub-human foreigners who add numbers in their heads and breed like rabbits. Their second fear is that their beloved homeland will be run over by pink-clad, tight-shirted, homo gay faggots who will gain the legal right to marry and import mass-produced babies from abroad, and raise them to be p.-c, t.-s, homo gay faggots just like themselves.

Terrified as they are, our brave rulers manfully fight the coming Armageddon, under the stewardship of George W. Bush, that darling of the American masses. He mobilizes the mass of his slaves, exhorting them to fight the homos at home and the multiplying aliens abroad. To all appearances, he has been successful. King Cheney is pleased. He even smiles every now and then. Little does he realize, alas, that his much-trusted Jesus is going to desert him.

Aye! Dubya might hold off homos and aliens, as long as they are by themselves. But what, I ask, can he do about the rapidly growing army of Homo Aliens? Nothing, that's what.

Dubya's travails remind me of a charming story I read in school, which goes like this--There was a brave little boy in Netherlands, and he noticed that there was a hole in one of the dykes that kept the ocean out. With nary a thought, he put his finger in the hole in the dyke. (Yeah, I know! Who needs Playboy when you can get an NCERT textbook instead?) By resolutely keeping his finger there, the boy held off the ocean on the other side till help arrived, and thusly, saved the Netherlands. The story, admittedly, is scarcely credible. No real boy could have resisted the urge to do moocha with so much water on his mind.

What interests me, however, is not the story's accuracy, but its symbolism. That boy is Dubya. The waiting ocean is the teeming multitude of brown people. The dyke is the US laws regarding marriage. The hole is the proposal that gay people be allowed civil unions, i.e., they be allowed to exist legally as he-man and she-man. The symbolism, alas, stops there. Unlike the boy in the story, Dubya won't succeed. Hordes of homo foreigners, I'm afraid, will soon overrun the US.

You frown, reader. You think I'm just gassing, as usual. You know that poor people, wherever they are, are conservative. They won't go homo for love, not even for cash. You think I'm insulting the poor, by implying that they have no principles. You are wrong. I know, as well as you do, that people will bear all kinds of misery in the name of God and morality. But you underestimate the Brown Mind. Brown men know that a gay couple can :

1. file joint tax returns, claiming each other as destitute dependents,
2. get family discounts on all kinds of things,
3. take leave claiming that their teenage son went on a high-school shooting rampage again,

4. save on reusable items like DVDs, books, magazines, aranijaars, ul-banians, dinosaur-pattern jattis, etc.

Most importantly, they know that a gay couple

5. don't have to prove to anyone that they really are gay, and
6. can divorce whenever they want.

The possibilities are endless, and they are already coming to pass. Put your ear to the ground, and you will hear the distant rumble of Revolution. Aye! Even as Dubya vainly attempts to plug holes here and there, the Deluge is upon us. It began, as these things always begin, in Ahmedabad, Gujarat. From that fabled cradle of Enterprise, a young lady has emigrated to join her beloved in Canada, where she "is free to express her sexuality". Future generations will hold her up as a Messiah. A misguided Messiah perhaps, but a Messiah all the same. What she has done for Life-Long Love, millions of brown people will soon do for short-term savings.

I can picture it, in my mind's eye. Rajasekhar Gogineni, father of Naveen Gogineni, will log on to www.jushtadjusht.com/. He will put in a search for a Pedda Kamma boy with clean habits, steady income, and no family commitments ("Chinna Kammas need not apply. We wish you good luck.") After many frustrations, he will find Ch. Venkata Subbaiah, alias Subbu. He will introduce Naveen to Subbu, and after two e-mail exchanges, they will be ready to "go ahead". Naveen, who has a romantic, slightly mischievous, nature, will write:

Cheskuntamu ra Pelli,
California-loki velli,
Vina ra, naa cheliya Subbu,
Save chestamu chala Dubbu.

Padakura nuvu emi baadha,
Promise chestanu nee meedha,
Nenu neekanna inka straight-u,
Jushtu three years-lu cheira wait-u.

Appudu tondaruga divorcu chesi,
Rondu manchi ammayilu choosi,
Pelli cheskuntamu ra iddaru,
Marriage brokeru ma fatheru.

which, roughly translated, goes as follows:

"Dear chap," Naveen said,
"Soon in Frisco, we'll wed.
The laws there are lax.
We won't have no tax.

Let our purses swell,
Then we'll say farewell.
And choose from all of AP,
Two babes to make us happy.

You really needn't fear,
For let me make it clear,
That I won't play no trick,
'Coz I too want a chick."

Touched, Subbu will agree. Together, they will come and study at the South Dakota Unitarian University, for there really is such a place. They will graduate and move to San Jose, and spend three beautiful years there, married and tax-free. Just like any other brown couple, they will watch movies in dollar theaters, buy lots of blank CDs on sale, and have no sex at all. In three years, it'll be time for them to settle down in life. They'll divorce each other, and get married to two lovely girls. They'll wed at the same time, because it is clearly cheaper that way. Two years later, Naveen will remember Subbu, even as his wife throws very expensive cutlery at him for no reason at all. Perhaps, he would think, they should have stayed married. But then he'll banish the blasphemous thought from his mind. After all, brown men will do anything for money, except other brown men. Aye! There is after all something called Hindu culture, and in the end, that's what matters.

Dick Cheney believes that everything that is not a White Christian Male is Satan. Maybe he is right, but he forgets that Satan comes in many forms. If gay Satan don't screw Cheney, brown Satan will. What's more, brown Satan will screw him in ways Cheney can't even begin to imagine. And there's not a thing poor Jesus can do about it.

Amen.

Notes From A Requiem

The most important thing in life, Bhikku, is death. I wish I could tell you more about it, but that's all I know.

-- The Diary, Date Unknown, Year Unknown.

One thinks of the strangest things at the strangest times. There was no real reason why he should have thought of Chandru that day. He was playing racketball. It was an easy game. He was much better than the other guy. He was taking it easy, trying out different things. To one ball, he played a drop shot. The ball was just about a foot from the side wall and dropping neatly. Normally, he would have smashed it low down the line, but this time, he leaned back and rolled his wrists on it. He wanted the ball to just touch the rebound wall and drop dead, but he had hit it too softly. The ball dropped short.

That was when he thought of Chandru. Something about that shot's slyness reminded him of Chandru playing table tennis, back when they were in the hostel. Chandru had never been quick at TT. His reflexes were poor, and he couldn't hit powerfully and accurately like Barra or Yoko. But Chandru could put vicious spin on the ball. He would wait for the ball, bend back, and with a theatrical crack of the wrist, send the ball slowly sailing across the net, where it would touch the table and turn square. It was fun to watch him play the quicker guys, a bit like watching Ramesh Krishnan play against the big boys of world tennis. You knew Chandru, like Ramesh, would ultimately lose; but you felt vaguely happy every time he won a point.

He forgot about Chandru almost immediately. He finished his game, and had dinner with his racketball partner. They didn't know each other very well. It was one of those "hang-out" type acquaintances. They chatted about work, industry trends and such. The conversation went on longer than usual. After a while, they left. He started driving home, and lazily thought of Chandru again. The memories flooded back.

He had never really liked Chandru. They had been too similar--both of them bright, witty, aggressive, ultra-competitive. Obviously, there was a rivalry. He often compared himself against Chandru. He knew he was fat and clumsy and diffident, while Chandru was lean and smooth and confident. But he would tell himself that at least he was a nice guy, while Chandru was a bit of a cut-throat. Then he would blush at the absurdity of the comparison.

It was true, nevertheless. Chandru could be incredibly petty at times. Sometime in the first year, he had taken his roommate's notes and gone home for the weekend. There was a big exam on Monday morning. His roommate was livid. Of course, that was childish, and Chandru himself didn't do such things later on. However, it was part of a pattern. Chandru wasn't a cynic and he acknowledged the difference between right and wrong. Yet he had a streak of ruthlessness in him, which could override everything else. It kept getting refined with time, as it usually does among thoughtful, successful people. But it was there.

At the same time, there was a charm about Chandru. He would come to you after the exam, grin and say, "Enna King? Cracked it, huh? Picchi Gaawwwd". You knew that he was being all jaunty because he had done well himself. You knew that he would hate it if you scored more than him. And yet, you couldn't help letting out a warm smile. Chandru always set the group's slang. In the third year, everyone called everyone else "King". Chandru started it. If you wanted to say somebody was really good at something, you said he was "Dhair, dhair, dhair". Chandru had come up with the phrase.

Looking back, he thought, Chandru was a bit like one of the characters in War and Peace. He had forgotten the name, something beginning with D. Maybe Denisov. Denisov was a bastard, but he did the most heroic things. Everybody liked him, though they knew he would kill them if he had to. Suddenly, he realized that he was trying to understand a flesh-and-blood person he knew, by comparing him with a fictional character from a half-forgotten novel. "Nerd," he muttered to himself, smiling and shaking his head.

He thought again of Chandru. He couldn't remember the last time they had met. Must have been at the graduation, though he didn't remember it. They had talked a few times after that. But it had slowly fallen off.

News about Chandru came in every now and then. Peeku met him once in some restaurant, two years after they had graduated. Chandru was attending some conference. His research had hit a snag. He was morose. The next year, Yoko visited Chandru. His research was going great now. He was his old bubbly self. Yoko said Chandru had put on a little weight. He was now a "Tamil mama". Didn't like people swearing and stuff. He was also "big-time into artsy movies." The next year, Chandru graduated, the second in their batch to finish up. He got placed in some big company. Mandu, while announcing the news, had said, "King dhair-dhair-dhair nu uttu kattiruchu". He wanted to call Chandru or e-mail him, but he didn't. The next year, he himself was preparing to graduate. He was busy, so he couldn't respond to Chandru's engagement announcement. It was something along the usual lines--family friend, know each other well, she is also an engineer, common tastes, decided to tie the knot, etc, etc. The style seemed somehow subdued. Not quite Chandru's style, but then he had probably changed a lot.

Four months later, Yoko sent an e-mail on the e-group: Chandru was dead. He had been killed in a road accident. Hit-and-run. His wedding was supposed to have been a week later. The whole group was shocked. People talked to each other again.

"Can't believe it, man. He was on top of his game. Suddenly, this."
"Think of his parents, man. How proud they must have been. Dr. Chandru, working in a top company. About to be married. And then, one day, a phone call. It's over. I think he has a brother. Must be terrible for the family, man."
"I spoke to him just last month, babu. He was so buoyant. Came up with his usual jokes. We were discussing the old days. He was doing his classic Buttocks imitation." (Buttocks = Prof. Bhattacharya)
"I knew his fiance'. Nalla ponnu, da. She was looking forward to the wedding so much. This is cruel."
The more sentimental ones said, "Puts life in perspective, man. I mean, we are worrying about this or that. And then something like this comes along and you learn to treasure life itself."

After a while, life caught up with everyone. They moved on. Nobody talked about it much, but he was sure they all thought about Chandru every now and then. Out of the blue. Just like he was doing now.

He felt vaguely that there was something deep in it, something profound. If only he could sit down and think it through, it would all make sense. Here he was, alone and preoccupied in a world crowded with lonely preoccupied people. He wasn't unhappy, but he wasn't happy either. Life meanders along, as life usually does. Then suddenly something reminds one that there is death, too. The death of the old doesn't cut so deep. It doesn't bother the young, because the young don't really, deep down think they will grow old. Everyone knows they will age, of course. But it is like some famine in Africa. One might intellectually grieve for it and donate some money to the UNICEF, but one doesn't feel it, deep in one's bones. But the death of the young is a rude shock. It makes the whole thing more immediate. Or maybe, it is just that one feels strongly for the death of anyone with whom one can identify. Maybe the old feel the death of their own peers just as strongly.

Anyway, what did it all mean? Chandru and he, what were they to each other? Chance had thrown them together. Then they had gone their separate ways. And now as he thought of Chandru, all he had was an old image, like some childhood photograph. Chandru had probably changed completely since their college days. Why, he himself had changed completely. Or had he? Does one really change? Was there a thread running through his life, common to the insecure teenager he was, and the confident, somewhat unfeeling, man he had become? What was it? Was it the soul? Did it then stay unchanged through lives?

And what about Chandru's family? How did they take the blow? How often did they feel the loss? Was it with them always? Somehow, he felt, that was the key. Not to let death shake one up like a storm and pass by soon, but for it to be ever-present. If death were to truly stay with one, then one's life would be different. Each moment would take on some deep meaning, because one would be aware of the alternative, the terrible void.

He got home, showered and switched on the TV. Tennis. He started watching, with a vague heaviness inside him. After a while, he got into the game. FedEx was playing beautifully that night.