Ragging lessons

Note (2022): I had written this post in 2006, to share my own ragging experiences. It is about my positive experiences of ragging in early 1970s. If the idea of discussing ragging in positive terms upsets or triggers you, I strongly suggest that you do not read this post.

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There are broadly two kinds of persons in the world, I thought to myself. Those who live surrounded by transparent bubbles and life’s woes seem to touch them lightly, leaving them to live in their blissful ignorance. And, those filled with angst, their sensibilities weighed down by the injustice of it all, every experience leaving a burning hole in their souls. Probably Sujit Saraf belongs to that second group, I thought to myself, as I read his article on Tehleka about effects of ragging he had received at IIT Delhi twenty years ago.

Actually his description of ragging was quite funny:

We did many things in that one month that now appear harmless and amusing. We stood on benches in the dining hall and recited the national anthem; we crawled on all fours and barked like dogs; we brought cigarettes and Campa Cola for our seniors; we cleaned their rooms; we dropped our trousers so they could measure our penises; we formed human trains — each car holding the penis of the car in front — and whistled our way through hostel corridors; we simulated orgies; stripped naked; then wore underpants over our trousers to turn ourselves into comic book phantoms.

The impact of these experiences are summed up by Sujit as, “After so many years, I can list all these forms of ‘ragging’ dispassionately, but no one should be misled. Brutality and oppression remain just that, no matter the name used for them… Ragging is a case study for Freud, nothing more.”

If Sujit belongs to the second group, I probably belong to the first. While he seems to have been traumatised by that experience, his words brought back many happy memories for me.

The first time I encountered ragging was when I went to submit some form at MAMC near Delhi Gate. A pimply seventeen, I was suddenly pulled into a small door at the side of their auditorium. Soon my pants were around my ankles and I was asked to wank. It was slightly embarrassing to admit but I didn’t know what wanking meant!

I knew the words all right, they were used often by boys, but I had no idea that you actually did something. Probably I was too busy day-dreaming or reading or playing, and though it had been many years that I had “wet dreams”, I hadn’t ever thought much more about it. I did have some vague basic ideas of what fucking entailed and that was my sex knowledge. I don't think that I thought kissing caused a woman to become pregnant, but probably I was not so sure about it.

My raggers screwed up their noses but were not too surprised, apparently they had seen other ignorant boys like me before? Any way, I was shown the simple practicality of wanking and let off. I won’t bore you with the details of my experiments with that knowledge later that day, but just for that lesson alone, the word “ragging” brings a smile to my face.

The other lesson came in Meerut a few months later, in the hostel of the medical college. Fifty or sixty boys, running around naked and doing hundred little things like the ones described by Sujit above, was an opportunity for close observation of the variations in that small appendage that is apparently supposed to the centre of men’s lives – the penis. It was the best cure possible for all those anxieties about, is it too small, is it too long, is too thin or thick or whatever, that seems to afflict many of us. It did cure me of those anxieties any way. After the first two times of being naked with other boys, any sense of humiliation or shyness disappeared.

It was fun and a way to look at things that earlier, I didn't have the courage to ask or think about.

The third lesson was about female sexuality. Fed mainly on Hindi literature, where sex is hardly ever mentioned directly, I had an idea that sex was something pleasurable for men that was “tolerated or suffered” by women. Both, male and female students of the medical college had their “anthems” full of obscenities, and it was the women’s anthem that opened the magic door for me – sex could be something desired even by women!

Probably I can come up with some more lessons that I received from ragging that perhaps today’s generation won’t care about. I am sure that today’s twelve year old know much more about sex than what I knew at seventeen. If they don’t know, perhaps internet is a better medium to learn, than other guys slightly older than them through ragging.

My parents never spoke to me about sex. With friends, one spoke about it but that was more to experiment with words and our developing identities as men, but at least, I was shy about asking any real questions. Years later, when I tried speaking about sex to my teenage son, I soon realised that he already knew much more about it and probably I could have learned somethings from him! How times have changed.


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Note 2: After almost 18 years, this continues to be among the most popular posts on this blog. Tens of thousands of persons have read it till now.

A lot of readers get very upset after reading it, in spite of my warnings.

If you have read it and you feel upset and angry, it might be time to ask yourself 2 questions - what is there in this post which upsets you? and, how you can overcome the trauma you underwent because of ragging?

 

You can also ask yourself why do you look for content which reminds you of your old trauma? Perhaps, you are caught in a cycle of negative obsessive-compulsive behaviour?

 

In the end, carrying this trauma hurts only you. I hope that you will use your feelings of anger and frustration to find a way to come out of this trauma and heal your wounds. Consider talking about it to a psychologist or a psychiatrist, or at least to your close friends.

 

My best wishes for finding a way to let go of your past, to forgive yourself and forgive those who did it to you. It is better to move on.

Contradictions of Syriana

After a lazy sunday afternoon nap, we decided to watch the film Syriana. I was still a bit sleepy and I had been hoping for something not too complicated, so probably some bits of Syriana passed over my head without registering.

The film is complicated with different simultaneous and parallel story lines spread over different continents and in different languages, English, Farsi, Arabic and Urdu. The main aim of the film is to show how American multinationals involved in petrol extraction with active support from different American institutions, are willing to go to any length to keep on their profits, including the assassination of those who try to fight against their power. At the same time, short term thinking/planning of USA forces sometimes provide sophisticated weapons to those who later use them against American interests.

I was thinking of how so many Indian films are now equally vehement in showing nexus between corrupt politicians, underworld and other corrupted state institutions.

It is a victory of freedom of press if cinema can show such realities in such clear terms, pointing accusing fingers at the powers.

Yet, I was also thinking about the fact that many such films have come, their accusations seem believable, and yet nothing changes in this world. Voters go on electing those same persons, those persons keep on doing what they were doing and public does not care. Then periodically, there are some "ritualistic cleaning" in which some power-brokers are sacrificed to satisfy the public hunger for justice, and everything continues as before. It sounds very horrible and cynical and yet probably an accurate description of how "real" life is.

Coming back to Syriana, George Clooney must be passing though that "I am not just a beautiful body, I am a good actor" phase. His character in the film is not very believable - his perplexity and confusion in the film when he understands how his Government operates, after being a secret agent for all his life in places like Beirut, is not credible. The decision of Pakistani boys to be the suicide bombers is also not explained properly in the film, since at least one of them seems not convinced about religious dope peddled by his instructors.

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Journeys: Yesterday and Today

The train journeys used to take for ever and the preparations started days in advance. Letters were written for the friends on the way, who were going to host us in their homes for a night or two. Holdalls were prepared with blankets and gaddas, thin mattresses filled with cotton, and we pulled on the straps till they all rounded up like footballs. Biji, my grandmother, prepared a big basket of puris and fried potatoes along with mango and water chestnuts pickles for the journey.

Going to Hyderabad needed two nights and we stopped on the way in Bhopal. Going to Alipur Dwar in the north-east took three nights and we stopped on the way in Lucknow and Siliguri.

In the second class compartment of the trains, the seats were wooden planks and best was to have the top berth, because then you could go up and forget about the others. The bottom berth was where everyone sat while the middle berth was kept closed till it was time to go to sleep.

As you entered the compartment you immediately measured the others sharing the space with you. Were their faces smiling or were they sour-faced? How did they react to, "Uncle, can I put this here?" And then soon everyone beamed with relief since the companions of our journey were as anxious as we were to find friendly faces.

Before you knew, everyone was talking to everyone. Children sharing comics or playing ludo or exchanging stories. Women together chatting like long-lost-sisters from a Manmohan Desai film. Men looking with understanding nods at their wives, and talking about their own things. Didi, bhabhi, bhai saheb, dada ji, aunty ji, soon everyone had found the right words to address the others. From the open window of the train, on a curve you could see the steam rising up from the engine and specks of charcoal came inside the compartment and coated all our faces, got stuck in the hair and went down the neck into the shirts. Chuk chuk chuk, the train went, with the compartments swaying as everyone spoke to everyone else.

And by the time the shared journey came to an end, we knew lot of things about each other, and saying goodbyes was like we were leaving friends. "Write to me", "If you come to Delhi, come to see us", were exchanged with addresses. Of course, we never saw each other again, those other lives were soon forgotten, the memories of faces and names fading quickly with time.

Every time I remember those journeys, I can imagine the round ball of our earth buzzing like a beehive, hundreds of thousands of small cells next to each other, each with its own family and relatives and lives, each family facing ups and downs, each with children growing up, persons dying, persons getting married. Even if I didn't know about them all, I could imagine them all, each family like our own, a little different in some things, but underneath every thing else, quite similar.

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Now even in India, there are no steam engines. Those long journeys have become shorter. Here in Europe, even when I do travel on train, mostly I avoid eye contact with others, I almost never offer to others the food I am eating, I hardly ever (actually never) take puris and fried potatoes with me and anyway, most persons have a sandwich and a paper glass with some drink. On the planes, people sitting next to me, some times smile but it stops there. Talking to others that you don't know means "disturbing them" and so everyone looks out of the window or reads or closes eyes and feigns sleep, all lost in their own worlds.

Instead, when the urge to "meet" others comes, I do blog hopping. Like, going to a site like Desi-pundit and clicking on a blog.

Blog-hopping makes me "meet" other persons. That boy with the red scarf around his neck and his graduation at some IIT, his face full of hope for the future. That lady next to him must be his mother, she looks so proud of him. The girl he is looking at with so much adoration on his face, is she is wife or his girlfriend? There is no picture of his father in that album, why, what had happened? After the pictures, I want to read about the things that boy has written in his blog. And then I click on a link on that blog, then on another link, hoping from one person to another. That girl, she went to India for the first time. Her name is south Indian, perhaps she was born in USA? How does it feel to be surrounded by all Indian faces for the first time in your life, when you realise that you are like everyone else? Jumping between cities and continents. Looking at photo albums and reading about the persons is so much fun. In half an hour, I have gone through three blogs, looked at their pictures, read about their profiles.

Tomorrow, I won't remember them. If not tomorrow, perhaps next week I will forget them. I never remember their names any way. And I never tag them. I like them as they are, random, unexpected, like ships crossing and the passing glimpses into other parallel universes. Sometimes interesting, sometimes ordinary. Sometimes, I don't like them so much.

They are like the companions on a long train journey from my childhood. And I think of the giant beehive, all round the world, every where people with hopes, joys, illnesses, memories, sadness, visiting beautiful places, missing places and people. It is good to be part of that beehive.

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Overdose of Bollywood Masala

There is something in the spices, in the masala. You just have to taste it a couple of times and it enters your blood. The cells taste the fragrances enclosed in its molecules. And, then you can't resist its call. Days can pass without feeling the yearning for it. Yes I have outgrown it, you think. But the yearning comes back suddenly while you eat the wholesome nutritious, bland, spice-less food. If you are a masala lover once, you are a masala junkie forever!

Hindi films are like that. Once you have tasted them, you can't forget them. In spite of their silliness, their exaggerated emotions, their illogicalities, their absent storylines, their corny songs. No, they are stupid, you tell yourself. Give me a hollywood blockbuster any day, I tell myself. A nice French or Italian flick. And then suddenly one evening, you are running to your friendly neighbourhood pirated video store, the hollywood blockbusters forgotten, your heart yearning for some song and dance masala laced with crying mothers, love-torn couples, destinies singed with unsurmountable barriers, that yet once again avoid the tragedy just by the nick - the wonderful world of Bollywood.

And then I found bwcinema dot com. Goodbye to pirated disks, I thought, that suddenly block in the middle of Shahrukh Khan telling Kiran Kher, "Mother, I am back!" You just need a good connection and you can watch all the Bollywood masala without going out of your homes. Three days of unlimited films for as low as 3.99 dollars, the site said, and the suddenly the four day long weekend had found its purpose. And perhaps, this time, I am not going to fatten the Bangladeshi or Pakistani shop owners and be a traitor to India, I had thought. Perhaps, the film producers will get a percentage for each download.

I started with Morning Raga with its lovely Carnatak music and a wonderful Shabana Azmi. IFFA awards and Filmfare awards followed. The first day ended with the reluctant patriotic fervour of Rang de Basanti.

I hardly slept that night, waking up at five in the morning to watch Ankahee, the Vikram Bhat-Sushmita Sen autobiography. And then I crashed, falling down asleep for eight hours straight. Chup Chup ke with crazy Paresh Rawal and Rajpal Yadav accompanied my hurridly cooked chinese noodles. A pity they had to spoil it with Shahid Kapur and Kareena.

The third day started with Corporate and I was starting to get over my yearning. I tried to follow it with Kabhi Alvida Na kehna, that had lousy print and even worse sound worthy of friendly neighbourhood pirate video shop. Is it legal, I asked myself? I mean, four days after the release of the film, here they are showing it on internet with a pirate print and they are based in USA and no one can do anything about it?

 

May be this site is run by sons of Al Capone? Anyway, I gave up after fifteen minutes. Then I tried with Onkara. This print also looked pirated with the screen wobbling, as happens with camera prints, when someone tries to shoot the film with a handheld handycam in a cinema hall. So I shifted to Fanaa. This time the print was good even if the film's faked emotions were irritating in spite of wonderful Kajol. Finally to finish the feast, I had Chicken Tikka Masala, all about British humour about parents trying to marry off their gay son.

Now I feel like puking. My head hurts. If I look at the TV screen, red and blue spots float in front of my eyes. Wish I can burp. It is indigestion. I just want to curl up in my bed and not to think of any Bollywood-masala movie for a year.

 

The yearning is gone and it seems it won't be back for long long time. Now from tomorrow, I can go back to my sane hollywood blockbusters and the intelligent Almodovars.

Hindi films? I screw my nose. They suck, I tell myself. Till the yearning comes back again, I am free.

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Climate change and the Geneva Days

Last week I was in Geneva for a meeting. As usual, World Health Organisation (WHO) had booked me in a hotel near the central railway station. When we landed in Geneva, it did not seem like very hot, compared to the hot Bologna that I had left behind. But, when I reached my room in the hotel, it felt as if I had entered a furnace.

While the bed had a woollen blanket as usual, there was something new in the room - a small table fan. Switzerland had always been nice and cool. In the summers, it did get warm in the day but most of the time, nights were cool, needing something warm. And I had never seen a fan in a room before.

After the arrival of fans, how long is it going to take for Switzerland to turn from paradise to a hot baking furnace?

During nineteen eighties in Italy, I had never seen a fan in any house or office. To be honest, I had never felt even the need for it. I think that our first table fan, we had bought it in 1993 or 1994. Then in the next years, we bought more of them, so that we had one for each room of the house. During the same years, fans were installed in our office as well. Finally, this year, we have air-conditioning, at home and in office in Bologna (Italy). Everything has happened in the last 10-15 years.

Any way the hot temperatures in Geneva had some nice side-effects also. People were having fun with the summer along the lake in Geneva. Drinking beer along the small pubs, sitting and chatting on the grass wearing bikinis and swimming costumes, swimming in the lake.

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In Geneva I met Gregor Wolbring. He says that soon the new technologies like synthetic biology and nanotechnology, and their convergence are going to change the world completely as we know it. It is all going to happen in the next ten or twenty years, he says, and in future, the real disabled persons will be those who are not be able to afford the new technologies for enhancement of their bodies and minds.

He has a soft smile, gentle way of speaking and dreamy eyes. And he has a special wheel chair, that looks simple and has side bars, that you need to move gently to move ahead or back. Listening to him, I feel as I am transported in the world of Asimov.

Yet, take a look at his webpage and his coloumn, and check his credentials, he teaches in the university and is part of some important sounding committees. So I guess that it is no science fiction but a new reality he is talking about. He tells about it in a simple way, making it easy to understand.

For a moment, I daydream about enhanced human beings but then that images contrasts so strongly with the reality of poverty, lack of most basic things, disease and death that stalks lives in so many parts of the world! Would that dream be for all of the humanity or will it be sold to the highest bidders, I ask myself.

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In the pictures below, I am with Gregor Wolbring.

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Against the Virtual holdup Hackers

It has been sometime, while navigating on internet, suddenly a sign appears "Attention, the scanning of your system is not complete, your system is unsafe, if you want free scanning of your system to identify errors ...". I have tried to ignore it. I have tried to click on "cancel". I have tried to click on the cross at the right hand corner to close it.

No matter what I do, it takes over the webpage I am looking at and hijacks it to a website called "www.it.bloodyerrorsafe.com", leaving me trembling with rage each time. (The "bloody" in the address has been added by me, I don't want them to claim that they are so popular that people are linking their blogs to them)!

I call the people running that site by all names possible. I walk around in the room to calm me down. And, of course, I close the internet explorer. Some times I disconnect and reconnect, hoping that they are gone. Cursing them all the time, scumbags, oro-genitally mixed up, òç*+#ò@... And I take deep breaths and tell myself, "This world is pure maya, no need to get so heated up son. Relax. It is hurting only you while those bastards, they must be smiling their way to the bank with all the money they can get from people clicking their site!"

I try to imagine where they can be based. They must have an office in Jersey island, with another hack who can't find anyone to love him hiding in Cayman island and their server running from Easter islands, with the boss sitting in Florida. Do you think I should go and apply to the international court of justice in the Hague to persecute them?

Or is it the duty of our Government to protect us from unwanted intruders even if the gang is scattered in all the corners of the world and worse still, even if, the brother of the big boss is governing (ha, ha!) Florida!.

The list of modern stress syndromes is getting longer every day.

Like all those people sitting in their cars, stuck in the traffic and snarling with rage. Their stress has been recognised. Even people typing continuously on their keyboards have legitimate stress. And those looking at the computer monitors all day long, they are indeed stressed.

Perhaps it is time to add another stress diagnosis. Internet-holdup and hijacking.

If you have gone through it, you will agree that there is no virtuality in this stress. You have no psychological pleasure in it like collecting the spam mail and throwing it in the rubbish bin and then watching it pass through the thrasher till the bits and bytes are flushed down the cyber-toilet.

So there is no other way, except to take deep breath, hold it and count up to seven, then exhale slowly. Repeat it five times.

How do you feel now brother, ready to forgive them?

Forgive those scumbags, éòù+è#@ ... Ok, let's do it five more time! Take a deep breath, hold it, count slowly upto seven and now exhale slowly. I hope that these internet hackers rot in some hell with all the millions they are earning from their hacking. Better still, I hope that their brother hackers will hack their websites. (BTW, designing the image for this post was a lot of fun and helped in reducing my stress, because it made me feel that I was doing something for it!)

 

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Refugee Camps and the World Outside

We were in a rural area. It was a refugee camp in Kenya and I was there with a delegation of the United Nation High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR). We were looking at issues related to persons with disability in the refugee camps and before that visit, I had already been to some other refugee camps in Africa.

The road leading to the refugee camp, left the city to meander through fields dotted with small huts. Thin and dirty children in tattered clothes occasionally stood by the roadside to look at our big UN vehicles passing.

If outside was poverty, inside the refugee camp seemed like the land of plenty. There were a lot of international non-governmental organisations (NGOs) with a lot of expatriate staff. In the health centre, their was plenty of staff and no medicines seemed to be lacking. I had a long conversation with an Australian speech therapist working with children who had speaking difficulties, asking her about the general conditions inside the camp and the different services available there.

"What about the local people living outside the camp?" I had asked. Persons outside the refugee camp had looked malnourished and without any services, left to fend for themself in an isolated remote area. "No, we can't provide any services to the locals", I was told. It was because of policy decision by government here. UNHCR staff and international staff were responsible only for the refugee camp and they were prohibited from having any kind of interaction with the local population.

But international NGOs could have started separate projects for the surrounding countryside, I had insisted.Isn't it terrible to pass in front of those huts everyday and see them so poor and so vulnerable? There are only funds for emergency, no one gives money for ordinary poverty, they said.

The person showing us around took us to the high school in the refugee camp. It was a wonderful place with nice uniforms, a large field where children were playing, and some committed expatriate teachers, who explained their work including the use of internet to bring the world to the refugee camp.

I was a little upset. I thought it was discriminatory with all these resources that they had in the UN, giving the world to the refugees inside the camp walls, while just outside those walls, people of the same skin colour, same language, and similar facial traits could die of hunger, their children faced malnutrition, and died of usual simple illnesses like diarrhoea and measles. So perhaps, I was condescending in my interaction with the students of 12th standard. I don't remember the exact words of my question. Perhaps it was something to do with their future.

A young man sitting at the back stood up to answer me. I think that he said some thing like, "We are prisoners in this cage. This wonderful school, these wonderful teachers, our learning internet, our learning French and English, what use is it? It only serves to make us feel worse. We have no future. UNHCR can provide only school education. There is no university here and I can not go outside the walls of this camp. And, after passing 12th, all these wonderful programmes finish. Then we go back to our families in this camp, to work in the fields. For working in the field, I don't need any of this knowledge that I have got, it will only serve to remind me about the wretchedness of my life, to know how much we are missing. It is terrible to know what we could be and be forced to be nothing."

I was suddenly reminded of this episode while reading the story "Sudama's children" about poor kids in rich private schools in Delhi in the latest issue of Outlook. "There are two kinds of pain—the pain of growing up in a jhuggi with little hope of change, and the pain of adjustment in studying with well-off kids in a private school. How do we know which is worse?"

I think of that young man's heartbreaking answer in the refugee camp and the choices he had. Yet, compared to the life of living in poverty, outside the refugee camp, where hunger and disease are likely to kill you young and at the best, you will grow up to eke out a miserable and difficult life from the fields!

 

What would you choose if you had this choice - to be a refugee boy inside the refugee camp or to be a poor boy outside the camp?

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Da Vinci Code and the Talibans

When I saw the headlines, "De Vinci code banned" in an Indian newspaper, it depressed me.

 

Even though there were some protests when "Sins" was released in India, in the end, the film did manage to be released, without people burning down the theatres or cars.

 

While the headline was alarming, reading the news about Da Vinci Code was slightly better. It explained that the film is not yet banned, that a group of persons will watch the film and decide. I hope that they will decide to show it. We do not need the Indian Christians to learn from Islamists and Hindu radicals about getting offended about everything and start asking for bans.

I believe that we need some sane persons in India. Very badly. Unfortunately, it seems we are running out of them.

Every group of religious louts is just waiting to pounce on the slightest provocation. They come out on the streets, burn a few cars, pelt stones and threaten burning down the books or the theatres or whatever.

Now Aamir Khan is warned, how dare he speak about Narmada Bachao or against Narendra Modi? They will not let his Fanaa to be released in Gujarat, they say. Show him the Hindu might?

The Sikhs have done it too. Jo Bole so Nihaal is a caricature, they say. The child in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai is a caricature. How dare they? Let's teach them a lesson they shout.

The Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, Christians - everyone is ready with the petrol cans. They define themselves as saviours of their religions. Dissent is equal to blasphemy they feel, and because the God can not defend itself, they must do it.

 

Armed with hockey sticks or worse, they come out with their torches. And the sovereign Government representing the people bows its head and presents its butt so that it can be kicked by any thug, always ready for banning any thing so that "it does not disturb public order" (except when you dare to protest against the Government, then the police is ready for the lathi-charge).

So we are going for a Taliban rule in India and only insecure louts will decide what we can read, see or think? I am not saying that we have to be agree with everyone but you can disagree on something and still be civil? Amartaya Sen talks about the ancient traditions of dissent and criticism inherent in Hinduism and in Indian culture in his book "The Argumentative Indian". Yet, those traditions are being corrupted everyday and we are prisoners of fire-wielding hardliners, who have decided that we Indians are not mature enough, we need censorship, and that they will decide for us.

If a country (Italy) that hosts the Vatican itself, can show the film, De Vinci code, it seems strange that India has to worry about the feelings of few sensitive Christians who do not like it and decide to get offended by it!

 

I get it that India is a mix of religions and beliefs and hurting the sentiments of any one group can easily lead to violence, mayhem and deaths, so the Government has to be cautious. However, I wish that there were religious leaders promoting tolerance and "let it be" kind of attitude, instead of fanning protests and hate marches.

 

Partly, it may be due to these TV channels, which keep on looking for persons with more hardline and crude beliefs, so that they can show them and increase their TRPs. It is a system which gives more visibility to those with the more extremist views.

 

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Governments - Heaviest Element Known to Science

Got this from a colleague in an email (I don't know who originally wrote it but it is wonderful):

A major research institution has recently announced the discovery of the heaviest element yet known to science. The new element has been named "Governmentium". Governmentium has one neutron, 12 assistant neutrons, 75 deputy neutrons, and 224 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312.

These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of particles called peons. Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert. However, it can be detected, because it impedes every reaction with which it comes into contact. A minute amount of Governmentium causes one reaction to take over four days to complete, when it would normally take less than a second.

Governmentium has a normal half-life of 4 years; it does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places. In fact, Governmentium's mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization will cause more morons to become neutrons, forming isodopes. This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a certain quantity in concentration.

This hypothetical quantity is referred to as "Critical Morass." When catalysed with money, Governmentium becomes Administratium - an element which radiates just as much energy as the Governmentium since it has half as many peons but twice as many morons.

 

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The Governmentium story reminds me of an Asterix and Obelix comic book about guy running between different Government departments in Rome, each of which wants a stamp or a seal or photocopy or three signed copies. However, to be honest, this disease is not limited to ancient Rome, it afflicts most of our countries.

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Maoist Extremism in Nepal

Yes, I know it is long time since I wrote anything on this blog. Over past few weeks, I have been thinking about the situation in Nepal. Finally, it seems the King of Nepal has decided to give in to the people's movement asking for an end to the monarchy and now, hopefully the peace may return to this beautiful land.

At the same time, I am thinking about Nepalese Maoists and if they pose a threat to the country.

I have always felt that dialogue and democracy are the best way to deal with extremists - by extremists, I mean, those who believe in extreme changes, and not necessarily violent. In that sense, I don't agree with state repression, banning, jails and fighting to overcome or to contain those we consider "extreme". I believe that if extremists can be made to participate in the democratic dialogue and if they find public support, to become a part of the government, then with a little time, their extremism will be tempered and they will automatically need to become less extreme to fit in with the system.

The increasing forces of globalisation, means that the increasing inter-links between people and countries, should be a safeguard since extremist governments, even if elected, can not break those links and live in isolation.

Another aspect of globalisation is the increasing presence of media, so that when "news worthy events" happens like dead bodies floating in Victoria falls in Rwanda, the world will see it. Thus, violent aberrations, sooner or later must go away other wise you become an international pariah.

Unfortunately, it seems that both these aspects of globalisation can be easily manipulated. When economic interests are there, other countries can become tolerant of dictators and murderers, and close one or both eyes. And, the international media is fickle, it comes to catch the goriest pictures but since here the supply is greater than demand, so it soon loses interest and leaves to catch other gorier pastures.

So I think that Maoists in Nepal should get a chance to participate in the elections and if they win the elections, they can get a go at the system. Yet, I am also worried if the democracy rules are considered valid for everyone? What if once in the Government, they decide that autocracy is the best way to govern the country.

So what do we do with people or groups, who do not believe in democracy and liberty, but they play along only to win elections and get into power and then start their dictatorship and repression?

 

And if through democracy, we end up with a Pol Pot and millions of dead, whose fault was it?

 

Or with Islamists and Talibans? 

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