Swami Sexananda, Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Market

I didn't believe it, Bhikku, but it is true. The child IS the father of man.

- The Diary, Spring Break 509 BC

Gentle Reader, we present today, for your entertainment, a musical in three acts. You can read the text, or listen to the lovely rendition by the Dallas PillHormonic Orchestra.We hope you likes it; and if you don't, you know where you can keep your opinion.

A Musical In Three Parts With Lots of Sex and Violence, and A Moral Too

Cast :
Lucifer, aka Satan    Lord and Master of Hell
Charon                     Boatman of Hell. His job is to ferry the dead across the river Styx, into Hell
BJ                                My neighbour's teenage daughter. She's a bit like the Earth. Nothing much happens at the top, but the middle portion rocks
Saint Peter              Keeper of the Pearly Gates, Chief Operations Officer of Heaven


Act 1: Text    Audio
Scene : Hell, Friday morning
Cast: Lucifer, Charon
Tune: Twinkle, twinkle, little star

Act 2: Text    Audio
Scene : A night club in Dallas, Friday night
Cast: Lucifer, BJ
Tune: I am sixteen, going on seventeen

Act 3: Text    Audio
Scene : Pearly Gates to Heaven
Cast: Lucifer, Saint Peter
Tune: Twinkle, twinkle, little star

In Defense Of Browniyat

"Be proud of your country, Bhikku. What else have you got to be proud of, anyway?"

-- The Diary, July 4, 503 BC

My friend A~ and I were at the gym the other day. We were about to play badminton.

A~: "Dei, let's start. Luvvaal"
B~: "Wait, wait. These cocks are bad. I'll go buy some from the front desk"
A~: "Chee, chee. Why do you want to waste money? I have more cocks, machi. They are in your dickie."
B~: "Maplai, the car is like 1 mile away, da. We didn't get paarrking, remember?"
A~: "Yeah, but the gym's cocks are 1 dollar each."
B~: "Really? Let's go to the car."

As we started walking towards the car, I noticed two white guys, giggling. As always, the sight filled me with a mixture of disgust and pity. Here they were, sniggering at us because we are cheap, we have funny accents and we say cock and dickie instead of birdie and boot. Alas! If only they could count! They would have realized that of the 25 people in the gym, 3 were white, and 22 were brown. If they had looked around a little more, they would also have realized that the gym was only a miniature of the new New World. Aye! The natives dont' realize it yet, but we have outbred them. We have won the Battle of the Baybee. We have colonized the West. New Jersey, Houston, Dallas and San Francisco, I am proud to say, are now part of Greater Tamil Nadu.

And yet, I am deeply consternated, if that's the word I'm looking for. I look below the glossy surface of our triumph, and I see that it is shallow. We rule over Whitey, but we do not behave like Kings. If a gora sahib in 19th century Brownistan wanted roast beef, he would have whipped our brown asses till we made it right. And now, when it's our turn, we merely stand in line and squeal, "Yexcuse me, could you pleeese change your gloves? I yam strict vegetarian. He, he. It is not religious, it is just cultural. Actually, hehe, I'm allergic to meat. Thank you verry much." Verily, I declare, that we are hyenas, not lions. We might have power, but we don't have pride. Indeed, when I look around myself, I see only two kinds of brown people:

1. those who want to be white, and
2. those who think they already are.

Between the two of them, these two groups have caused untold damage to our psyche. They have tarnished our image on the world stage. Brownistan is a crowded, caste-ridden hellhole, they say. It is a conveyor belt churning out an endless chain of software-writing neanderthals, they claim. Brownistan lacks justice and respect for human rights, they aver. Worst of all, they announce to everyone who would listen, that we eat with our fingers, and we do not use toilet paper.

I am a peacable man, but my blood boils at such vicious slander. I like Brownistan. Brownistan is like my neighbour's dog--it is very charming, from a distance. And now, with two oceans separating me from Brownistan, my patriotic fervor is virtually boundless. I am proud of Brownistan and I am proud of Browniyat, our beautiful way of life. The Whitey-worshipping gaddars are telling you, gentle reader, that brown skin is a thing of shame. Au contraire, brown skin is a blessing, a gift from the Gods, a passport to Jannat, as I shall conclusively prove now.

The good thing about being brown, of course, is that one can say whatever one wants. Firstly, firangis don't understand our accent, so they have no clue what we are saying about their parentage. Secondly, even if they do understand, they can't possibly take offense. Whatever it is we are accusing them of, we are probably doing it ourselves anyway. And finally, Whitey would rather kill himself than admit that a brown man looks down on him. So even if he were offended, he has to be polite. We don't. We have carte blanche, Whitey does not. He cannot even call a kettle black. He has to call it African American. We, on the other hand, can call a kettle a coolie, a nigger, an urgly black-ass modher, because we are all of the above.

If you still don't believe me, consider the tragic case of Dean Jones, the hero of that Chennai Test. Last week, he was heard on air, calling the South African cricketer Hashim Amla a terrorist. Let it be said that he had ample justification. If you take a photo of Amla, place it beside a photo of bin Laden, you'll see only one difference. bin Laden has a moustache, Amla does not. The difference is subtle. After all, a beard that size will probably hide nukular warheads, leave alone a teeny-weeny moustache. Little wonder then, that, Deano used the T-word. He deserved reassurance and a shot of Prozac. Instead, he was accused of racism and kicked out of his cush commentary job. Some people think it happened because Deano is a bigot. Some others think it happened because Deano is stupid. Bakwaas! Navjot Sidhu is both narrow-minded and stupid, but nobody ever fires him. The real difference is that Sidhu is brown, so nobody thinks he has any reason to feel superior to anyone.

There's more. Not only are we brownies free to say whatever we want, we are also completely free from fear. The white man has everything, so he is afraid he'll lose something. We brownies have nothing, so we are completely unafraid. We know life probably won't get worse than it is. When there is a bomb blast in Sri Lanka, the entire South African cricket team does susu in its nijaar and flies right back to the comforts of home. The Indian cricket team stays on, because as Rahul Dravid says, "Life isn't perfect." It is not that Dravid is braver. It is just that he doesn't even feel the need for bravery. The white man suspects his neighbour might be a terrorist and is afraid he might be killed. The brown man knows that his neighbour probably is a terrorist, but he also knows that the bomb probably won't go off. And so it is that knowledge sets us free.

To fearlessness, add stoicism. Bad things do happen to brown people; but when they do, we shrug and move on, for we know we're only paying off karma dues from previous janmas. When my white neighbour's dog stopped making poo-poo for one day, the entire family needed therapy. That same day, my friend S~'s wife eloped with a car mechanic. S~ just chuckled and said, "I must have been a bad-ass dude last time around, man. Heck, I must have kicked ass. That life was the life. This life is nothing."

The greatest thing about Browniyat, however, is not our freedom to talk, nor our fearlessness, not yet our sunny nature. Nay! The greatest thing is that (i) we can produce babies with almost no sex, just by pure will and the grace of the Lord, (ii) we know it, and (iii) we say so, in that most beautiful language, Hindi.

Three days back, United 943 took off from Washington DC, the capital of Gaad-Bless-Amezhica. Its mission was to transport a lot of free white people from DC to London, the capital of Amezhica's richest colony. One of its passengers was a 60 year-old white woman. She had been practising Kundalini yoga, and like all people who do so, she was determined to get in touch with her Inner Self, even if she had to kill half the world for it. As it turns out, she was claustrophobic, i.e., she was afraid of closed, crowded spaces. Naturally, she chose to overcome her fear by boarding a small, crowded plane. Her guru, after all, had told her to confront her fear. So she hopped into United 943, thinking it will take her to Nirvana.

It did not. It only made her afraid and nauseous. Like all white people suffering from nausea, she screamed, and threatened to douse her neighbour in nail polish. Like all white people threatened with nail polish, her neighbour thought he was going to die in the next five minutes, and squealed. Like all white people who hear other white people squealing, the passengers of United 943 thought they were being attacked by Muslim fanatics who hate their freedom to drink Diet Coke. Promptly, they called in the military. The military send in F16 fighter jets, which accompanied United 943 to the Boston Logan airport, where it landed.

The word got around to Brownistan, and caused great amusement. Reporters went out into the city to find out what people thought about the matter. One of them cornered Yendukulapatti Srinivasa Rao, known as YSR, who was travelling on a crowded Hyderabad bus. Right at that moment, YSR's privates were being crushed by a somewhat thick-set man who was being thrown into him every time the bus bumped into a pothole. But YSR did not feel claustrophic, or afraid of death, or concerned about the future. He knew that mere pressure will not take his system to production stop. He winced with pain, but overall, he was feeling good. Just then the reporter asked him about the United 943 incident. YSR smiled, "East or west, India is best. We are not afraid of yennything. We will be great nation." Both the reporter and YSR smiled. The moment was happy enough, but then, something happened which can only happen in a land that has an ancient culture, and can express its erudition in that most beautiful of languages, Hindi. YSR started singing. He sang, softly but firmly, in his slightly husky voice:

"Saare Jahaan se accha,
Banaate hain baccha.
Hum bulbulein hain uski,
Phat gayi Nirodh jiski..."

Everyone in the bus stood to attention. "Jai Hind," they cried.

Believe it, gentle reader. Whitey don't have nothing on us. We rule.

Nikkahs Are Made In New York

It is true, Bhikku. Marriages ARE made in Heaven. It's only later that they come crashing down to earth.

-- The Diary, September 529 BC

When young men of a certain age meet, the conversation inevitably turns to marriage. And so it happened when comrades K, R1, R2 and S visited your humble correspondent last spring. The natural candidate to lead such a discussion would have been the extremely kadalacious Comrade S, who is constantly in touch with (oh, grow up. you know what I mean) thousands of Girls. However, he referred to some of them as "friends", and that automatically disqualified him on grounds of abnormality.

The mantle, then, fell to me. Admittedly, I am no Cassanova, but I do wish the receptionist "Good Morning" everyday. I don't like to brag, but she always responds. Little does she suspect that I am one to wish and tell. Naturally, comrades K, R1 and R2 considered me something of an expert on Marriage, Sex, Girls and Women. I manfully shouldered the burden, and proceeded to analyze each man's expectations.

It emerged that Comrade K wasn't yet sure whether he was a boy or a girl; and Comrade R1 was sure that he was neither. That left us with Comrade R2, a hormone-filled Hamlet if ever there was one, a deadly mixture of desire and doubt. We asked him what he wanted in a wife. "She and I should have similar tastes" quoth he. In general, this is a noble if silly expectation, but in this case it was particularly tragic, for Comrade R2 had never betrayed signs of any kind of taste. We tried to make him snap out of it and focus on specific realistic goals.

"How educated do you want your wife to be?"
"What do you mean? Oh, you mean she can read, write and all that? Hey, that'll be cool."
"Hmm! OK, what about money?"
"I don't want dowry, if that's what you mean. As long as she'll inherit a lot of cash after her father dies."
"Well, if she's that rich, she might be materialistic. Are you OK with that?"
"You mean she'll want to buy stuff? Well, electronics stuff is OK. I like electronics stuff."
"Dude! Exactly how independent do you want your wife to be?"
"Huh?"
"Meaning if she disagrees with you, how assertive do you want her to be?"
He seemed shocked. "What? She'll disagree with me?"

At this point, feminists and other Phoolan Devi types (meaning you, dear cousin D~) might scream in protest. They are missing the point. The point is not that Comrade R2 treats women badly. The point is that he treats them no differently from men. The nub of the matter is that comrade R2 just doesn't dodebates. If you are bigger than him, he will not disagree with you. If you are smaller than him, he will not let you disagree with him. Comrade R2, I've always said, would have been a great apostle of non-violence, if only Arnold Schwarzenegger, and not that wimp Gandhi, had advocated it. But I digress.

As leader, it was my task to guide this child of Nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw. I conjured up an image of the woman he wanted, and compared it with all my two female acquaintances. My spine turned cold. I had a problem, a *Very* *Big* *Problem*.

Like all pious men, I immediately turned to God. And soon enough, I came up against Free Will. The trouble, you see, is that God is a bit like Peanut Butter, which can be crunchy, extra crunchy, mildly cruncy, creamy or extra creamy. In short, there are myriad types of God, and one's never sure which type is good for one. Faced with such a dilemma, most people would have drowned their sorrows in either alcohol or Art of Living. Not I. I am, as I have remarked many a time, a man of Faith, Reason and Determination. I duly applied the Scientific Method. My aim was to get R2 married off, and I knew that marriages are made in Heaven. The thing to do was to find the God that goes with the best Heaven, and apply to Him for help.

Resolved thus, I surveyed anew the list of available Gods and matching religions.

First up were the foremost flowers of ancient Brownistan: Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism. I studied these. I found, for instance, that Hinduism's Deepest Truth is Tat Tvam Asi, which a knowledgable native translated as You Are That. I was discouraged. When the Deepest Truth of a religion sounds like one's five-year-old niece fighting with her sister, one suspects something is amiss. But I persevered. I learned that the foremost Hindu Gods, Rama and Krishna, lived in Uttar Pradesh and Gujarat respectively. And I learned that they were just two among 330 million Hindu Gods. I blanched. As Bill would put it, my knotted and combined locks parted and each particular hair stood on end. Hindu Swarga, I realized, was just a fancy term for Bihar. Promptly, I crossed these religions off my list, and swore never more to break bread with Hindus, Buddhists and other kinds of cattle.

Disheartened, I turned to the West. It held more promise for my purpose. After all, Christianity started because Adam and Eve did it, in spite of God. Further, a culture that uses nudity to advertise pasta is a culture that knows the value of pleasure. (I jest not. Europe is full of such ads. A walk along the Champs Elysees is in itself a complete course in sex education.) I had hit paydirt, or so I foolishy thought. I was wrong. Firstly, there was the small matter that Christian Heaven is rather dull. From what I could gather, one just hangs around and sups with the virtuous on the right hand side of God, because of course, the left hand is corrupted by contact with chi-chi. Further, I realized that black people just will not settle for R2, because they think brown people aren't cool enough for them (and God-damn-it, they are right, the racist bastards.) That still left whites. Now white women, if they are not models, are hideous and huge. And if they are models, they are so much silicon that one might just as well love an IC instead. At any rate, white people have sex by the time they are potty-trained, and that just won't do. R2, like all brown men, insists on having produce fresh from the farm, if you get my drift.

And that brought me, finally, to brown people of the second kind: the children of Allah. Now I was in business. After all, the most alluring beauties that ever have fired up lust in the loins of a lascivious lad, have all invariably been members of the Ummah. And Islamic Heaven absolutely rocks, for it is written that in Jannat, each man shall have no less than seventy-eight, yup LXXVIII, hour-il-ein. (Hour-il-ein is the Urdu term for "Oh mamma" and connotes the ravishing virgins, note virgins, of Paradise.) Allah, I realized, was just the God for our man R2.

There was, however, a catch. Being a brown man of the first kind, R2 obviously couldn't court Mussalman (or any other) women himself, and his folks would rather murder him than marry him off to a mleccha, leave alone setting up such a wedding. The alternative was for R2 to go to Jannat, and for this I could find but two ways--penance and a life of kindness and virtue, or blowing oneself up in a crowded bus. I presented the options to R2. Penance, he said, was out of the q. because it would interfere with his evening workout. And while blowing people up sounded cool, it involved concealed plastics which were a definite turn-off.

We were stuck. I was disconsolate, R2 was shattered.

Till last week.

Because last week I discovered that the Messiah is at hand. Aye. As the New York Times proudly informs its readers, Sheik Reda Shata of Brooklyn, New York, has taken it upon himself to unite the faithful in holy wedlock. And the fact that R2 is currently a kafir is no problemo. Sheikh Shata prefers to set up truebloods, but he's not one to stand on birth. If R2 would only pronounce Allah-uh-Akbar, his kufr will be forgotten, and Inshallah, he will attain the Kingdom of Heaven here on Earth. Admittedly, R2 will miss his 330 million Gods, but you'll agree it's a small price to pay for finding True Lust.

Bismilla-ar-Rahman-ar-Rahim.

PS: For the record, I made almost all of this up. R2 is a perfectly nice bloke. He's still single, but I daresay when his time comes, he'll give his wife all the love, respect and freedom she deserves. Provided she buys only "electronics stuff", of course.

Giri pai

They say, Bhikku, that the Gods live on mountains. I highly doubt it. It is rather cold up there. But overall mountains aren't bad places to visit. They make one gentle. Unfortunately, they don't make one wise, but nor does anything else. At any rate, wisdom is a journey, not a destination.

-- The Diary, August 1st, 504 BC

It was a pika. At least that's what it most closely resembled, of the ten or so "common wildlife" pictures on the trail map. It was barely 15 feet from the trail. I switched on the camera as quietly as I could. It whirred on, sternly said LOW BATTERY and went to sleep again. I swore under my breath. Third wildlife sighting in camera range and second time this damn thing had to die. I cursed myself for not charging it daily. Why couldn't I be more organized?

Then I smiled at my own dissatisfaction, and looked at the pika. It now had its back to me. Slowly, it walked away. I decided to sit on a little rock by the trail. All around me were peaks rising up a few hundred feet. Well, they really were 8000 feet or more from ground level, but I was in a kind of high valley. The trail had been steep--nearly 1500 feet in barely 5 miles and then half-a-mile on this flatland surrounded by sharp high peaks. And so is life, I wistfully thought. In youth, the mind courts steep slopes, for it aims high. It strives and suffers, but marches on. But eventually the climb is too steep, the current too fast. The mind tires and compromises. It creates some comfortable niche, fills it with some Ism or the other, and fits in with the world. No wonder all these poetic birds go on and on about the glory of Youth.

I shrugged and looked around. The mountain air was keen, all around was quiet. This place was above the tree line. Only shrubs grew here, humble yet hardy foot-soldiers that could live through the fierce winter. But now it was summer, and the air was pleasantly warm. This little cup in the mountains brimmed over with the soft light of the evening sun. Touched by the sun's tender caress, the glacial ice on the mountain-tops shimmered happily, and a gold-edged cloud above looked down fondly on the scene. (More-puddle-than-)Lake Solitude lay before me. Her clear surface reflected the gently glowing peaks--she borrowed thier splendor and showed it off as her own. Around the lake, the dense shrubs simmered bright green. There were some wildflowers, not pretty in isolation, but achieving beauty through numbers. Swept by the muffled breeze, they swayed with slow grace, like drunken dancers dressed in bright silk.

"This is the amphitheater of the Gods," I said to myself, "and I am fortune's favourite child, camera or no camera; conviction or no conviction". I felt noble and generous and kind, as one can only feel when one is alone and happy. I'll go back from here to my old world, but live a new life. I was loved by those whom I loved, and while that's common enough, it's still a precious gift. But I had traded not only in love, but also in pettiness and hurt. I looked back and felt a tinge of regret. What do we all fight over? Aren't we a part of the same Life force that courses through this pika's wild veins; and keeps these shrubs alive through ice and wind and storm, to flower anew every spring? And what good is this human mind if it cannot step back and see itself a part of all this? We all know this, of course. But knowlege is not action, or as old JK would put it, ideation is not perception, whatever that means.

Yet now, that old combative, divisive narrow self was gone forever, for how can all this beauty and majesty fail to transform one? Surely, I had been touched somewhere deep down, below the turbulent surface of thought with its restless waves of words and principles and morals and judgement. I was now the world and the world was me. At that moment, I effortlessly forgave all who had wronged me. Better, I forgave also those whom I had wronged. I'll go back, and "hold brotherly speech, with those whose hearts I hadn't hoped to reach". I'll apologize. No, why should anyone apologize? I was no longer the man who had wronged them. That man was gone, and we, as friends, would laugh together at his folly.

And then I blushed, as the silliness and pompous sentimentality of it all struck me. "Forgiveness, meta-forgiveness, meta-meta-forgiveness. Wisdom, meta-wisdom, meta-meta-wisdom, and onward ad infinitum. All hail King B., Crown Prince of Amateur Philosophers and soupy teenage girls!". I gave myself a mock bow. I blushed, but I was more amused than embarassed. I started afresh on the trail.

And then I noticed the tall white guy walking up the trail. He was actually a bit fat, but in that strange way of middle-aged white people, he looked healthy for it. He flashed a broad grin at me. "Hi". I smiled back. "Hi". He stopped near me.

"Beautiful day for a hike, huh?"
"Yup. Great day. You planning to camp up here?"
"Yeah. Am doing the whole loop trail. 25 miles round trip. Should be done by tomorrow."
"Well. I should have backpacked too, but haven't done it before. Didn't want to take any risks alone."
"Yeah. That's always better. But you could have tried it here. There's always someone around."
"I realized that too late. Saw a guy with a couple of kids going up just now. You'll meet them soon. I'm heading back to the campground."
"You've got about one and a half hours of light. You'll get there."
"Hope so."

I was beginning to get worried about reaching back before dark. I was about to leave. But he just stood there. Looked like he wanted to talk.

"Where are you from?"
"Atlanta."
"No, before that."
"Oh, India"
"If I may ask, what religion do you follow?"
"I'm a, er, Hindu. You know? We worship in temples. There are some in the US too."
"Yeah, I know Hindooism. You worship Sheeva, don't you?"
"Yup, and a few others. We are polytheist"
"How long have you been in the US?"
"Five years now"
"Do you like it?"
"Love it."
"If I may ask, have you been exposed to Christianity?"
[Oh no, one of those. Damn!] "Well, a little. I've read a couple of books in the New Testament"
"What have you heard or read?"
"This and that. I've read the Sermon on the Mount. It is very beautiful. But otherwise, I haven't read much."
"Have you ever felt a calling to convert?"
"No. I'm not very religious, but I think I prefer Hinduism"
"Why?"
"Well. There's this business of the soul, only humans have it and stuff. Where I come from, we believe all creation is equal. Not really in practice, perhaps. But at least in theory."
"But how can you say that? The God our Lord gave you a soul. He loves you. He made all this, [looking around tenderly] the mountains, the animals, the lovely sunset for you. He wants you to save your soul by returning His love, and turning to Him."
"Yeah, that's what bothers us. This creation in seven days, and the human soul and free will and all that. Our theory is that this sunset, that mountain, that moose, everything, is God. And we don't have anything that they don't have. It kind of ties in with our notion of rebirth."
[anguished] "But, but, you can't really believe that. Saying you have no soul is like closing your door on God. He loves this Earth, but he loves you more. You are his child."
"Well, maybe. But anyway, that's what we believe. I guess I'll get going now."

"Just a minute. What's your name, brother?"
"B____"
"Pat-rick?"
"Yeah. Patrick".
"Well, Patrick! Can I pray for you?"
"Sure. That'll be nice."

He took my hands in his and closed his eyes and prayed. He wanted God to open my eyes and all that. I'm sure it was very touching--their prayers usually are--but I didn't really listen. I stood there, partly resentful, partly grateful, partly touched, but mostly worried about getting back. He was done. He opened his eyes.

"Thank you. That was very kind of you"
"Thank you, Patrick, for letting me pray for you. The Lord loves you. You will turn to Him. I can see that. You are deep down a believer."
"Let's hope so. Bye."
"See you. Head back quickly. It'll be dark soon. Do you want some water?"
"No, thanks. I have plenty left"
"Don't worry. Once you reach Jenny Lake, you'll see the campground lights anyway. God Bless you, Brother."

And then we each turned our way.

If it happened today, we'd both have felt contempt (or pity, which is really the same thing anyway)--I for his nosiness and ignorance, he for my stubborn lack of faith. (I'd definitely have said Dhoda, vanduchi paaru, moonja tookinu. Savugrakki.) Even that day, we both thought, knew, that the other was wrong. But it seemed natural that he should be what he is, and I what I am. I still looked down on him, but somehow it didn't matter. I like to think it didn't matter to him either. For that day, we were both too high up to bother with disagreements.

Mountains do that to people.

Murder on Christmas Eve

Imitiation, Bhikku, will not get you salvation. But sometimes, it is fun. And that should count for something.

-- The Diary, December 24th, 505 BC

The clock had just struck eleven when I heard the knock. It was an odd hour for a visit, but I was an odd man to visit. My mother calls me Donny, but to everyone else, I am d'Onald, Super Sleuth. I am a paid hound. Sometimes I track down criminals for people. Some other times, I track down people for criminals. Always, I do it for cash: fifty greenbacks per hour. Travel, food and Jack Daniels are extra. That's for the tracking down. Violence costs more: 250 per small bone, 300 for medium and 350 for large. Death is a coupla grand. Regular body disposal is five grand, premium is ten. Silence is free. In my line of business, you talk today, you sleep with the fish tomorrow. It's a tough life, but I'm a tough man.

The caller entered. He was thin. That was the first thing you noticed about him. The second thing was that he was stupid. Very, stupid. His age was difficult to tell: it was 34 years and anywhere from 21 and 24 weeks. He wore an English bowler hat (black), a waistcoat (lavender) and brown pants in the baggy style. The belt was was half a slot too loose, ditto the Rolex. The watch and the horn-rimmed monocle spelt R-I-C-H-D-A-D-D-Y. So did the smell of expensive wine. Funny folk, these rich people. They drink their stuff after first letting the horse piss in it. You might wonder why. I don't. In my line of business, you get paid to ask only the right questions. It's a curious life, but I'm not a curious man. This stupid rich man had probably lost a puppy, a gift from his aunt last Christmas. I prepared for a dog-hunt. Business had been dull, and the blonde was high-maintenance. It is a dog's life.

"What-ho, old bean! Are you the sniffer, or are you the sidekick?"

The voice was surprisingly gruff. I pictured Dick Cheney dressed up for Gay Pride day. This was going to be difficult, doing business with this imbecile. I eyed him coldly. The trick was to unbreak the ice. In my line of business, you make friends today, you make the obituary column tomorrow. It is a loner job, but I am a loner man.

"I am Detective d'Onald, Private Eye. Can I help you?"
"You can do better, my lad. You can save my life."
"Yeah?"
"Postively"
"Oh yeah?"
"Scout's honor, old man. May the pants come loose at the Annual Ball if I speak aught but the truth."
"Listen, bud! What say you cut out the lingo and cut to the chase? What duyya want?"
"Ah! The American spirit. Onward, ho, to business. Shoulder to the wheel. Eye on the ball." I growled. "Well, as you say. Business it is. Quite. You see, my man, I've lost my brother on these strange shores. The lad's gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Evaporated. Poof."

This nut's brother? This was going to be much worse than the gift puppy. I winced. Inwardly, of course. The face was a mask. In my line of business, you show emotion today, tomorrow they'll be scraping your small intestine off Canal Street.

"When didya last see him, this brother of yors?"
"Ah, the facts. The background. The pieces of the puzzle. The clues. You are a lark that knows its tune. Capital, old boy! Wait till I tell the blokes at the club."
"I said, when didya last see yo' brother?"
"It must have been last summer. I was at the races and the chap was cooing to Maggie. The lad was in love. Dangerous stuff, love, particularly if you are in the habit of writing poetry, as the flesh-and-blood was. Made a right nuisance of himself. Why, that day, he was saying Maggie's eyes cleft his soul in twain. Some rot about he was unable to decide whether they looked like olives from Eden lying on virgin Swiss snow, or black diamonds smouldering afloat the river of her soul's white fire. A lot of rot, if you ask me. If Maggie's eyes looked like anything at all, they looked like a dung-beetle thrashing about in a cube of rotting cheese. But try telling that to the lad. Do not get me wrong. I'm second to none when it comes to fraternal feeling and blood-thicker-than-water and all that, but I draw the line at sunsets. Sunsets ought to remind a chap of dinner. But put the cove within half a mile of a sunset, and he would spout rot about the colors of the bridesmaid's dress at an angel's wedding, after the best man had unwittingly spilled Pinot Rouge on the her clothes--the bridesmaid's, you see, not the bride's--while they were dancing to Chopin after an apple pie. Details, he used to say. That's what poetry is about. Anyhow, the lasses always right fell for it. Keep encouraging him to coo his ghastly stuff into their ears. Why, some even ask him to repeat the rot about dew and cherubim's tears.

Ah, but I digress. To the point, of course. L'espirit Americain! Quite. As I was saying, the lad was cooing to Maggie at the races. Was blocking my view, as a matter of fact. Didn't matter, of course. My mare was walking backwards. Would have finished third in the previous race. Say! What an idea. Might get ten bob for that one. Free association, my man. That's the word. The steaming ideas of the unconscious breaking out in wild waves of free association and what-not, just like an underground sewer suddenly flooding all of Picadilly. What-ho, for the Joyce of the stream of consciousness! Got that? Joyce of the stream of consciousness. Ha, ha! That's a killer."

"You mean," and here I was screaming. Second time in my career. The first time was when Black Jack Big Mac had his dog lick my ears for two hours to find out who wanted his real name so bad. I didn't sing, if you're wondering. In my line of business, you sing today, tomorrow a friendly jackknife might ask for an encore from your vocal chords. It's not a musical life, but I'm not a musical man. "You mean he has been lost for a year?"

"Why, you're an odd bird. A foul fowl, in fact. You think I'd wait one year before seeking trained help? The lad's only been lost three hours. We were both dipping into the same trough at seven just this evening, as a matter of fact."

"I thawt you said you haven't seen him since last summer?"

"Of course I haven't. Not the sort of chap you want to see very often. The beauty quota of our family ran out with yours truly. The cove's an eyesore. I try to look the other way. Feel like I've seen him too much already. I'm too much i'the sun, as Shakeaspeare would put it. You read Shakespeare? Capital chap. Full of beans. How was that again? Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt and all that. Splendid bloke. Nothing quite like him to build the apetite. Particularly if your Butler is serving Bacon for dinner. Ha,ha! You got that? Butler serving Bacon for dinner. Old Gussie's crack. Capital chap, that Gussie. Bit sad about his cook. He eloped with the housekeeper, you know. Gussie sort of fancied her. Say, old boy, think you can find them too? I'll throw in five bob extra."

"Get out"

"I say, you have all you need, eh? What-ho! The scent's on the deer's tail, and the wolf's on the deer's trail. Let me say, my man, that I have the utmost admiration for your methods. The psychology of the individual. The missing link. The inconsistent detail. The dog that did not bark. The wrong color of tie. The snot in summer. The boils in winter. The nukes in Baghdad. Gaze not upon me with such astonishment, you old duffer. Not spring's brightest flower am I, but I am the Gardner at many Holmes. I may lack your spark, you sharp kettle of fish, but let no man say old B is slow to catch on. Why, it wasn't a .."

Abruptly, my trusty 0.38 Wesson let out a cough, and the sweet sound of silence filled the room. Business was still dull and the blonde still wanted a gift for Christmas. Some would have said this was not the season for killing clients. But there are times when a man has got to do what a man to do. Even if there's no cash in it. Christmas is mostly about internet shopping, but there is something in the program about Good Samaritan acts.

The night was cold, the fish were hungry, and the body was still warm. Did I tell you that down in the Hudson, they think of me as Robin Hood? I like to see the fish rush in when the body breaks the surface. Sometimes, I cut the limbs apart before throwing it in. Makes it easy for the fish to bite chunks off. Avoids competition and violence. It is a sentimental thing to do, but I'm a sentimental man.

Science and The Pursuit of Happiness

Happiness, Bhikku, is like an Iraqi nuke. There is no such thing. And if you perversely go looking for it, you'll only get your ass whipped.

-- The Buddha's Diary, a Friday in June, maybe 511 BC

Note: Bhikku = Bhikshu, roughly the same as Monk.

The Hindu Jihadis have spoken. The Vedic Era, they wistfully whisper with tender nostalgia, was a rare Golden Age in Brownistan's history. Those glory days, they declare, were a long orgy of universal contentment in Brownistan. For once, they speak the truth. All brown people were satisfied in Vedic times. The men satisfied themselves by beating their wives. The women satisfied themselves by bullying the oldies at home. And while noone really cares what oldies think, even they were satisfied because they knew they'd die soon and go to Heaven or Hell, either of which could only be an improvement on Brownistan.

Contrast this Utopia with our own decadent times: Wife-beating is regrettably passe', and old people are indefinitely kept alive somewhere in Florida, instead of being slowly killed at home. Everyone, as a result, is thoroughly dissastisfied.

Sadly, this is not an isolated instance. Nay, it is part of a tragic pattern. Modern man, particularly in the West, is in a million ways more miserable than his forefathers; and the primary reason for his profound gloom is Science.

Let not the reader consider me ungrateful. I freely acknowledge that Science has given us much: Viagara to create real men, surgery to create unreal women, MPEG video to capture the combo in action, broadband internet to download the said video with, and Prozac to soothe the depression when blokes gets bored of porn, as blokes eventually do. (I am not talking here of my old friend SC. He never tired of porn, and probably never will. But he is a genius at lechery, while you, gentle reader, are only a genius at not being a genius.)

I salute Science: it is the giver of plenty. Nevertheless, it is also the root cause of the West's woes.

The problem with Science is that it fixes stuff that ain't broken. Like Rahul Dravid, it performs spectacularly under pressure, after first going through great trouble to create the said pressure. Note that Science heroically cooks up miracle cures for strange new diseases. It need not. If it had instead let sissy blokes die of urinary infection, they would not have lived to get these high-end diseases. Note that Science constantly develops ever more complicated and controversial theories about the universe. It need not. It could instead accept the entirely self-consistent claim that the Universe is Allah's third wife. Two damning examples already, and I have not even got to SMS messaging, iPod, TiVo, toilet paper, low-fat peanut butter, and remote-controlled microwave ovens.

Indeed, I submit that most scientific innovation is not only unnecessary, but decidedly detrimental to the Human Condition in some way or the other.

The apologist for Science might point out that this is not really an indictment of science. Innovation, like liberation, comes with a price tag. When one develops an extra-whitening toothpaste, one should not be begrudged a little carcinogenic effluvium. Bah! most human misery is but collateral damage, as Donald Rumsfeld constantly reminds us.

This is arguably true. However, it is besides the point. The real problem is not merely with the process or its side-effects, but lies at at the very core of Science. The nub of the matter is that Science has raised the bar. Before the Scientific Revolution, Man's highest hope was that his neighbor, and not he, would get the plague. Contentment was easy because expectations were low. Along came Science, and led white people to mistakenly believe that

(1) There is a thing called happiness.
(2) If only they tried, they can get it too.

The effects of the deception are manifold and profound. Nobody is better placed to see this than me. The great land of North Texas, where I roost at present, is a land of such dreadful monotony that even hurricanes and earthquakes do not come here. The only natural disaster that frequents these parts is George W. Bush. He has his points, but you'll agree he's not quite the same thing as a tornado. Yet, people regularly ask me what plans I have for the weekend. When I first moved in here, I found this quite hilarious. "Charming devils," I thought, "How wittily they allude to the storied Dallas dullness!" I was wrong. These blokes actually make plans for the weekend, and execute them. Their interests include, hold your breath,

(1) indoor suntan with discount rates for extra UV-protection
(2) kayaking in a large-sized artificial puddle, nay lake
(3) white-water rafting in the same puddle, nay rapid
(4) hunting imported African animals in a fenced-in mock-forest, and
(5) hand-gliding from nowhere to nowhere over miles and miles of nowhere.

One evening, I was driving to the grocery store when I chanced to see one of these blokes about to take off on his glider. (The highest point in North Texas is the overpass of Highway 635 over Highway 75. Taking off from there guarantees 20 miles greater range.) Unable to contain my curiousity, I asked him, "Why?". He looked at me, shrugged, and with a faraway look in his green eyes, whispered : "To have fun". It was then, my friends, that I saw clearly the canker that eats away at the hearts of my hand-gliding brothers, for a man who seeks fun in Dallas is a man whom not even Prozac can rescue from the loony bin.

But that man is not alone, nor is Dallas unique.The white man today, all over the world, is a pilgrim seeking the Holy Grail of happiness. All the world to him seems a veritable Paradise, except the place he currently lives in. And armed with the gizmos that Science constantly cooks up for him, he goes forth to find this Paradise in ever more unlikely places. He flies to the Grand Canyon to get married, because the old church wedding isn't fun anymore. He fights for Zion, because DisneyLand isn't fun anymore. He kills brown people, because killing bears isn't fun anymore. He turns gay, because being straight isn't fun anymore. He buys organic, because buying sex toys isn't fun anymore. He goes to Alaska, because going to the bar isn't fun anymore. He does yoga, because doing drugs isn't fun anymore. He loves Jesus, because loving the neighbor's wife isn't fun anymore. And in seeking greater and greater happiness, he only sinks deeper and deeper into his misery.

It does not have to be thus. Dark is the night, but the white man only has to look to the East for light. The trick is to accept, as colored people do, that life is a bad deal. If you aim for the stars, you'll only get to the hospital with a dislocated shoulder. If you aim for the treetop, you'll at least get a few squirrel-eaten fruits. The white man wants to use science to create Heaven on earth. He fails, for it is beyond him or anyone else. The brown man, on the other hand, only wants help in making babies. If science will not give it, he knows that Swami Premananda will.

This is not mere theory. A few years back, a survey was conducted to find how happy people from different nations were. To some people's surprise, the survey found that the happiest people on earth were the Bangladeshis. White people were deeply consternated, if that's the word I'm looking for. There was a mad scramble to locate the damn place on the map. Bangladesh is, after all, a nation that has both Allah and poverty but neither Al Qaeeda nor oil. Naturally, white people had formerly ignored it. When they dug up some more dirt on it, they found that it had once been rescued from cow-eating brown people by grass-eating brown people. They also found that it was the only of China's neighbors that China did not want to annex, because Chinese people know a bad deal when they see one. Such a land, said white people, cannot be happier than God's Own Country, and so saying they dismissed the survey as faulty.

They were wrong. Here is what really happened, as I found out from a reliable native.

The surveyors went out and asked the natives if they lacked anything they wanted. The natives said, "No". You see, it was the month of Ramadan and though they didn't have food, they didn't want it. The surveyors then asked the natives if they were happy. The natives laughed, because they found the question funny.

Naturally, the survey gave Bangladesh an A+ for sheer joie de vivre. Any survey would have, under the circumstances.

Somewhere in this story, gentle reader, there is a lesson for mankind. I wish I could tell you what it is, for you clearly lack the brains to see it yourself. But right now, I don't have the time. I need to suit up and go indoor wind-surfing. They tell me it is fun.

Leo and The Priest: A True Story about Surviving God

"History", said the great Sir Thomas Carlyle, "was made possible by the shortage of Viagara." Indeed, we have evidence that when the choice princes of each age were unable to make love, they made war.

Recall that the only parts of his mistress that Hitler regularly assailed with violence were her ears. Recall that Bill Clinton rained bombs on Serbia only when he was cruelly cut off from Monica. Note that the present Bush, who clearly suffers from too much Bible and too little Laura, takes out his ire on Iraq. Recall that his father, who suffered from too much Bible and too much Barbara, did the same. And lest you should think colored people are somehow immune to this trend, recall that the only two times India popped a nuclear device instead of the regular 1000-wallah, it was led by Indira-ji and Atal-ji, both of whom were officially celibate at the time.

To find a possible exception to the above rule, you'll need to go back to 1st century BC. Augustus, the greatest of the Caesars, then ruled much of the planet. He loved but one woman in the whole world, and strangely enough it was his own wife. Unfortunately, when left alone with her, Augustus, like the average Bangladeshi batsman, displayed much vigour but little placement and even lesser staying power. This, one would have thought, spelt doom for the world. Not so. As historians point out, Rome was never more at peace than under Augustus. Remarkably, our hero, in spite of not seeing action at home, waged wars only in Egypt, Gaul, Germany and Spain. Just four wars in fifty odd years makes for an extraordinarily peaceful reign, as any sane man would agree.

Alas, even this exception only proves the rule. Augustus, it is now known, was no monk. In fact, his much-loved-yet-unloved missus, in order to spare the people of the world, actually arranged for L'Empereur to accidentally meet luscious young ladies on rainy nights. Like India in league matches, Augustus, it is said, performed spectacularly when the pressure was off.

That leaves us with a cardinal, unbroken Golden Rule: When Big Chief don't get no fun, he'll whip out the big gun. If people want to avoid the draft, they should choose a real man as leader, and keep him well-supplied.

Tragically, this lesson from history is forgotten. The man on the street but dimly recalls the glory days when the King numbered his children because they were far too many to name. Bill Clinton, that path-breaking hero, had the ability to bring back those good old days, but he was tragically thwarted by the times he lived in. Virtue on the throne, regrettably, is here to stay.

I survey this scene and I'm deeply saddened. Let it not, however, be assumed that I am a sentimental pacifist. Honestly, I don't think war is a big deal. After all, only about 2000 Americans have died in Iraq, and as Dubya will probably tell you, most of them are teenagers who would have killed themselves in road accidents anyway. There is the small matter of 30000 dead Iraqis, but considering how many brown people there are in the world, does anyone honestly think 30000 more or less makes a difference? No, indeed. If an under-sexed El Presidente kills himself a few thousands, I say Hail the Chief, Halelujah and could-we-switch-to-ESPN.

No, what really concerns me is not the effect of my Commander's abstinence, but its cause. After all, people always elect a leader who is just like themselves, only a lot richer. If Dubya behaves like the Grand Inquisitor, I ask, can Joe Republican be far behind?

Anybody who follows the ways of the Free World would know that things are in bad shape. God, who seemed for a few centuries to have popped off to better worlds, is back in a big way. As a child, I was afraid of ghosts, and my grandfather comforted me by quoting the Vedas which said God is everywhere. It sounded vaguely reassuring. Now, I am grown-up, I live in Texas, God is everywhere, and I am scared shitless. I've always thought God is a quiet sort of bloke, but He seems to be a Talker. Lots of people are hearing stuff from Him, and it ain't increasing their love for their fellow man. Ten years back, the only things people seriously looked for were marijuana and Madonna's perenially missing underwear. Now, they are looking for Communion with God, the Inner Voice and Spiritual Bliss.

More than anything else, however, God's born-again children are looking for Sin. Almost anything you do, from petting your dog to not petting your dog, is sin. Nothing is beyond the purview of the moral police, and nothing escapes its attention.

Most interestingly, while the virtuous disapprove of sin, they cannot really tolerate virtue. This is, of course, natural. Cops cannot be said to love thieves (unless the cops happen to be Bihari and the thieves happen to be women, but that is a different story). However, cops clearly do not want the end of all crime, for that will make them redundant. Likewise, the virutous need sin so that they have something to disapprove of.

John Kerry lost the elections not just because he looked like a mummy and made it worse by trying to smile. No, he lost because he was squeaky clean. Dubya at least had a police record and had confessed to sniffing a little bit of crack when the old man bothered him too much. At any rate, our Lord and Master is such an imbecile that it is almost a sin. Kerry, on the other hand, was fifty years old at birth and aged rapidly hence. The man was just too damn dead to sin. If he were to be the President, where, I ask, would the public have gotten their moral superiority? Is there any wonder, then, that he did lose?

The Land of the Free is now one big moral circus. The only pleasure people have allowed themselves is that of finding and loathing sin. They just cannot accept virtue, for it denies them this one remaining pleasure. If Jesus were born today in Alabama and if he miraculously survived the hurricanes that God regularly sends to punish the poor for being poor, he would be lynched to death anyway.

The question of the day, particularly for men of sound moral fibre like your humble correspondent, is this : Is there a way out? Can any moral man survive in this country? Is it possible for a sinless bloke to soothe the suspicions of the righteous?

The answer, strangely enough, is yes. And the man who found the way was none other than Lev Nikolaiyevich, the greatest author that ever lived, and my childhood hero. Leo, as he is fondly known, spent what one might call a real man's youth. Having had his fill, he then declared that sex is immoral. The local priest, of course, found this highly suspicious and promptly interrogated Leo. Here's how Leo quelled the priest's doubts.

Priest : Do you, sir, think that sex with women, even with one's own wife, is immoral?
Leo : I do.
Priest : You are into men, then?
Leo : No, indeed.
Priest : Children?
Leo : Of course not.
Priest : Hmm, you are truly a strange beast! Hmm, beast! You like animals?
Leo : How dare you?
Priest : Animals neither. A queer fish indeed! Ah, but of course! Fish?
Leo : Puh-lease.
Priest : Not fish either? I see it now. I must tell you, sir, that the Bible strictly forbids toys. What do you say to that?
Leo : I say screw the Bible.
Priest : Ah! A bibliophile! Why didn't you say so earlier? It is slightly unusual, my boy, but hardly unique. Confess and I'll absolve you.

There it is, clear as day to any that can see: In a society that is obsessed with sin, the only way for a moral man to survive is to pick one acceptable sin, and specialize in it. As Lord Bacon said, "Practise maketh sufficiently imperfect."

The Dirt About Sigmund, and Why Kids are OK After All!

The propaganda of Sigmund Freud and his cohorts has been tragically effective: Everyone these days believes kids are obsessed with sex. A New York Times survey reveals that fewer people than ever hold and pet their children, wary perhaps of the storied lustfulness of the little ones' subconscious minds. The moral standing of children, I'm afraid, is at an all time low.

Take, for instance, the last post on this blog. It was intended to illustrate one of my pet theories about human relationships. The point of writing it with children was not only to make the reader suspend harsh judgement, but also to take sex out of the picture, as much as possible. However, all three readers of this popular blog thought the damn thing was a love story. (They also thought I should stick to fart jokes, the damn barbarians!) Kids, it is assumed, are just too lewd to be just friends.

This perversion of the public opinion greatly saddens me. I confess I'm very fond of children, as long as they are other people's children. After much personal interaction with them, I've come to the conclusion that they are not evil monsters or lustful devils. No! Au contraire, they are general dudes, only a little cuter and a lot smellier.

Like all honest writers, I wish to elevate the public morals and fight false propaganda. To that end, I'll now relate the true story of old Sigmund's hypocrisy, his son's perceived peccadillos, and how the combination of the two led to the establishment of two schools of psycho-analysis and, more tragically, the untimely death of Sigmund Junior.

Sigmund, as is well known, had a chela called Jung. It is less well known that Sigmund had a son, and Jung had a daughter, and they were friendly. In fact, the two never had fights to the death with home-made hand grenades, and this, naturally, led to some suspicion about their normalcy. Rumours, unproved to this day, were heard that their mamma-pappa game involved more than just mock-cooking by Freud junior and TV-watching by the young Jungess. For a surprisingly long time, the vile whispers didn't reach the ears of the doting fathers. Many a time, Sigmund and Jung used to discuss the suspected debaucheries of other people's kids, smiling indulgently at their angelic offspring at play.

The idyll was rudely ruptured. On a fine spring morning, Sigmund had the following conversation with the missus. (Let not the story-teller be blamed for the silly lines that follow. They merely reproduce the flowery language that is common in psychoanalytic households.)

S :
Oh! Flower of the Far East!
On you my eyes daily feast!
Oh! stunning sultry Frau mine,
For you every moment I pine!
Oh! Lady lovely and luscious,
The passion of my Unconscious,
Star that doth my sky adorn,
How are your bowels this morn?

Mrs. S :
Oh! Handsome daadi!
My sweet sugar daddy!
Master of the Hidden Mind,
Whose equal none can find!
Emperor of the id and th' ego,
Smoothly did my motions go.
Oh! Hero whom I love a lot,
How was your session at the pot?

S : [anguished]
Out it flowed like a stream.
But wait, I had a strange dream.
Our son, heavenly little lad,
In my dream, was sex-mad.
My unconscious grows senile,
Our angel so unfairly to revile.

Mrs. S:
Oh, precious husband mine,
You drink too much wine.
It isn't a dream, for Chrissake,
You saw it while wide awake.
How can you fail to notice,
What a vile beast the boy is?
And why, oh why, did he pick,
That Jung's horny little chick?
If he had to be such a little pig,
Why not our neighbour Hedwig?

S:
I see! My damn unconscious,
Finding the truth too odious.
Through its usual sly scheming
Made me think I was dreaming.

Mrs. S:
You of all people fooled, honey!
If it weren't sad, it'd be funny.
Weren't you, dear, first to find,
Every baby has a filthy mind?

S:
About other children, I was sure.
But our boy, I thought was pure.
"Boys are beasts," I boldly said,
Thinking our boy was well-bred.

But surely, he isn't the one to blame.
The fool can barely spell his name.
Even if he had desire in his veins,
He just doesn't have the brains.
It's that girl's doing, thatI know.
She asked, and he couldn't say 'no'.
The vixen! Gotterdamerung! [note: Gotterdamerung = God-damn in Deutsch]
I will take this up with Jung.

So saying, Sigmund stormed right out of his house, and right into the Jung's. Now Jung had had a similar revelation from his Frau and was all aboil. An argument ensued that cannot be reproduced in this PG-rated blog. Finally, Freud walked out in a huff. Poor Jung had to find other means to relieve the pressure.

The two great minds worked furiously to rationalize this new, painful piece of information into their Map of the Mind. So it is that Sigmund proposed the superego, which essentially says, "My son's subconscious is a pig, but deeper down, he is a saint." Jung came up with the theory of the Collective Unconscious, which says, "My daughter is a sex maniac, but so, my friend, are you!"

It would have been tragic enough if it had ended here. But both men were closet Republicans, and couldn't take this slur on the family lying down.

Jung sent his daughter to Alabama, thinking she'll acquire Christian values by association. It was a mistake. They noticed that she was European, and had even looser morals than Bill Clinton. Naturally, they concluded she was the Devil. Her death by stoning, it is reported, was slow and painful.

Freud, hearing this, smiled to himself, and sent his son instead to Gujarat, India. Lack of morals, he reasoned, wasn't likely to be a problem there. It was a grevious miscalculation. The Gujaratis noted that the boy was white, and more virtuous even than their home-grown divinity, Lord Krishna. Naturally, they concluded he was a missionary, and burned him. Old timers in Ahmedabad still say that there is nothing quite like fried Freud to go with a well-aged pot of bhang.