"A Puppet's Life Ends" screamed the Times of India headlines this morning.
I was too bleary eyed and sleep deprived from watching a late-night movie (or two) on the telly to grasp the import of this headline. It took a while for the headline to register as I prepared myself to face the new day.
Upon reflection I must shamefully admit having felt somewhat elated by this news. At the time I wasn't sure if I was still dreaming. You know how it goes - you are living the wonderful life and suddenly wake up to find it was only a dream. That happens to me quite a lot. Here I am dreaming of the good life and suddenly the music of the neighbour's car being reversed out of their gate rudely brings me to reality. On the subject of reversing alarms, who indeed thought up those hideous pieces of noise?
We in Chennai are especially addicted to loud and hideous noises - dual-tone car horns, the sound of the political bigwigs making a speech in Tamil which no one is meant to understand and no one indeed does; movie heroes romancing their heroines (who all uniformly sound like pre-pubescent girls - is there a story in there somewhere?); radio adverts which sound vaguely like a pitch and more like an admonishment of some sort; street vendors selling weird and wonderful goods and long-forgotten services (think re-fluffing your flattened pillows and mattresses); drunk husbands (in Chennai it is the sacred husbandly duty to be perpetually drunk) threatening their wives; their wives, usually domestics, fighting with one another and so on. Now all of this communication is carried out at the highest possible decibel level and in a gruff voice which the locals seem to find very authoritative, romantic, persuasive, seductive, powerful and leader-like, all at the same time. There is nothing we would do quietly if we could do it loudly.
Cars being started up and revved, cars reversing out of their gated nigh-time security out into the narrow street for the morning, the stiff bristles of the street sweeper ladies scraping whatever is left of the asphalt on the street, the vegetable vendors announcing their wares in a sing-song fashion, and the cuckoo that is forever looking for a mate - so far unsuccessfully, I might add - are the sounds that rudely jolt me out of my pleasant reveries and let the harsh reality impose itself upon my consciousness most mornings. With the month of "margazhi" nearing it will only get worse for that month requires hordes of devotees to take out processions singing certain vaishnavite devotional poetry long before sunrise (and all too soon after I retire for the night). Admittedly religious fervour, especially the vaishnavite variety, is somewhat lacking in my neighbourhood but even the one that is manifest is too loud and too early to facilitate a good night's rest for yours truly.
You can now understand why I am a poor starter in the mornings and why the newspaper headline failed to make an impression on me this morning.
When it did, I was wide awake. There was a feeling of (almost) elation. What could be better than learning that finally The Puppet is dead? I suspect we all resent being puppets in one way or another. Equally sure that we hate being manipulated by parents, bosses, friends, rivals, marketers, political leaders and our governments. A puppet symbolises the ultimate powerlessness: in and of itself it is inert but in expert hands and pulled by the right strings, it jumps to life and can be as good as real life itself. It is the ultimate action by proxy. Not surprisingly, puppet shows are very popular the world over. The English have their Punch and Judy shows, the Balinese have their Ramayana shadow puppet shows, and we have a show called the UPA.
A Puppet's Life Ends, screamed the headline.
When I started reading the story, my elation was short lived.
It was Kasab who was dead.
I was too bleary eyed and sleep deprived from watching a late-night movie (or two) on the telly to grasp the import of this headline. It took a while for the headline to register as I prepared myself to face the new day.
Upon reflection I must shamefully admit having felt somewhat elated by this news. At the time I wasn't sure if I was still dreaming. You know how it goes - you are living the wonderful life and suddenly wake up to find it was only a dream. That happens to me quite a lot. Here I am dreaming of the good life and suddenly the music of the neighbour's car being reversed out of their gate rudely brings me to reality. On the subject of reversing alarms, who indeed thought up those hideous pieces of noise?
We in Chennai are especially addicted to loud and hideous noises - dual-tone car horns, the sound of the political bigwigs making a speech in Tamil which no one is meant to understand and no one indeed does; movie heroes romancing their heroines (who all uniformly sound like pre-pubescent girls - is there a story in there somewhere?); radio adverts which sound vaguely like a pitch and more like an admonishment of some sort; street vendors selling weird and wonderful goods and long-forgotten services (think re-fluffing your flattened pillows and mattresses); drunk husbands (in Chennai it is the sacred husbandly duty to be perpetually drunk) threatening their wives; their wives, usually domestics, fighting with one another and so on. Now all of this communication is carried out at the highest possible decibel level and in a gruff voice which the locals seem to find very authoritative, romantic, persuasive, seductive, powerful and leader-like, all at the same time. There is nothing we would do quietly if we could do it loudly.
Cars being started up and revved, cars reversing out of their gated nigh-time security out into the narrow street for the morning, the stiff bristles of the street sweeper ladies scraping whatever is left of the asphalt on the street, the vegetable vendors announcing their wares in a sing-song fashion, and the cuckoo that is forever looking for a mate - so far unsuccessfully, I might add - are the sounds that rudely jolt me out of my pleasant reveries and let the harsh reality impose itself upon my consciousness most mornings. With the month of "margazhi" nearing it will only get worse for that month requires hordes of devotees to take out processions singing certain vaishnavite devotional poetry long before sunrise (and all too soon after I retire for the night). Admittedly religious fervour, especially the vaishnavite variety, is somewhat lacking in my neighbourhood but even the one that is manifest is too loud and too early to facilitate a good night's rest for yours truly.
You can now understand why I am a poor starter in the mornings and why the newspaper headline failed to make an impression on me this morning.
When it did, I was wide awake. There was a feeling of (almost) elation. What could be better than learning that finally The Puppet is dead? I suspect we all resent being puppets in one way or another. Equally sure that we hate being manipulated by parents, bosses, friends, rivals, marketers, political leaders and our governments. A puppet symbolises the ultimate powerlessness: in and of itself it is inert but in expert hands and pulled by the right strings, it jumps to life and can be as good as real life itself. It is the ultimate action by proxy. Not surprisingly, puppet shows are very popular the world over. The English have their Punch and Judy shows, the Balinese have their Ramayana shadow puppet shows, and we have a show called the UPA.
A Puppet's Life Ends, screamed the headline.
When I started reading the story, my elation was short lived.
It was Kasab who was dead.
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