Review of Jon Krakauer's Under The Banner of Heaven

Originally written for Goodreads, reproduced below:

I’d have easily given it 5, had it been Krakauer’s first novel I read. But that happened to be Into Thin Air – one of the few truly deserving of 5 stars - so this one has to settle for 4, owing largely to tedious details of the history of Mormonism that could have been easily avoided.

The book starts off with an electric shock to the brains of those who consider US as the last bastion of law and order in modern times. The Fundamentalist Mormon theocracies that dominate parts of Northwestern US and Canada are perhaps worse than Saudi Arabia, where women are treated as sex slaves, underage marriages and polygamy are rampant, and asking questions is a heresy.

But the book is far from a mere crime thriller, or a critique of Fundamentalist Mormonism for that matter. It's a brilliant, wholesome commentary on the nature of religion itself.

In the postscript, Krakauer says, “those who write about religion owe it to their readers to come clean about their own theological frame of reference”, so here’s mine – I am an atheist, and I firmly believe all religions are basically tools of mind control to allow its founders/leaders to exercise unencumbered authority over their followers.

Now that I have confessed to my confirmation bias, I will go ahead with the main bit of the review.

Reading about the mindless horrors committed by Lafferty Brothers – the near-decapitation of a young mother and her 15 month old daughter - at apparently the commandment of god, it’s natural to presume they were nothing but two mentally deranged individuals whose crime should be treated similar to that of another psychopathic murderer, without maligning Mormonism, or any other religion, on its pretext.

However, like a great music composition, this book reaches its crescendo towards the very end, when it establishes conclusively – by going into painstaking details of the trials of Lafferty Brothers – that these were two otherwise perfectly sane individuals who suffered from unwavering faith in their religion and the infallibility of their own actions. More worryingly, by deftly weaving together the story of Lafferty Brothers and that of the founders of Mormonism, Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, the readers are informed that the brothers shared these traits with the two founders, and derived complete justification for their most heinous actions from them. Such justification, given the call for “blood atonement” given by the founders as well as their complete disregard for laws of man in favour of laws of god, is only logical.

Perhaps Fundamentalist Mormonism is especially bad - its stalwarts rape their own minor daughters and take tens of wives - but an intelligent reader should be able to make the leap from the story of Lafferty Brothers to religion in general, and from Smith and Young to founders of all religions – ultimately, all religions are forms of mind control and all founders were deeply narcissistic individuals who were undoubtedly virtuous in some ways but, “at need a great liar and a great scoundrel” (words, not used by Krakauer, to describe Young) who were not afraid to lie, maim, kill and rape to establish their version of truth as the only valid one. At the risk of being labelled a bigot, I’d say this is most true of Abrahamic religions and their founders. In their narcissism, the founders of religions shared a trait also found in Hitler, Osama, Caesar, Napoleon, and indeed al-Baghdadi (founder of ISIS) – all great leaders cum murderers in history.

The unfortunate bit is that the control of religion over human psyche, despite millennia of scientific progress, has hardly loosened. If there was Joseph Smith then, there is Donald Trump now – an example of an individual who suffers from the same unabashed narcissism and an entrenched sense of infallibility. If Smith was a prophet, Trump is a demigod. The names change, the cycle perpetuates. Animal Farm isn’t one of the best books ever for no reason.

In Into Thin Air, Krakauer erred in blaming Boukreev for loss of lives, so I was open to reading logical rebuttals to this book by Mormons. Sadly, as expected, they consist of nothing but ad hominem attacks on the author, and laughable reiterations of their belief in Mormonism being the “one true faith”. If anything, they only strengthen my belief in the evil inherent to religion.  

The Doors

At the beginning, it was a big room full of people. My school friends, colony friends, and cousins, lots of cousins. Those in the room were mostly my age, though I could spot my elder cousins too. And oh, mummy-papa. They were always around.

Most people in the room were chatty and sociable. Not all of them talked among each other, but almost everyone talked with me. I liked it. I was too busy with friends and cousins to spend much time with mummy-papa, though from the corner of my eye I always saw them smiling beatifically at me. Only a very few people, along the fringes of the room, didn’t talk to me, though some of them did talk to mummy-papa. I didn’t care much about those people.

Everyone in the room always walked, usually in a straight line. I didn’t mind it because I walked with them. Sometimes I would pause to spend time with some of them; they would pause too, but we found ourselves walking again, I had no clue why.

Every now and then I came upon a closed door. I was apprehensive of opening it, but found myself opening it anyway, I had no clue why. Walking through a door meant entering a new, though similar, room. It wasn’t so bad because most of the people around me walked through the same door that I did, so we kept seeing each other in the new room. Some people, though, did not. In case they walked through a different door, I never saw them again, I had no clue why. This usually happened with my school friends. My cousins and mummy-papa always queued up behind me to walk through the same door.

Sometimes after walking through a door, I saw unknown faces entering the new room through other doors that opened into it. Then, the unknown faces walked with me - they also became school friends. I liked it.

One day, I noticed someone who had been walking with me since the beginning was missing. I turned around and ran to the door I had come through to go back to the previous room. Maybe he was languishing at the end of the queue, and someone had shut the door. I tried really hard but the door never unlocked, I had no clue why. Soon, I found myself walking towards the next room.

After walking through hundreds of doors, I came upon another. As was usual, I waited for others to queue up behind me. But no one did. I looked around and saw everyone standing against a door of their own. Each and every one. I had no clue why. I tried really hard to not open the door, but found myself opening it anyway, I had no clue why.

Opening this door put me in an unusually big room. I saw uncountable new faces walking into it through still more uncountable doors. I looked around but I could see none of the old faces, only the new ones. I was scared. I ran back to the door and saw mummy-papa standing there. They were not walking with me but their presence in the same room was comforting. Somehow they’d managed to sneak in through the door when I was urging my friends and cousins to do so, which they never did. I hugged mummy-papa tight and asked them about others. They said every one of them had entered an unusually big room of their own, called college. I wondered why they didn’t walk into my room, it was big enough to accommodate them. I didn’t try unlocking the door because I knew it wouldn’t yield.

Some of the new people in this unusually big room soon became chatty and sociable - they became college friends. I liked it. The new big room was also likeable because there were no doors to walk through here. There was a lot of walking alright, but sans doors. My favourite faces were always visible, walking with me. Sometimes some of them turned less chatty, but they kept walking with me. The dreaded memory of walking through the last door was now distant.

While walking through this big room I was also bombarded with a host of old faces that had gone missing a long time back. They entered through blue-coloured “f”-shaped doors. I never cared much about them.

The best part about the new room was the discovery of hidden doors that lay off the walking path. Passing through them allowed me to enter another, smaller room where some of my old favourite faces became visible again. This place had a nice smell, I called it home. They told me they’d found secret doors in unusually big rooms of their own.

Mummy-papa were the only ones present in both the rooms, though I talked much more with them in the smaller one. Out there in the bigger one, I only saw them from the corner of my eye – smiling beatifically at me, as always. I sometimes wanted to spend more time in the smaller room, but I found myself walking back to the door that opened into the bigger room, I had no clue why. With time, however, I discovered that some of the old faces in the smaller room had become blurred or invisible, I had no clue why.

One day, my long walk in the big room was abruptly interrupted by a door. Trying to keep out memories of the previous door, I shut my eyes and desperately hoped for others to queue up behind me. But no one did. I looked around and saw everyone standing against a door of their own. Each and every one. For the first time, I had a clue why. Then, mummy-papa quietly queued up behind me. This time, I didn’t let them go unnoticed. Only they walked through this door with me, no one else. Not even one.

The new room that I walked into was much smaller than the previous one. I knew no one here and far fewer unknown faces entered it. It smelt bad, I called it workplace. Some of them were good, but it wasn’t the same as any of the previous rooms. I didn’t like it. To my delight I found that hidden doors to home still existed, but it was much harder to walk through them, and the faces on the other side had become ever more blurred and diminished.

I continue to walk through doors, or more accurately, somnambulate through them, for there’s hardly a familiar face to be left behind anymore. Well, mummy-papa are still around, but their presence grows stronger and clearer by the day.

I do secretly wish, though, for a really long walk in the opposite direction.

Animal Euthanasia - Mercy or Murder?

I signed a death warrant today. My first. She was barely a month old.

She was the feeblest of the six siblings born in my office premises. For the past few days, I’d been feeding her milk and bread. The results had been encouraging. Her bulging, big black eyes no more threatened to pop out of their socket. She had grown increasingly competitive against the siblings for her mother’s milk. Her gait had progressed from tottering to walking on the cobble path where she was born. In short, she’d gone from looking like a genetically-altered mouse gone wrong, to a real puppy. The increased pace of walking meant I had to often run after her to protect her from the vehicles passing by. I didn’t mind doing it, though; those tiny paws never took her far and her lighter-than-feather, mud-stained white body fitted in the length of my palm. The wagging of the thin, short tail whenever I picked her up was an added incentive.

Today I found her on the cobble path - prostrate on her right side, shaking uncontrollably. Her big eyes were shut tight and there were yellow white stains on the mouth, probably from dried up vomit and froth. A guy sitting nearby said nonchalantly that he’d been observing her in that state for over half an hour – “kisi ne gaadi chadha di hogi.” But I knew she hadn’t been run over. She wasn’t squealing at all and there were no injury marks.

In the car, she kept sneaking underneath the seat where I sat. At the hospital I had to drag her out by the tail when the lure of biscuits and a pat on the head proved futile. This time, though, the tail didn’t wag as she remained motionless in my arms. Once inside the hospital, her movements were completely incoherent – she was crouching, darting backwards more than forwards, and falling over repeatedly. The only moment of sanity was when she snuck into the V made by my shoes while I was standing, speaking to the doctor. I have a picture of the moment, but I will avoid putting it here.

The doctor said she didn’t have more than a week to live. It would be a gruesome death. Uncontrollable seizures, incoherent actions, and frothing at the mouth were symptoms of the last stage of distemper – a brutal canine killer.

The doctor and I agreed that euthanasia was the best option. Taking her back would infect the entire family. Leaving her anywhere else would mean death, either from the disease, or from causes ranging from starvation to a mauling by other dogs.

As a last ditch attempt to keep her alive, I took her to a dog-friendly NGO. But they refused to keep her because she would infect every other dog they had. Had she been human she’d have felt pretty unwanted right about then. Maybe she felt it anyway.

They brought a piece of paper with the words “PTS” scribbled on it, and asked for my consent, so that she could be Put To Sleep. That’s when I signed her death warrant.

To be honest, it turned out far easier for me than I imagined. Her condition checked all the boxes that justify euthanasia. Immeasurable suffering – check; imminent death – check; absence of caretakers – check.

In retrospect, it wasn’t. If it were, I’d have held her in my arms till her very last moment, making her feel wanted – to the extent possible – as humans killed her without her knowledge. I would have been there to calm her down as she flinched for the last time at the feeling of something sharp poking her. I didn’t do that. Instead, I left her to her fate after signing her death warrant. Being by her side would have been too much to bear, though I did stress upon them, twice, that she be given a painless death.

That humans treat non-humans as inferior comes as no surprise, but to think human euthanasia is allowed in very few jurisdictions - strictly with prior consent of the patient, except in the rarest of rare cases - while animal euthanasia is rampant in every corner of the world must be disturbing at least to some. The reasoning is that since animals, or their families, can’t give consent – at least not in the form humans would understand – we should choose on their behalf given our higher intelligence.

The above reasoning is on morally shaky ground, for it neglects the fact that animals can’t consent because they simply won’t consent - for lack of intelligence or otherwise – to being killed. They would much rather rot to death than kill themselves. This is apparent from the fact that animals never commit suicide, or kill one of their own in deep suffering. Whatever little evidence exists in favour of this is far from conclusive. Humans, on the other hand, commit suicide by the lakhs every year. So, while humans might want to end their lives under certain circumstances, animals simply don’t.

Let’s think of some humans who would never want to kill themselves, no matter how wretched their lives – mentally challenged? babies? Hmm, we don’t call putting them to sleep ‘euthanasia’. We call it murder. Humans murder uncountable animals for entertainment, food, money, and sometimes because they’re ugly or boring, so why shy away from calling this particular act, murder?

The reason has to do with keeping our conscience clear. Some humans are kinder than others - just enough to not be able to live with an animal’s blood on their hands, but not enough to care for it when it’s terminally-ill. In the context of animals, PTS/euthanasia are clever terms invented by this class of humans.

I, of course, am one of them. Given that distemper doesn’t affect humans, it was perfectly possible for me to take the puppy back to my place and care for her till her last day. But that would have taken time away from writing this piece, or reading a book, or a morning run. To avoid the trouble, I chose to murder, oops, euthanize her, and convinced myself that I chose the best for her, not for myself. My not holding her tight while she died confirms this self-deception – doing so would have made the murder all too real. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that euthanasia and euphemism share the first two letters.

Though I supported Aruna Shanbaug’s euthanasia back when the case was being heard, I am now glad that the SC didn’t buckle down. The woman was comatose and couldn’t have consented. If in future we do euthanize someone without their consent, let’s all just accept that we were too bored with taking care of them, or with spending our money/taxes on them.

I went back to the office after murdering her. The mother was sniffing around, probably looking for her daughter who was whisked away and later murdered by a group of conspiring humans, without her knowledge. The siblings were running after the mother to catch hold of her dangling breasts, blithely delighted that there was now one less competitor.

When sons grow up, and fathers grow old

Growing up, the only good thing about papa’s fondness for पैर दबवाना was the sound of his snoring as soon as I lay my hands upon his feet. If the loud announcement, चलो बेटा पैर दबाओ, of his arrival home from office was the death knell, the snoring was the sound of freedom.

When I was a kid, every time Papa came back from office - ebullient as ever, his face lit up with a smile at the sight of his nuclear family – he would deliver the death knell, without fail, in his characteristic baritone voice that echoed all around the house till it reached my hiding spot and demanded that I appear before him. 

As per ritual, he would quickly change into his shorts, lie down on the bed, and shake his feet vigorously while looking up at the ceiling, the smile getting broader in anticipation. Sometimes he would croon आओ आओ बेटा पैर दबाओ repeatedly while his head bobbled sideways in an eerily Indian fashion, in rhythm with his feet. That was the ultimate signal. Firmly glued to the chair by the bedside, I knew the good old अरे पापा…. in a pleading tone was my last resort. Those two words always worked. Without letting his smile flicker, he would do my job of completing the sentence by inserting a lame excuse at the end – something like अरे बेटा पढ़ाई भी तो करनी हैI Far more rarely he would guilt-trip me into leaving the chair by following up his request with अरे बेटा बाप के पैर दबाने से आशिर्वाद मिलता हैI in a singsong, jovial tone. Persuasion was never his intention, and I always went back to my chair after पैर दबाना for a few seconds, maybe minutes on a bad day. Soon, he would be snoring regardless of my actions.

As I sit on the same chair today, I notice the plaster on the walls is chipping off; plans of whitewashing never did materialize. The once-dazzling copper vessel from which papa still drinks water now has streaks of black; he says it’s good for health. The ceiling has dark patches I’d never noticed before, though the fan looks stainless from the daily wiping. The CD music system which was once brought into the house with much fanfare now lies covered with a white cloth; I like that about my house, we don’t throw things out. We bury them with honour, in plain sight.

Papa’s return from office today is not marked not by his loud, baritone voice. There is no voice at all, except of the door knob turning in his hand as he enters the room while I sit on the chair inside. He catches me off guard. It strikes me that it’s a ploy to catch me before I can find a hiding place. For a moment I think of rushing to my favourite hiding spot out the back door. But there’s no need. This isn’t a ploy. The death knell died a long time back, somehow it’s the first time I notice it.

The smile is still there, as heartfelt as ever, only less wide. The ritual begins – he changes into his shorts and lies down on the bed – but doesn’t conclude with the old crooning and shaking of the feet. It concludes in stillness and silence.

I don’t quite know why, but I leave the chair and offer पैर दबानाI The intent is honest, though I speak the words hesitantly. I should know the offer is one he can’t refuse, but it’s a first for both of us, so there’s that awkwardness off the bat. Papa doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. Maybe he thinks this is a joke, or I have turned into one of those children who demand disproportionate favours in return for meagre ones. Whatever he thinks, within three seconds he says हाँ हाँ बेटाI The feet shake again, and the smile broadens.

It’s been years since I did पैर दबानाI This time I fail to clutch his feet in the usual circumference of my hands I have grown so used to; I have to reduce it - maybe my hands have grown bigger, but his feet sure look thinner. The moment I increase the pressure, he asks me to slow down; maybe I have grown stronger, but he sure has grown weaker. As my hands move down his long legs, the skin on them feels much looser than before. It’s hard for a son to accept any ugliness about his father, but the wrinkled skin around his toes doesn’t give me a choice. Years ago, I used to lightly pull at the jet black hair on his legs during पैर दबानाI. He liked it. Now, I have to look hard for jet black hair to pull at. The wristwatch Papa is wearing slips down his left arm far more easily than it did as he raises the arm to put it behind his head; legs, arms – he’s shrinking. The decade-old thing he still wears to bed is now the youngest thing permanently attached to his body.

I hear a faint बहुत अच्छा बेटा, खूब आशीर्वाद मिलेगा before it trails off into a snore. It’s still the best thing about पैर दबाना , but this time I don’t run away.

The Ghazi Attack: What sells more than sex?

Nationalism. And this movie has dollops of it.

But before I come to that, I must mention something else – I am stunned (a la Rannvijay of Roadies) that not one Bollywood reviewer has pointed out that Ghazi Attack depicts events far closer to those of WWII, than those of Indo-Pak war.

The movie, which claims to be inspired by the purported sinking of Pak submarine Ghazi by an Indian destroyer INS Rajput, instead shows two subs in a death dance, where the Indian sub ends up sinking the Pak sub. In real combat, the only confirmed incidence where a sub sank its enemy counterpart happened on Feb 9, 1945 when British sub HMS Venturer sank German sub U-864, off the coast of Bergen, Norway.

Now, it’s a remote possibility that the director/script writer wasn’t aware of this event, but nevertheless, it shows poor research on the part of Bollywood reviewers.

Coming back to where I started. Man, if this movie was a human being, its catchphrase would be “मेरी रगों में खून नहीं देशप्रेम दौड़ता हैI” Neglecting the remote possibility expressed above, the very basis for this film is a lie inflicted on an uninformed public to draw them to the theatres. It doesn’t end there. The movie plays the national anthem and “saare jahan se acha…”, and copiously brandishes the Tricolour at regular intervals. Poor audience had to stand up more than once. Not me, though.

Besides the (ab)use of nationalism, there are two other aspects of the movie worth pondering over – its disclaimer at the very beginning, and the liberal use of creative licence by the director.

The disclaimer in this movie is the longest, the most slowly read (take a lesson, guy who speaks “mutual funds are subject to…”), and the most elaborate I have seen on screen. It reassures the audience that “all people associated with this film are law-abiding citizens”, and that “its intention is not to outrage or offend anybody, that it doesn’t in any manner support the expressions used by its characters, and that it makes no claim to historical accuracy.” Man, these are not encouraging signs for a country going into 21^st century.

The use of creative licence is hard to dispute, and by no means do I advocate banning/regulating anything. The replacement of a destroyer in the real battle by a submarine in the movie could also be attributed to creative licence. The problem is that most people would walk away from the movie believing this is close to what actually happened, when that’s not even remotely true. Worse, people might assume destroyers and submarines are the same thing. The depiction of how a submarine works, while quite realistic in parts, is wildly off the mark when it’s shown to lift off from the ocean bed after being struck by a landmine laid down by the enemy sub. In another bizarre scene, the reciting of the national anthem by Indian sailors is picked up by the enemy on its sonar-detecting device. A lot of what’s shown in the movie is simply impossible, and this isn’t the first movie to go down that path. There is no issue when the movie is fantasy fiction (Matrix, Iron Man) but a movie which claims to be inspired by real events ought to be more careful in its depiction. It’s commendable that the movie didn’t name the submarine INS Rajput (maybe it didn’t get the permission?), though the enemy sub is deceptively named after the real boat. 

In the same vein, would it be just to make a movie in 2080, purportedly inspired by Narendra Modi’s life, where the protagonist is shown to fall from grace after a Watergate-like scandal? Note that this is different from works such as 'The man in the high castle', which are based on an alternative version of history. Here the audience has no chance of assuming what's shown/written to be the truth. In the former case, where the truth is buried under the weight of history, no amount of disclaimers will stop a handful of people, especially foreigners, from believing that the movie depicts the truth. But as I said, by no stretch of imagination should this call for a ban. Self-regulation is the best form of regulation.

Talking of self-regulation, I made a mistake by watching a Hindi movie that wasn’t directed by Anurag Kashyap. Gotta be more disciplined now.

Fat Is The New Fit

NYT, beacon of ultra-liberal international media, has started a new column named “Disability”, where it invites the disabled to share their life stories. This is literally the only thing I have liked about NYT ever since its obnoxious campaign of lies and deceit to promote Hillary Clinton, and I mean not the column but its name – Disability. Since “disability” can’t be typo for “differently abled”, kudos to NYT for this completely unexpected act of eschewing stupid euphemisms.

The column boasts of some genuinely good pieces that inform the larger audience about the life of disabled people, but here I want to focus on the odd-one-out, a piece titled “Love, Eventually”, penned by one Ona Gritz. The piece is informative alright, if not about disability then about the free pass one gets in the name of victimhood.

The gist of the piece is that the author is semi-disabled because of mild cerebral palsy in the right side of her body. After much heartburn and empty sex, she meets a perfectly able-bodied man whom she falls in love with and gets married to. They have a kid, Ethan, but they divorce when he’s just four, and she eventually marries another man named Dan, who’s disabled himself by way of being born blind. Her life seems fulfilled after that.

Run-of-the-mill sappy romantic saga, which I bet wouldn’t make it to my blog, let alone the hallowed pages of NYT, had it not been written by a disabled person woman who leaves no stone unturned in playing up her disability every word she writes. Some of the things she gets sympathy for are so trite, stupid, and sometimes reckless, that she’d be castigated for those had she not been disabled. Let’s take a look.

“Apparently I was appealing enough to sleep with but not to be picked as a girlfriend.”

Said every girl, disabled or otherwise. Reason – men are dogs. In this case, the author confesses in the preceding sentence that her disability was barely noticeable, so men not picking her as girlfriend had nothing to do with her disability.

“Before Ethan’s birth I hadn’t understood that parenting is physically demanding work…. I couldn’t bathe Ethan safely, carry him on stairs or even sip from a water glass while he nursed if his head rested on my good arm.”

Oh, am I supposed to sympathize with that? Maybe I could if the author was disabled and retarded, but she doesn’t reveal the latter. So here’s a woman who keeps a child in her womb for nine months, not knowing she might have to sometimes lift a finger once it’s born, and in the process blithely imperils her son’s life. Imagine an able-bodied woman making the same preposterous claim – the readers will tear her up rather than tearing up.

“Hope was my first friend with cerebral palsy… I had other friends who “got me” in a visceral, finish-each-other’s-sentences kind of way. But only Hope could finish the sentences I’d never before said aloud, the ones about how it felt to live in a nonnormative body.”

Good grief. Way to manipulate one's disability to take sappy, cliched crap about “finishing each other’s sentences” a notch higher. What’s next - "we were two non-normative bodies one normative soul"?

“By the time Ethan turned 3, the physical demands of mothering had lessened… A year later, my husband and I divorced.”

The deadpan delivery of the last sentence would put Jimmy Carr to shame. The author makes not even an attempt to justify divorcing a “handsome, athletic, and crazy about me” man who takes her as his girlfriend when no one else would, loves her, cares for her, marries her, and has a child with her, except that:

“Out of hopefulness, impatience, insecurity or for a thousand other reasons, we too often rush into relationships that are poor fits for us, robbing our partners and ourselves of more promising connections. It struck me as likely that those of us with disabilities are especially susceptible to this.”

Ever heard of the art of compromise, dear Ona? Ever thought what your partner, besides your child, might have gone through owing to your recklessness? Ever wondered that a relationship between a disabled and an able-bodied person must be equally difficult for both partners, where the latter might be reminded every second that he/she ended up being a “settler”? Or is that last sentence emphasizing your disability supposed to wash off all your sins and make us bawl?

““It’s like you guys are the same person, only one’s male and one’s female,” said Ethan — not entirely as a compliment — who was 8 at the time.”

Ethan refers to Dan, Ona’s love interest post-divorce and her eventual husband, thus making clear to his mom that he was uncomfortable with their relationship. But hey, readers ought to be happy that a disabled person found love even at the cost of possibly ruining her ex's and son's life. After all, they aren’t disabled, so they should suck it up for the one who is.

“Dan (born blind) confided to me that back in high school and college, he knew how to use a cane but chose to walk without one in an attempt to blend in. Back then, he also sought able, sighted women rumored to be beautiful. When I shared my stories in kind, I was struck, just as I’d once been with Hope, by how little had to be explained.”

It’s hard to fault Ona for finding better friends (Hope) and lovers (Dan) in the fellow disabled. They would empathize with her underlying issues and all that. The same goes for blacks, homosexuals, transgenders etc. They are understood better by their kind. But at its core it’s just a case of birds of the same feather flocking together. Would the readers be as forgiving of an able-bodied person who chose to abandon a disabled partner because he/she....didn’t get it? Would a white person be hailed as a hero for forsaking a black partner because he/she couldn’t identify with, say, white guilt? I hardly think so. Seems like Ona is just as reckless, greedy and impulsive as any of us, except that most of us don't get to proudly proclaim it because, well, we have all our body parts intact.

The point of all the above rejoinders is the same – disability, or victimhood in general, gets a free pass, and the likes of Ona cash in on it. In the world of ultra-liberal media, the strong and the able are subjects of constant ridicule and shame, while the weak are glorified beyond all reasonable logic. At this rate, it would soon be about the survival of the weakest. Mothers would pray for retards to be born to them over prodigies, fitness centres would give way to fatness centres, and beauty pageants would turn into ugly pageants. There would be a race to prove oneself to be the weakest, the most wretched, and the most discriminated against. Just look at caste-based reservation demands in India for a clue.

हिंदी का हनन

लंबे अरसे से एक दर्द दिल में ले कर बैठा हूँI यूँ तो हिन्दी भाषा में नहीं लिखता, पर क्योंकि ये दर्द हिन्दी के अपमान से जागा है, तो सोचा अँग्रेज़ी में अपना दर्द ज़ाहिर कर के इस पाप का भोगी ना बनूँI

दो दिन पहले एक hostel में घुसा, दिल्ली मेंI वहाँ reception पर टूटी फूटी अँग्रेज़ी में hello, how’re you से स्वागत हुआI वैसे तो आदत पड़ गयी है, पर थोड़ा अटपटा लगाI जब दोनो हिन्दी भाषी हैं, तो राम राम की जगह जबरन hello क्यूँ? यदि आप अत्यधिक धार्मिक हैं, तो सलाम अलैईकूं भी चलेगा, पर hello? इससे पहले की आप सोचें की मैं हर हिन्दुस्तानी को हिन्दी भाषी मानने वालों में से हूँ, मैं आपको बता दूं की साहब की nameplate पर Sanjeev Yadav लिखा हुआ थाI अब तो दोष ना दीजिएI

खैर, अक्सर ही मुझे मेरे रंग के कारण विदेशी समझा गया हैI इस भ्रम की संभावना उन जगहों पर बढ़ जाती है जहाँ असली विदेशी भारी मात्रा में रहते हैं, जैसा की इस hostel में थाI मुझे लगा साहब की ग़लती नही है, मुझे विदेशी समझ बैठे हैं, तो ज़ाहिर है अँग्रेज़ी में स्वागत करेंगेI भ्रम दूर करने के लिए मैने बोला, “बढ़िया, आप बताइए?”I जवाब आया, very goodI तभी किसी ने पीछे से आवाज़ लगाई तो यादव जी पलटे और बोले, “अबे आ रहा हूँ ना”I फिर तुरंत मेरी ओर घूमे और अपनी टूटी फूटी अँग्रेज़ी में कहा, “room 1, here your keys”I

Room 1 में अंदर घुसा तो फटाफट नीचे वाला बिस्तर पकड़ा और तशरीफ़ रखीI सामने देखा तो एक महाशय बैठे थेI अब उनकी कोई nameplate तो नही थी पर तजुर्बा कह रहा था की साहब हिन्दी भाषी ही हैंI जैसे ही आँखें मिलीं तो उन्होनें hey hi बोलाI मैंने उनको hey बोला और सामान खोलने लगाI कुछ मिनट बीते और उन्होनें मुझसे पूछा, I am going for lunch. Want to join? Accent सुन कर पक्का हो गया की हिन्दी भाषी ही हैंI मैंने उन्हें  हिन्दी में विनम्रता से मना किया और कहा की dinner साथ करेंगेI तब तक साहब के फोन ने चीत्कार करना शुरू कर दियाI जाते जाते बस “हाँ प्रतीक, बताओ” सुनाई पड़ाI

ऐसी असंख्य घटनाएँ हैं, कुछ तो आपके जीवन में भी घटी होंगीI मानना पड़ेगा, अँग्रेज़ महान थेI ना सिर्फ़ हमारे शरीर को, बल्कि हमारी मानसिकता को भी आधीन बना गयेI हिन्दुस्तान को पाकिस्तान के साथ साथ अँग्रेज़िस्तान में तोड़ गयेI जो अँग्रेज़िस्तान में पलायन कर गये वो हिंदुस्तानियों को तिरस्कार की दृष्टि से देखने लगेI आज परिस्थिति कुछ ऐसी है की हिन्दी में बात करना हमारे देश में क्षीण आर्थिक और शैक्षिक स्तर का द्योतक बन चुका हैI भारत में यदि दो अजनबी मिलते हैं, तो शक्ल-अक्ल तो बाद में देखते हैं, पहले सामने वाला अँग्रेज़ी अच्छी बोलता है की नही इसकी चिंता सबसे अधिक सताती हैI और यदि वो सच में अँग्रेज़ी हमसे बेहतर बोलता है तो हम घबरा जाते हैं और अपने सारे गुणों की बलि दे कर स्वयं को ओछा समझने लग जाते हैंI यदि हमसे कोई अधिक सफल पर बदतर अंग्रेजी बोलने वाला मिलता है तो एक बार को उसकी अंग्रेजी सुन कर चौड़े तो हो ही लेते हैंI Shakespeare के गुणगान गाते हैं, पर वाजपेयी जी के भाषण हमारी समझ से ही परे हैंI Tinder पर हिंदी में विवरण लिखना मतलब match से no match. वाह रे cinema में राष्ट्र गान पर सतर्क होने वाले गौरवान भारतीयI

अब अभी की घटना देखिएI विमान में बैठा हूँ, air hostess ने मुझे sir may I request you to shut your laptop कहा, और बगल वाले भाईसाहब, जिनकी तोंद कमीज़ के नीचे से फूट कर बाहर आ रही है, उन्हें sir please phone बंद कर दीजिए कहाI अरे मेमसाहब, मैं भी तो इस देश का वासी हूँ, मुझसे भी ऐसा अपनापन दिखा लिया होताI साथ ही साथ उस बेचारे को भी शर्मसार ना होना पड़ताI ठीक उसी प्रकार, जब अँग्रेज़िस्तान के वासी restaurant जाते हैं तो वहाँ के हिन्दुस्तानी waiter को सिर्फ़ और सिर्फ़ अँग्रेज़ी में ऑर्डर देते हैं, कि कहीं waiter उन्हें अपनी औकात का ना समझ बैठेI बेचारा waiter भी डर के मारे केवल अँग्रेज़ी में बात करता है, चाहे कितनी टूटी फूटी ही सहीI

स्वाभाविक है की waiter जैसे जो हिन्दुस्तान में छूट जाते हैं वे अँग्रेज़िस्तान जाने की ज़ोर शोर से तैयारी करते हैंI अधर में टँगे रह गये तो क्या हुआ, अँग्रेज़ी के 2-4 वाक्य सीख कर अपने को फन्ने ख़ान तो समझ ही लियाI

मेरा असमंजस सिर्फ़ हिन्दी को ले कर नहीं हैI अँग्रेज़ी ने भारत के कोने-कोने और बच्चे-बच्चे को अपनी गिरफ़्त में ले लिया हैI पर जहाँ बाकी भाषाओं के लिए मेरे पास सहानुभूति है, वहाँ हिन्दी के लिए मेरे पास समानुभूति हैI

हमने अपनी मातृभाषा की मिठास और आत्मीयता का त्याग करके एक विदेशी भाषा को अपना लिया हैI माफ़ करें, अपनाया नहीं है, स्वयं को इसकी गिरफ्त में रखा हुआ है, क्योंकि अपनों से बात करते वक़्त, चाहे वो दोस्तों को गाली देना हो या माँ-बाप को प्यार, हम हिन्दी का ही प्रयोग करते हैंI मैं उन लोगों की बात नहीं कर रहा जो ऐसे मौकों पर भी अँग्रेज़ी में ही बात करते हैं, उनके लिए तो अँग्रेज़ी ही मातृभाषा हैI हिन्दी तो बस वो कलंक है जिसे नौकरों से बात करते वक़्त ज़बान पर लगाना पड़ता हैI मन ही मन, इनमें से कई लोग शायद oh my god, hindi again कह कर कोसते होंगेI कुछ ऐसे भी अवश्य हैं जिनकी अँग्रेज़ी पर ऐसी अटूट पकड़ है की उनके लिए इसी भाषा में अपने विचार व्यक्त करना सबसे सरल हैI पर ऐसे लोग चुनिंदा हैंI बाकी सबके लिए अँग्रेज़ी बोलना सिर्फ़ एक दिखावा है, एक छलावा हैI

ऐसा नहीं है की हिन्दी के हनन के स्वाभाविक कारण नहीं हैंI हैं, बिल्कुल हैंI Labour market में अँग्रेज़ी करीब करीब अनिवार्य है, अपने बहुभाषी देश और दुनिया के कोने कोने में अपनी बात पहुँचाने का अकेला माध्यम अँग्रेज़ी ही है, विज्ञान एक हद के बाद हिन्दी में पढ़ना शायद नामुमकिन है, और हिन्दी साहित्य का तो ना पूछोI पर भाई, माँ बूढ़ी हो जाती है तो उसे वृद्ध आश्रम में डाल देते हैं क्या? फिर किसी ने पूछा माँ कहाँ गयी तो बोल दिया की मर गयी, और जब कभी दिल रोया तो चुपके से जा कर गले लगा लियाI अरे हिन्दी तुम्हारी बूढ़ी माँ हैI इसने तुम्हे ज़िंदगी भर अपने स्नेह और करुणा से सींच कर बड़ा कियाI अब तुम्हे अँग्रेज़ी के रूप में नयी गर्लफ्रेंड मिल गयी तो बूढ़ी माँ का तिरस्कार करोगे? माँ अपनी संतान का गौरव नहीं चाहती, सिर्फ़ उसका प्रेम चाहती हैI दोनों को प्रेम दो, माँ को भी और गर्लफ्रेंड को भीI दोनों का अपना अपना महत्व है, अपना अपना स्थान हैI पर याद रखो माँ का स्थान सबसे बड़ा होता हैI