Sunday, 31 January 2010

extract from 'Samlee's daughter'- a vist to the kotha

Samlee's daughter Book  2
(This book can be viewed on Google books)
--------------------------11/IX--------------------------
For the kotha visit, Arif had chosen to disguise himself as a Talibani Afghan.
The elderly courtesans were greatly taken with him.
He resisted their blandishments on high religious grounds saying- Against Love forearmed by Allahs grace/ A mujahid am I of Afghan race! This, however, but served to stoke their ardour and they coaxed him to break his vow against amorous dalliance by flattering his racial pride with couplets like- Hai! Nimrods heart & Josephs face!/ Sure the darlings Yusufzais! or Of maiden hearts, of conquest greedy/ Sure the darlings Afridi! Arif, however, though struggling somewhat to reattach his red beard & keep up his comic Pathan accent, sternly parried their advances saying To swallow my oath were a crime most heinous/ (Though koh-i-noor[1] emerged from an Afghans anus!) Which remark so delighted the Besura Begums that they took up the chant crying- And British Crown still is famous/ for koh-i-noor emerged from an Afghans anus!
Meanwhile, Bhim Singh and the chevda-chomper had set to work rooting around in the upper rooms uttering, by the formers own account, such immortal couplets as (the more Spiritual than Mir Taqi Mir) For God is the Song and Soul the musician/ Kindly assume the doggy position! or (the more Socialistic than Faiz Ahmed Faiz) For plight of proletariat is most worrying/ Work it bitch coz I is hurrying!
Not that those sly work-shy whores didnt try to put them off with Culture- reciting ghazals & passing them the shamma. However, our heroes promptly blew it out saying things like-
Parvaana ko bhi hai us larhiya se laŗhaai
Bhujaa de shamma jo teri saaya angraai!
(So shocked by your shadows lascivious stretching & swaying
Tho but here to confer, I cant hear what you are saying
That it thus bids up your price is an absolute scandal!
Think the moths, I surmise, & blow out the candle.)
Or more succinctly-
Kya mushkil mujhe Manini manana?
Yo bitch! Peel my banana!
Meanwhile, Arif and Iyer were busy getting drunk. Keen to keep up the pretense that Arif was Afghan, the elderly courtesans quoted such gems from Khushaal Khan Khattak as-
The dire Moghul’s beck, the drear Muezzin’s call
My little rebeck- come silence them all!
Wine’s  Sea  become gall -save me in your wreck!
What’s a rosary after all?- but a one string rebeck.
&
Nor heart, Spring, knew, nor tears, Neap, know
Reeds- reap a few. Rebeck- sing a-flow
Till our ashes May it- her lightning’s return
Should Green sap stay it- grown Old we burn!
The lines in italics being Arifs ripostes.
His own (mercifully short) ghazal was as follows-
                                             Jab zalim na hai hum zabaan
                                                                           Apni sunaoon kya ghazal?
                                             Hoon mutarjim-e-afghaan
                                                                           Ki ye khayaal mubtazal!
                                             Kiya shor-o-shaghab kyoun Shaitaan?
                                                                           Shayri ka khabar-e-ajal
                                             Khud hai wo rauzokhaan
                                                                           Har Ishq ka roz-e-azal!
                              (Since the tyrant & I have no common tongue 
                                                                           This- the singular song I’ve sung
                              Even could I translate aright
                                                                           Is to all a cliché trite
                              For captious critics, at Love’s daybreak,
                                                                           The canting Devil invited
                              To tut tut & tipple at Poetry’s wake
                                                                           This elegy the corpse recited!)
Iyer, meanwhile, had been introduced to the mirasins as Sir V.S. Naipaul- which, not unnaturally, led them to have high expectations of him. Even when, remembering Naipauls reputation in such places, Iyer very tearfully pleaded to be taken for Vikram Seth- which ought to have kept him safe- the women continued to eye him hopefully. He, for his part, being used to the brusque efficiency of London barmaids, greatly deplored the delays in refilling his glass occasioned by the courtesans reciting of poetry. Hence, being passed the shamma, he made his views known as follows-
Abh ki shayri hai Saqi ka naya shagal
Hum sharabi sunayen kya ghazal?

Shakeel hai Saqi par ban na faz’l
To saqil shayri mein na ho baz’l!

Ki unpé Laal bhaboo’ka shab-e-azal
Laulaak hai Pari ka aihl-e-daghal!

Ki pyaasa hai Saqi hai shayri chugh’l
Kuch tanaafur hui, na hui ghazal!
(Since the Saqi has taken it into her head to write
What verse can this drunkard now recite?

Fair is the Saqi but were nobler far
To stint her verses not us at the bar!

When primordial Night blushed to scorn
Thy Judas kiss, Wine was born

Of the Saqi’s thirst, her poetry tells
We heard some jargon but no ghazals!)


[1]    Koh-i-noor (mountain of light) a famous diamond. Shah Shuja, an Aghan king, swallowed it so as to keep it from falling into the hands of the Sikhs. However, the soldiers kept watch on him until he passed the diamond in his stool. It is now one of the British Crown Jewels.

Monday, 25 January 2010

The Vampire of Veluvana- short story













The Vampire of Veluvan
  The old German lived in a Buddhist dharamshala on the edge of the old town.  Not far, but the flat rate fare wouldn't stretch to it. The trip would cost extra. What to do? These are disturbed times.

    I disdained to haggle. The tonga driver's face grew longer. He had misjudged me. “It is a bad place,” he temporized, sizing me up slyly. “Good people do not go there.”
   ‘So,’ I thought to myself- ‘some prostitutes are lodged in the dharamshala. No big surprise. Since the riots, the pilgrim trade has dried up. No doubt, the lodge keepers have found a way to appeal to a
different type of customer’.
  ‘I’ll pay what you like.” I said sharply- “Just name your fee and stick to it. Mind it- no tamasha later on!”
  “No, Babu, you don’t understand.” the tonga wallah was placatory. My flash of temper had convinced him I was harmless. “It is not a good place. Unlucky. There has been talk.”
                                  “Some bad characters hanging around?” I asked.
   “No! They are too scared. It is something else. There are some foreigners there. They are old…really, too old.  What can I tell you? It is not a good place. You are young and fit.  Why risk?”
            “All right,” I said quietly, “We will go and come back quickly. It is for my work.”
  
   The dharamshala was in a deplorable condition. The lodge keeper had fled the previous year. An enterprising Jain youngster came round on his three wheeler to sell the elderly pilgrims some basic items.  He was a smart enough fellow. I was surprised to see that he stocked Japanese (or
perhaps Korean) magazines and noodle packets. 
   Initially, he was polite and solicitous but abruptly lost interest when I mentioned who it was I had come to see. Apparently, the old German didn’t spend money here. Instead, some Sadhus, belonging to the Natha order, came to see to his needs once every fortnight or so.  

No, nobody knew why the naked Sadhus should want to look after the old foreigner.

    I stopped probing.  Ever since the riots, the townsfolk had become wary of the nanga Sadhus with their tridents and matted hair.
    The elderly Ambassador, whose memoirs I was editing, had mentioned that the old German was a Knight of Malta. He was some sort of relative of the Spy Master Gehlen.  The story I had pieced together was that he had initially been sent to Nepal on charitable work for the Sovereign Order. After the fall of the Ranas, he reappeared in Rangoon as a student of Buddhism. There are some articles he wrote for German magazines available on the internet. I don't read German, but gather that he was an admirer of U Nu. 
  After Ne Win's coup, he resurfaces in Sihanouk’s Cambodia, but, in ’65, after that puissant Prince’s deal with the Communists, he receives a sort of bedraggled entrée at the court of Sikkim’s  Gyalmo- the beautiful American blue-blood, Hope Cooke.  From there, around the time of the fall of the dynasty, the German went away to Sri Lanka. Then- the  Karmic Ouroburos of that Edenic isle having swallowed and spat him back up again- some twenty years ago, he returned to India and settled in this little pilgrim town. The Indian Government seems to have turned a blind eye to his remaining in India.  Perhaps, if he had really converted to Buddhism, he had become stateless. The Knights of Malta are a Catholic order. They would have withdrawn his passport.
   My other reason for thinking there might be a story here was because I had come across his name in a book on ‘Hitler’s High Priestess’ the French savant, known as Savitri Devi, who inspired Serrano and Evola and, now, a whole host of neo-Nazis who, strangely to my mind, have done little to build upon her foundations to secure the recognition of Hitlerism as a bona fide religion.
   My first visit to the old man did not go well. He was completely hairless, hunched, and naked. He shouted at me, in Hindi, to go away. There were two European women there- both over 70. They looked terrified. I hurriedly left.
   Later, more ashamed of my lack of savoir faire than from any higher motive, I sent over a note explaining my interest.  To my surprise, I got back a rather beautifully handwritten invitation to dinner at a local restaurant- ‘Gaylord’, I think, it was called.  The D.M, a friend of a friend, was kind enough to lend me his ‘lal batti’ car. To be frank, I was nervous about staying out late in a town so recently scourged by riots.

  Von Gehlen was very thin, perfectly bald, with creased but surprisingly pink and healthy skin. He introduced himself in good English with a degree of gentility but spoiled it by asking if I could pay for the meal. Before I could reply, he added that he had already ordered himself an expensive brandy.

  With an affectation of Teutonic bluntness, I let him know that money was not a problem. However, he continued to harp on the subject.  ‘I am too old,’ he said simply, ‘you will have to pay. If not in money, then by presenting your arse for the kicks that our good host will surely shower upon you. You see, I am too old. They worry they will have the corpse of a white man on their hands. That is the only thing that restrains them. Otherwise, they are wild beasts.’

   I called the waiter and told him to take the old man’s order. I myself would have to leave shortly- so let the bill be kept ready for me.  
   “Sahib, you came in the ‘lal batti’ car?” the waiter turned out to be the proprietor. A milder looking man could scarcely be conceived.  Far from wishing to hand out thrashings to deadbeat customers,
he had his own tale of woe to tell.  But, by this stage, I just wanted to escape. This trip had been a waste of time.

  The old man was enjoying his brandy. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave, I would have felt sorry for him. He was in his eighties. This might be his last occasion to eat in a restaurant- not fancy by any means, but, perhaps, the best this little town could offer.
  
   Simply to give him face, I muttered a couple of questions about Savitri Devi and Julius Evola and Ambassador Serrano and so forth.
   He immediately assumed an air of bemusement- did anyone take those cranks seriously? 
 
   I remembered that the German word ‘krank’ means a sick man, rather than a nut-job.  Heidegger’s comment on Celan- ‘Celan ist krank heillos’- came to mind.  For some inexplicable reason, I spoke my thought aloud.
 “Celan” he said, correcting my accent, “You like his poetry?”
   “Too deep for me” I said truthfully.
   Perhaps, it wasn’t very tactful to bring up the meeting between the Jewish poet and the Nazi philosopher. Let the old man enjoy his brandy.
   “Yes.” said the old man, “He had depth. Unfortunately, the River Seine had more. Who would have thought it?”
   “Were you in Sri Lanka during the Black July pogrom?” I surprised myself. It wasn’t a question I had intended to ask.
   “What? Yes... I suppose so. I saw some killings myself. The villagers had got hold of a  Strassenvalze- do you say road roller? So they used that on the children and the old people and the
too stupid to run away. You are…Tamil?”
   I was astonished. Could the German be reading my mind? I’d read that thing about the steamroller in a book by R.D Laing. The great psychiatrist was in Sri Lanka to learn some advanced meditational technique to slow down Time- that single, spokeless, Strassenvalze wheel of King Menander's
otherwise non-existent chariot- and freeze the elusive moment which, the Buddhists maintain, is the only reality. 
   It occurred to me, I would have said Milinda- not Menander- and, suddenly, the brandy tasted vile.
 I asked the proprietor to hurry up with the main course.

“I heard you were a Knight of Malta.”
“In another life… another, do you say habilitation?|”
“No, we don’t say that. Do you mean incarnation? Another birth?”
“No. Habilitation. A course of higher studies. Do you have such things here?”
   “Yes, we abound in it. In India, possession of a PhD qualifies you for better treatment in Jail. All the apprentice gangsters have PhDs. You may have seen them busily completing their habilitations during the recent riots. ”
“So, there is progress. Good. And you yourself are…”
“Not a PhD. Don’t worry. The restauranteur will get paid in money, not kicks.”
‘So, you are not an academic. Perhaps, a journalist?”
“No. Definitely not a journalist.”
“But political.. you ask about Savitri Devi and that old paralytic- Julius Evola…”
  “He was paralyzed? I somehow thought he was a mountaineer like …urm... y'know, the British poet, the enemy of Yeats at the Golden Dawn... y'know...the guy who persuaded Ananda Coomaraswamy to try a bit of wife-swapping...sorry, the name was on the tip of my tongue....” 
          It was the British occultist, Aleister Crowley, whose name had slipped my memory.
The old German was peering at me intently. Suddenly, he grinned.
Could he, not just read my mind, but actually disorder my thoughts?
    But no, why should he bother? He was busy with his brandy. He had already achieved his objective. He had established his ascendancy.  Put simply, I was spooked and I would stay spooked. I might as well just pay the bill and go home. Chalk it up to experience. Old Germans living in derelict dharamshalas are still no objects for pity or, worse, the sort of fuzzy-minded mystagogy some middle class Indians still occasionally go in for.
 “Did you know Evola, in Germany, during…urm.. your military service?”
   I had remembered that Evola was hit by a shell that paralyzed him while working for the SS in the last days of the war.
Except, I wasn’t sure I’d ever actually known that.
Thought transference?
Was I tapping into the German's private portal to the collective Unconscious?
“He was in Vienna. I was on the Eastern Front.”
“That must have been…”
 “Glorious? Yes. War is glorious... to the young. For a fit man who is young.” 
He looked pointedly at my thick eyeglasses. 
“Perhaps, you know the poem by Tyrtaeus…”
“That lame school teacher? He was before my time.”
“Since he lived a few centuries before Alexander- I suppose he must have been!”
The old man grimaced. “All soldiers are contemporaries.”
“The Buddha was not a soldier.”
“Is that what they teach you nowadays?”
He blinked at me happily, like a lizard in the sun.
"Forgive me. I did not know. It explains so much.”

    Karma, I thought- or thought that I thought- for, perhaps, the German was putting these thoughts into my head... Still, either way, I had brought this on myself. The truth was, I just wanted a bit of local colour, I had no interest in the man himself. There was a slot, in my new novel, for an old European aristocrat living in an Ashram or dharamshala in some little town- perhaps in the Himalayas…actually, definitely, the Himalayas… and he’d say wise things in a German accent and maybe quote Novalis… no, Holderlin- the God within us always lonely & poor- or better yet, Heidegger on Holderlin- the poet's blighting illness as Being's recovered future from which our salvation will come as a god-… and… and… I don’t know, the whole thing would have been kind of mystical with a bit of a sentimental undercurrent and, well, kind of sophisticated.
   
   Instead, I was stuck playing the role of the pretentious, bespectacled, Babu upon whom this elderly Hitlerite hooligan could practice his mind games while leaving me to pick up the tab. 

            I called for the bill. “I’m sorry, I have to go… the District Magistrate lent me his car.”

    Von Gehlen ignored me. I was relieved. What if he really was a hypnotist like Aleister Crowley? Or, worse a vetala, a vampire- there had been unexplained deaths in the vicinity of the dharamshala…- where better for a vampire to hide himself than a riot plagued Pilgrim town?

    I was out of my depth. I don’t do Horror. Well, Dracula maybe- but this was shaping up to be H.P effing Lovecraft! How get out of it? Got to let my lower middle class, N.R.I, instincts take over. When you look into the abyss- thus sprach Neitzche- take an effing snapshot on your camera-phone, otherwise, the abyss will look back into you. 
    Maybe I should take a snapshot of the menu- which by a typesetter's error translated ' Athithi Devo Bhavah' as 'The Guest is Cod"- or find some billboard with a hilarious example of Indian English I could post up on my blog. 
                                        I never actually did take a snapshot of the menu.
              Just that zikhr-e-sukhan- the mere memory of my blog- was enough to save me.

“Will you visit me again?” the old man was crying. “No one comes. No one comes. The abbot said he would send me V.I.P visitors. I would conduct lecture tours. My books would be published. That was 20 years ago. They have forgotten me. Everyone has forgotten me.”

    I asked the driver to turn on the siren. “Sahib,” he said, “It is against regulations. Lal batti can only be turned on for official business.”
   “Arre, it is for your own safety I am telling!” I replied, “There is a vetala behind! I was clever to trick. But, why take chances? No backchat, just drive fast, I say!"

Monday, 11 January 2010

I read Richard Rorty's 'the fire of life'- a praise of mousike milder than that of Socrates in the face of death.
He wished he had spent more time fashioning old chestnuts like Landor's 'I warmed both hands before the fire of Life' and Swinburne's river that at last reaches the sea.
Landor spent a lot of time in India. Swinburne was a well read guy at a time when a lot of Oriental stuf was being published.
The notion of the poet's life as a yagnya- a sacrifice- might have beeen familiar to them. The paractice is that after a sacrifice- things like the Olympics were regarded thus in ancient times- the whole scaffolding and panoply of things involved in the sacrifice must be disassembled and safely disposed off so that nothing carries forward.
It's like the disposal of the host after Mass.
In this sense an Ars Moriendi- an art of Death- would be essential for the poet or philosopher so that nothing carries over, everything is disassembled and safely disposed off.
Vasubandhu- the ancient Buddhist philosopher spoke of the need to disassemble mental constructs and safely dispose of them so that no karmic residue remains to determine one's next state.
Alas, the evil practice of publishing prevents this. Books are the opposite of Being-for-death. Theoria, the visit to the stranger's sacrifice, is enough to prevent that sacrifice cleaning up after itself.
Modern life may be termed the pollution caused by the improper sacrifice which has not yet been repeated so as to expunge its residue.
The Weberian (or Tolstoyan) complaint that life is meaningless because no vantage point or epoche exists for it any longer also refers, perhaps, to the death of sacrifice as its own cremation.

Saturday, 9 January 2010

Heidegger and Hindu hermeneutics

Western hermeneutics has its origin in the interpretation of oracles and prophesies as well as the elaboration of a universal legal code.
In other words it's fucked in the head and doomed to fail.
Central to this project was the notion of a specifically rationalist Univocity of Being transparently immanent in a Teleological Historicism.
Thus, Relativism and Palingnesia represent a scandal- 'a stumbling block'- of an unprecedented kind for Western thought.
While Europe enjoyed World mastery- relativism could be subsumed under the notion of a hierarchy of Development with the Europeans at the top.
The First World War changed all that. Europe became provincial. Clio, the muse of History, turned out to be a flighty piece. History was no longer what was made in Europe, rather Europe had become History's Twilight home. The owl of Minerva had taken flight with a vengeance.
This did not mean that German professors quit their ambition to be the silliest creatures in Creation and so, with Heidegger, the 'hermeneutic circle', the practice of interpretation, is given a new horizon- that of explicating Being itself in a manner that could be described as caring for Being- becoming, so to speak, its shepherd.
This was at a period where the proposal for a Logic without Ontology, a Scientific Method which simply relegated Metaphysics to the realm of nonsense, appeared utterly compelling.
But there was a further factor at work. A deep disappointment with History itself. Neither the Whig interpretation of History, nor the Germanic telos of Geist, could explain the fact starring everyone in the face-viz. Europe had been eclipsed. The future belonged to vast barbaric nations who had no need for a National 'Bildungsburgertum'- a bourgeoisie of education defined by and dedicated to a (Chauvinist) Spiritualised conception of Culture- rather, the Americans stressed 'know-how', neutral with respect to class, creed or even colour, while the Soviets went a step further dedicating themselves to the Electrification of village communes so as to permit the 'withering away of the State'- the ultimate heresy for not just the Hegelian but even the Weberian. (The nonsense that the State ever had, or can ever have, the monopoly of legitimate violence or coercion is Weberian).
This was a barbarism because it was History without heroes, Technology kicking Poetry to the curb, vast mass movements indifferent to the Passion of both Christ and Kaiser. Not only would modern life no longer have a vantage point from which it could be judged (Weber's complaint) but Being itself, crouched outside the Professors' hermeneutic circle, had turned savage and hostile.
The repair of History, the ransoming of Time- not by the method of Kabbalahistic Tikkun, or the glass bead game of manipulating the Lullian zairja, nor by Rilke's angels or some Madchen's abortions- now hinged on befriending Being, or at least appearing to have done so, for Platonic 'participation' was now a property of the mobs and the masses.
Heidegger, at least, was consistent. He hailed Hitler as the prayed for Hero, genuflected to Holderlin and quietly wrote crap for the rest of his days. He was no fool. At least he spotted that Celan was mentally ill. He didn't do anything about it, of course. Still- the guy wasn't stupid.

It is only in the last thirty years that disciples of Gadamer have started vomiting on Indian hermeneutics. No question, they are smarter and less shite than Lacanian vomitasters and a million times better than our own J.N.U shitheads- still, it might be worth thinking a little about how Heidi could fuck up Hinduism and who might want to aid and abet the process.
Bottom line- Gadamerian hermeneutics is fucked in the head coz only stupid people are attracted to the arrant nonsense of the Phenomenological project (the thing is as dead as Ptolemy) and stupid people say stupid things even about interesting texts.
In any case, they can't do apoorvata- not they aren't saying new stuff, it's just they don't understand the old stuff, so it's like randomly new.
Could you have a meaningful phenomenology- i.e. with apoorvata? No, for the same reason that you can't have a structuralism that says anything interesting. That, at any rate is what is indicated not merely empirically but by 'practical reason'.

Auberginian philosophy

"All philosophy is radically Auberginian when considered as not just emanating from but defining the aubergine- especially in those moments before it is cut up for the purpose of cooking baingan ki barta or Imam bayildi"

Words to live by.

Strangely this formula only works for kathrika. Why not okra?

Thursday, 7 January 2010

There is more sodomy in Heaven

   There is more sodomy in Heaven.
                                                                                                              
                                                                                                                                                               

“There is more sodomy in Heaven over one repentant sinner than…” I suddenly noticed that Sheila, with a moment’s time-lag, was looking at me oddly, “is dreamt of in your philosophy.” I blinked beatifically, ashamed of my weak finish.
“Guruji?” Sheila’s Doctorate in Indology was from Chicago but, perhaps because she was virtually ebony complexioned, she affected a Valley Girl accent.
“Speak my child. You have a doubt. It is natural.”
“When you say sodomy do you mean… ?”
“Naturally, naturally. Sodomy in its spiritual sense. For, my child, all things that are but subsist in their spiritual sense. Not otherwise. ”
“But Guruji- sodomy?”
“Oh fuck off you Gujju cunt face. I can’t keep this up.”
“Uhm… Guruji… you’re saying that in the…?”
“Yes, yes. Spiritual sense. It is all in the spiritual sense. Meaning is but God’s Tourette’s. I went over all that in my first podcast.”
Sheila was content. She closed her eyes and settled back trying to get comfortable in the lotus posture. Watching her wearily on the webcam, a Braj Bhasha shloka spontaneously broke forth (this is what is called sphota) from my lips.

“Sayeth the Sage-
Why wagglest thou thy lard butt, chick?
Willst thy piles become a prick?”
“I love Kabir’s dohas-” Sheila piped up, again with a moment’s time-lag, but this time forgetting her American accent as nostalgia overwhelmed her, “& Pundit Jasraj singing Sur’s padavalis. Papa used to play the l.p over and over the moment he got home from College. I miss him so much. You know, they didn’t tell me when he had the stroke. I called as usual on the Saturday and they pretended they were in a hurry to get to a movie- Dilwale Dhulhaniya le jayenge or something crass like that but then Dad did get awful sentimental in his old age what with the kid studying abroad and all- but, you know, and this is what hurts, they told my younger brother Ketan- though he was sitting his finals- he flew back, he had to- you know, the son’s duty is to perform the obsequies and all that. But what was worst was the way I got to hear- my girl-friend, Salma, sees Ketan a couple of weeks after he returned at some IndSoc sock hop or ras garbha and so she calls me on her cell phone to say like why’s your bro gone all skin-head and broody? Is it like a Hare Krishna thing or has he like signed up with the Hindus for Hitler crowd? It took a couple of minutes for the penny to drop- you know, shaving the head as part of the funeral ritual- but when it did you can’t imagine how I felt. And it wasn’t as though I was doing like Hard Science or an M.B.A or something important. I mean- Indology! I could have come home and completed at Dad’s old College. I mean, I could have been there for him. And, later, for Mum and Nanee. You know, the last two years- ever since Praful and I lost the baby- I find myself thinking about it all the time. Work doesn’t help. I get so depressed reading my students’ rehash of the same old gendering soteriology, soteriologising gender crap I had to publish just to get on the treadmill. I mean, I know it all sounds like a tired cliché, but honestly, Guruji, if it wasn’t for you, I don’t know what I’d do.” 
‘Sod this for a game for soldiers!’ I thought to myself, “It’s curtains for my internet Guru shtick. Fuck will I do with all this bandwith? I can’t go back to porn. Frankly there’s a lot less demand for a Lallu Prasad look-a-like taking the brinjal of your choice up his backward caste rectum than any reasonable E-entrepreneur- that too with a diploma in Web Marketing from South Bank!-would calculate upon or expect. I blame Television. And Playstation. No, fuck it, just Television. Television is bad enough.