Death at Mangix Inn

The midnight rain pelted down on the pavement as it had the entire day and the day before that. The badly lit streets were deserted, only adding to the sense of melancholy that enveloped the streets. The full moon negotiated its way through the cloudy sky even as the rain reached a frenzy. The architecture of the town was nothing unusual, just a row of structures that were built on either side of the interconnected roads. It was an unimaginative copy of nearly every other town in the kingdom.

"When you see one, you’ve seen the rest." mused the stranger to himself as he walked through the empty streets, marvelling at the lack of originality behind these structures. "For all our shortcomings," he chuckled to himself, "atleast we Stygians have some sense of style".

He was in no hurry, he could afford to spend the night in some inn at the end of the village and wait for the rain to stop before making his way to the next. He could even stay here for a few days if it took his fancy. He had money to spend and days to waste. By the time his deeds at the castle were discovered he would have reached the outer cities of the kingdom. He might be in Vendhya, the land of the enemy, but nobody here was aware of his identity. He was safe.

He was broad shouldered and tall, his large frame protected from the rain by his trench coat. His wide brimmed hat covered his black hair and cast a shadow over his eyes, which were even darker. He had a set of twin pistols tucked in at his back. His face had been hardened by years of war, his cynical glint evidence of many battles.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the chilling screams of a woman somewhere behind the curtain of rain. Rape and murder were not rampant in these inner cities as they were in the outer regions, but were still a problem. The woman must have been utterly desperate or incredibly foolish to walk these streets alone at such a time.

He considered going to her rescue, but dismissed the notion immediately. He was not looking for trouble; he would have enough of that when he reached the border. Besides, there was no telling what would happen if he stuck his neck out for the woman. These were hard times and acts of chivalry were not always accepted with gratitude.

He had saved a little boy from a stampede years ago, only to find himself accused of abduction and imprisoned by the villagers. "The Stygian bastard carried the helpless boy away to eat him." said the villagers. "If we had not intervened the poor mother would have lost her only son.” They had him tied in chains and imprisoned in their petty dungeon. That was a long time ago, when the war was at its peak and hatred boiled in most villages. Times had changed, but the episode still lingered in his memory.

He continued walking down the road and came up to a building that had the definite look of a Vendhyan inn. An advantage of identical architecture was that one never missed anything if he has travelled before; there is no confusion about which building serves what purpose. As he came closer, he read the sign 'Mangix Inn' fixed on top of the heavy door. The windows showed no signs of life inside, as did all the windows in the houses and shops in the town, but the stranger knew there were people inside. No inn in any kingdom is ever empty, business was too good these days with refugees from the outer cities and mercenaries in search of jobs.

'Mangix'. The name sounded familiar but the stranger could not put a face to the name. A famous warrior no doubt, a war hero who has proved himself in battle and now capitalizes on his fame to make some money during his old age. Everybody needs food and shelter, even heroes. He knocked twice and waited. The rain would have deprived the owner of some of his regulars and the inn's pub might be quieter than usual. Good, he needed some rest.

The stranger looked back into the empty street, his vision of anything more than ten feet away blurred by the rainfall. He felt something uneasy in the pit of his stomach, a fear that plagued him only when he was followed. But that was not possible; no assassin in this land was stealthy enough to catch him off guard.

The latch from the inside moved and a giant figure revealed himself at the other side of the door.

"Can I help you?" his voice had the authority of a seasoned leader.

The stranger flashed him a smile, hiding his shock at unexpectedly finding himself facing such a massive man. "Yes, I am from Prince Davion's camp in the hills. I need a place to stay for a few nights."

Mangix looked him up and down before grunting and motioning for him to enter. The stranger noticed that the inn was much bigger than it looked from the outside. The pub was almost empty, save for a massive shouldered figure at one of the front tables. His race was hard to determine but it was obvious he was of mixed blood.

Mangix seemed more relaxed with the door shut. "Wanna drink friend?" he turned to the stranger.

"No thank you, I’ve had a tiring day."

"Its some bloody good ale ya know, I made it myself."

"No thank you."

Mangix shrugged. "Your wish ol'boy. I'll show you to your room then. Where are your bags?"

"I have none."

"No bags? Oh well, light traveller eh? Follow me." the bar owner made his way past the bar and climbed up a set of groaning stairs, the stranger right at his heels. “Bloody old steps you know. This was one of the first buildings that were ever built in this town. It goes back to before the war."

The second floor had rooms on either side of the passage and Mangix opened the first one to the right. "This is your room friend. Don’t mind the noises outside, just young hooligans trying to have a nice, drunk time. Be careful of them bugs too."

"How much do you charge for a night?"

"We can talk about that in the morning friend, when I'm sober." he laughed and disappeared downstairs.

The stranger surveyed the room with satisfaction, it would do for a few nights. He looked out the window and was glad to see the rain finally showing signs of relenting. Lightning struck something far away as the full moon reached its zenith. For a split second he thought he saw a woman stagger across the road in the rain, but it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. The town would come back to life in the day, and if the rain stopped he could no doubt look forward to some fun in the pub downstairs.

Far away, a wolf howled. The stranger removed his clothes and retired to bed. He kept his pistols tucked under the pillows, he would never know when he would need them.

Vendhya and Stygia. The two kingdoms had been at war with each other for so many generations that the reason for the war was not known to anybody. To the people of both kingdoms, it was just a part of their lives, a part of their history that had no beginning and would have no end. The man had completed the task given to him and had been in enemy territory for many months. He would miss Vendhya, for even by his standards this had been good fun. The warlords back in Stygia would find his accounts amusing.

The figure in the shadows watched him with a growing sense of anticipation. There had been a single instruction from the castle - kill the pistol-wielding Stygian. It had taken immense patience to wait till the right moment arrived, tracking him for weeks, constantly watching and monitoring his moves.

“Kill him.”

The stranger took less than a heartbeat to realise the impossible had happened – he had been tracked down and was not alone in the room. In a blur of movements he grabbed the pistols under his pillow and whipped them out. He was fast, but a twin set of daggers flew from the shadows and sliced through his trigger fingers, cutting into his shoulders. The pistols plopped on the bed.

“****!”

He fell to the floor and felt the pain flow through his arms, the venom was spreading with alarming speed. “How could this have happened?” he wanted to scream but fear had paralysed his throat. There was no way anybody could have sneaked into the room without him sensing it. Nobody could be that good. He could not believe what was happening. His actions at the castle could not have been discovered this fast.

“You should have gone to the rescue of that screaming woman. She was trying to warn you.”

He reached for a pistol from the bed, his heart racing as he used both hands to lift it. Blood continued to spurt out of his hands, his vision was becoming blurry. Another dagger zipped from the darkness and cut through the fingers holding the weapon.

“Call for help! Call for help!” his body was refusing to respond to his brain’s pleas.

He looked into the shadows where the daggers came from. Using the last of his strength he hurled a chair at it. It went through the shadows and crashed into the wall. There was nothing there. The pain spread to his neck. He felt tears of agony flow - his body’s vain attempt to flush the venom out.

“You were being watched as you walked through the rain. You were being watched as you knocked on the door. You were being watched the entire time.” The stranger finally managed to scream, but it was too late.

He lost all control as his body writhed on the floor. His last thought was that he was alone in the room again.

Dr. Voodoo

"Watch out for this one, he's full of tricks." The light from the screen beamed on Wilbur's face in the breifing room as he puffed his cigar and threw the photo at me. "We've been keeping a tab on him for a long time now, with little to no success. Typical intellectual-gone-mad story, only this one has a body count of someone too meticulous to be a total psycho. The bosses upstairs want him either working for us or dead; they figure a man with his 'talents' could be a huge asset or a threat based on which side he roots for." I looked at the picture that had been tossed in my direction. The face looked neither menacing nor unique, it was a normal man with a moustache. His smile seemed warm and genuine.

"Are you sure you want me on this Wilbur? I need a vacation and I'm not going on a hunt unless it's an absolute emergency, we had that clear." Wilbur exhaled a thick jet of smoke and smiled. "Oh, you can call this an emergency E.B; you can definitely call this Dr. Voodoo situation one migraine of an emergency." I smiled back and looked at the photo. The face looked neither warm nor genuine this time. It was just a tad creepy.

"We know nothing about who he was before his Dr.Voodoo gimmick other than that he was a professor of some sort in an island near the Indian coast. There are rumours that he was once the leader of some circle which monitored and instructed paramilitary groups on dealing with insurgencies." I shifted in my chair and lit a cigarette. "So was he just a just a strategist or was he in on the 'action' as well?" Wilbur shrugged. "He was a highly regarded combat instructor. The boys are still working the files, we're hoping some fresh facts come up, but I doubt it. This guy covered his tracks and covered them well. Judging from what I've seen, he doesn't seem a stranger to violent encounters. But his forte is definitely his mind." Wilbur tapped his head as I finished the cigarette in silence. I got up and slipped the photo into my pocket. "Alright Wilbur, I'll do it. Let's head to the park for a walk, I feel like plucking some apples. I need all the dirt we have on this fellow."

"That's my boy. I knew you'd pull through for me E.B." As we put on our coats and headed out of the smoky briefing room, I felt a shiver run through my spine.

"You mentioned something about a body count." The park was buzzing with employees enjoying a quick snack in the sun or just catching a few minutes away from the seriousness of the headquarters building. Wilbur handed me a file that had a list of identities on it. I went through them and they were all familiar names. For good reason too, they were all 'crime fighters'. I let out a low whistle. This was certainly not what I was expecting when told about a 'body count'. "Wilbur, are you sure this isn't some garbage one of our rookies came up with? All these deaths have already been investigated by folks just as smart as us and none of them found a single lead. What makes you think our guy was behind this?" We walked past my favourite apple tree. Plucking the best looking one was easy after my third jump. "I know it sounds a little dodgy, but I promise you E.B, they were all killed by Dr. Voodoo. The bosses wouldn't have made me fly you in if we weren't a hundred percent."

The apple was juicy and tender, just like how an apple should be. "I'm not questioning the research, I'm really not. I'm just asking you to share that research with me. What is your theory based on? Why are you convinced that it was this guy who killed over a dozen of your best hunters?" Wilbur sighed. "Because they were all on the hunt for him when they died. They had all tracked him down and been given the green signal to go ahead with their 'capture' when they were found dead the next day. None of the other big cats are aware of the pattern because only we know all the dead guys were on the same mission." I almost choked on a piece of delicous apple.

"The first guy on the list, Larry Lynch. Did you know him E.B?" Wilbur had made me pluck an apple for him too and now had bits of it flying out of his mouth as he spoke. "Yeah, Lynch and I worked on that Serpent case when we were both rookies. Tough mofo, even tougher when he had his shotgun and his pitbull with him. You couldn't beat him unless you outsmarted him." Wilbur bit a tiny bit of the apple and swallowed it without chewing. "Well, he was outsmarted big time. He was ready to spring one of his famous ambushes on Dr Voodoo and bring him in alive. The poor sod was even bragging about it to me on the phone, minutes before he went out of contact. The follow-up hunter who investigated the case was convinced that not only did Voodoo know Lynch was following him, he knew exactly what he had to do to take him out. He had been attacked while walking through an alley where his shotgun was useless and his dog's death was due to 'reasons unknown'." I let Wilbur finish and looked at the list again.

"I see Octagon was the follow-up hunter after Lynch died. But he wasn't murdered, he commited suicide in a public square, in plain sight." Wilbur took another file from inside his coat and passed it to me. "Octagon was blackmailed into commiting suicide, the details are in here. It's the same with all the guys we sent after this guy E.B. He seldom takes anybody on in a head-on collision. Every expert we've brought in to analyse these murders draw the same conclusion - he knew exactly where and how to strike. It hasn't mattered who we sent after him, he always finds a way to negate every one of their 'gifts'. Brain over brawn, every single time."

"Why do they call him Dr. Voodoo? It sounds a little cartoonish." Wilbur shrugged again. "You'll have to ask him that when you track him down. Our theory is that he is called Voodoo because of how he takes people out by manipulating them to do what he wants. The "Dr" must have been added on by someone who was in awe of how dangerously smart he was. He first appeared under that alias as a theorist for The Syndicate, which was when he came under our radar. After a disagreement with them over financial matters, he engineered a coup in an East African country, took the bounty and dissapeared. From our reports, he seems to have been the architect of atleast seven successful military campaigns in three continents. Why a person with such a formidable reputation would live in the shadows like a petty thug is beyond me, but we won't have any answers until you bring him in."

I took the photo of the man out of my pocket and stared at it again. "These military campaigns this fellow has been part of all over the world, were they all under the Dr. Voodoo identity?" Wilbur nodded. "Yeah. Like I said, we know very little about who he was or what he did before he became Voodoo. Larry Lynch was sent to capture him and bring him in for us to get some answers. Then Lynch was dead and when we sent Octagon, so was he. It's been like a domino since then. Every follow-up officer we send to the previous murder meets the same fate."

We walked in silence for a few minutes before Wilbur resumed, "He was a combat instructor like you and a pretty formidable one at that. We interviewed some mercenaries who had worked with him on a mission in Peru and they all testify that he is no slouch. They even said his childhood dream was to win a gold medal in the Olympics as a wrestler, but I dont think someone so secretive would have shared something like that with routine fighters. The only thing we know for certain is that he was, and probably still is, a pretty tough customer even without his freaky brain." We came to a turning at the park that only top-level employees usually took walks in. It was deserted.

"So that is why we've summoned you E.B. The bosses want you on this guy's tail. Of course, your reward would be very generous when this mess is done with." Wilbur continued to work down the empty pathway in the park. I took out a poisoned dart from my coat. "How is Shelly?" Wilbur asked when he turned around and saw that I was a couple of paces behind him. His face went pale when he realised I had taken a dart out. "Shelly has been missing since last night, Wilbur. I got a note before I flew in here telling me to do the right thing if I wanted to see her alive again." Wilbur was shaking his head, muttering "No, no, no, no...", I didn't let him finish whatever it was he was trying to finish.

"I didn't know what the note meant then but I do now. This Dr. Voodoo guy is obviously a step ahead of you. I'm sorry I have to do this, but I want Shelly back." Wilbur turned around and tried to run screaming. He was put out of his misery before a single note escaped his throat. It only took a flick of my fingers to send the dart crashing through his skull. "Whoever you are Dr. Voodoo, you're pretty good."

Hector's Bwabu

"Bwabu."

Hector tried deep breaths, he remembered reading somewhere that they helped with stress. The laptop beamed at him, almost mockingly, like it was challenging him to write something and exocise his frustration. It was about a year. About three hundred and sixty five days. About twelve months since he last saw her. About eleven months since she dumped him as abruptly as abrupt can be. About ten months since she told him she was seeing someone else.

The laptop was still beaming at him. He had only managed "Bwabu" so far, a name that had morphed from "Baby", a name that had stuck since both seemed to like it. Hector cracked his knuckles. His writing was limited to short stories and opinionated essays. He was a complete stranger to the art of expressing emotional scars. He had always dismissed it as "unmanly".

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had no idea what to start with. His recent attempts to normalise things between the two of them had been grand failures. She was too busy. She said things probably meant to soothe him, but made no attempt to sound genuine. She had moved on. Hector thought he had too.

"I can't begin to describe how angry and hurt I was (and still am) at what you did." Hector knew he had to write something, anything. "But what bothers me the most is not knowing why you ended things the way you did. I don't believe any of the reasons you fed me. There was something else that made you leave. Something you didn't tell me. We had a normal conversation the previous night and you called the next day telling me you didn't want to be a part of this anymore."

Hector hoped he was not doing her an injustice, he was only recounting events as he remembered them. "There were plenty of things that happened when you said you were returning home that I knew you were hiding from me. I don't even know if it really was home that you were going back to. I remember hugging you and wondering how terrible it would be if it was the last time I hugged you. I also remember telling myself not to be paranoid. I don't tell myself stuff like that anymore."

The words stopped again. For the second time in as long as he could remember, his ability to generate words died on him. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another one. Hector was not an alcoholic. He just liked to sleep with a bottle of water next to his bed.

Supporting the BJP

Many of my friends are horrified that I have now come out of the closet as a supporter of the BJP. The same people I once branded as Hindu fanatics and mass murderers now seem to me to be the only people who can save the country. I disagree with many of their ideas, but I find it hard to deny that the other alternatives are infinitely worse. This is a nation with urgent problems that can only be solved with drastic measures. The Congress will never serve us as the harbinger of those measures; the party’s days of genuine service came to an end three generations ago.

Consider the country’s problems for a minute – It is one of the most corrupt nations in the entire world, with millions of crores of Indian rupees stashed away in foreign banks as black money. There are regular intrusions into Indian territory by an unabashed Chinese army and the ruling elite hesitate to even lift a finger in protest. Pakistan continues to use a bulk of the billions of dollars it receives as aid to fund a proxy war in Kashmir. Corporate interests from the West affect public policy, leaving millions homeless or dead. The next generation are still taught bogus history in schools despite evidence to the contrary. The country is treated by the ruling party like a family heirloom to be passed from parent to child. Naxalism is on a murderous rampage. Different communities are governed by different laws. I can do this all day.

These are the problems citizens should actually be considering when they vote, not stories about a dozen people getting beaten in a pub and couples not being allowed to celebrate Valentine’s Day in a particular street. Those are issues too, but those are not the issues that should shape India’s future. Is the BJP flawless? No. Can the BJP solve all of the nation’s problems? Impossible. No party can solve all these problems. But it certainly has a better chance of doing so than any of its political rivals. It is a party, unlike the Congress, that has not been completely rotted by power yet. They can still get the job done before the rot sets in.

“But what about the bigotry?” people always ask me when we discuss this. “What about pogroms aimed against minorities?”

Are pogroms under the BJP worse than those the Congress has orchestrated for decades? Officially, 2000 muslims were killed in Gujarat in 2001 (under a BJP government) and 5000 Sikhs were killed in Delhi in 1984 (under a Congress government). The extermination of any life is a crime, so is the latter not much worse than the former? Yet, it would be difficult to find a sentence about Narendra Modi in the mainstream media without “Godhra” or “mass murderer” in the same sentence, while Rajiv Gandhi is celebrated as a visionary leader whose tragic death didn’t allow him to grow to his potential. There is almost nobody in the media who seems ready to admit that, even by their standards, Rajiv Gandhi was twice the mass murderer that Modi is. It is this kind of hypocrisy that has turned many, including myself, to the BJP. Even the destruction of the Babri-Masjid, where nobody was killed, was preposterously compared by the media to the vicious terrorist campaign that was launched in response.

What this country needs is not reformation but a revolution. Big words, but true. Future generations must not carry the same burdens as us by being fed nonsense about how the people of India originated in different parts of the world and are actually two different civilisations called Aryans and Dravidians. Corrupt politicians and greedy industrialists who illegally stock billions of rupees in secret accounts must be brought to justice and their money confiscated. National security should not be made to play second-fiddle to community appeasement. Any conflict between any two Indians must be settled according to the law of the land and not the law dictated by somebody who lived in another land from another time, shariat law for example.

The BJP is not likely to be our saviour. But it is far more likely to act as a predecessor to our saviour, if there ever will be one, than the Congress or the rest of the political rabble. That is enough for me to lend my support.

The Dream

The sun set with slow but steady rhythm and cast a net of darkness over the city, a net that grew in size as the pale globe of the moon took over. It was surreal even for a dream, an entire city bathed in silver as I patrolled its streets with a shotgun in my hands. There wasn’t a soul in sight and the only sounds I could hear were my footsteps. The skyscrapers around me reached out to the black sky, till they too disappeared into the darkness of the night.

I looked down and felt a strange satisfaction to see I was dressed in black. The attire seemed appropriate for the gothic tone of the dream. The road on which I was walking stretched ahead for a while before merging into a labyrinth of lanes and alleys. I walking pretty fast, like I knew where I was going.

The cool wind, or something that seemed like it, brushed past my face. The effect was more soothing than I expected, like I was somewhere near a beach. I thought I even heard rushing waves, but I could be wrong.

The lights flashed with startling abruptness and disappeared the same way - they came from the end of the road. I felt my feet raise the pace at which I was moving. Arms tightening their grip over the shotgun, I sprinted as fast as I could. The lights weren’t normal ones, like lightning or flame. They had a bluish tinge to them. They were the unmistakably reptilian eyes of the thing I was stalking. I didn’t stop running till I came to the corner of the road, gun leveled ready and my finger at the trigger. But there was nothing there.

“Looking for something Nilan?” hearing its grating voice behind me, I swiveled around and pulled the trigger. The gun roared and sent me staggering back. It took a chunk off the wall ahead of me and raised a cloud of dust. By the time it cleared a few seconds later, I got the strange feeling I was alone again. There was no sign of the reptilian eyes or the taunting voice. Only the massive buildings and the eerily silver moonlight remained.

Then, my alarm-clock screamed and woke me up. Shit! Six nights in a row and I still can’t kill the damn thing.

My Diaspora Migraine

*Note: Whenever I mention “Diaspora”, I don’t mean every Tamil who lives abroad. The radical ones that I’m ranting about here are just a minority, but they’ve been pissing me off the last few days and I’m just trying to flush my annoyance with them out of my system by writing this.*

What is it about some people living away from their country that makes them so irrational when they consider its problems? I get group invitations on Facebook almost every week from many relatives and friends, Lankan Tamils making a living in some developed nation, asking me to join online communities that call for the Sri Lankan army to stop its campaign of “genocide” in the North Eastern regions of the country. One glance at these groups would tell you (if you’re the type that cares about objectivity) their only interest is in pinning the blame on the government, thus providing them wonderful discussion fodder thousands of miles away. I am waiting for the day I get invited to join a community, created by the wealthy and influential Lankan Tamil Diaspora, which has the courage to hold the LTTE and many Tamils living abroad just as culpable for the humanitarian crisis in the country as the Sri Lankan government. I doubt that day will ever come. The Diaspora of our people, like every prosperous Diaspora in the world, is interested only in ideas that make it comfortable.

My answer to these online invitations (on the rare occasions that I trouble myself with one) is invariably the same - none of you can change what the Sri Lankan Army is doing with your chest-beating Tamil Patriotism or your large pots of cash. Not as long as you continue to live in denial and members of your community continue to supply the Tigers with weapons and money. The outrage that follows is also the same - “You’re a traitor who doesn’t care about Tamils. You should be ashamed of yourself for supporting the enemy.” These boorish comments don’t have the intended effect of guilt-tripping me; they only add to my extreme irritation with this lot.

The ethnic conflict in Sri Lanka was sparked by legitimate injustices done to the Tamils, by successive governments competing with each other on who could give the largest minority of the country a worse deal. It was frustration among the Sinhalese who were disproportionately unemployed (which was itself a product of the country’s colonial legacy) and later the Tamils who saw their futures being snatched away, that nourished the friction between both communities. It is no secret that the pogrom of 1983, which killed thousands of Tamils and ruined tens of thousands, was supported by the government. It is no secret that the government has taken a particularly vicious stand in recent years, with irresponsible air-strikes and civilians disappearing on a daily basis. The situation has escalated to a point now where it is possibly the largest human rights disaster of the sub-continent and something needs to be done. My agreement with Tamils living abroad ends there. The claims many of them make further, that it’s only the Sri Lankan government that has to be blamed for the events and that the LTTE fights for the Tamil cause, only show their inability to admit history as it really is.

Does anybody know the record of organised violence against Tamils by the Sri Lankan army before the LTTE took up its “armed struggle” (a heroic pseudonym for terrorism) in the 1970s? It was the LTTE that, after murdering its competitors, took the civil war to a level where it swallowed the entire country. It was the LTTE that, armed and financed by the ultra-conservatives of the Diaspora, made it dangerous to be a Tamil. And it is the LTTE that, with the noisy antics of the same people, is currently using pockets of trapped Tamils as shields from the ruthlessness of the army. Those who lived in Tamil areas administered by the LTTE have plenty of stories to tell about how they were chased out of their homes and not allowed to conduct business transactions without the permission of and a commission for, the LTTE. But they get little attention, because the stories in fashion now are those involving the government’s atrocities (there are plenty of those around too).

There is nothing original in my contempt. It is well known in most communities that have a Diaspora that the ones living abroad tow a much harder line than those in the affected country. The Tamil Diaspora tends to take its cultural identity very seriously (you only have to compare the proportion of middle-class Tamils in Europe or Canada or Australia with their sub-continental counterparts in “Bhajan” attendance and temple participation to see what I mean, the difference can be staggering). While this is generally harmless, even good to a certain extent, there are people who go overboard with it and develop the chest-beating patriotism I mentioned earlier. There are then some who suffer from the guilt of abandoning their country and creating a better life for themselves in another part of the world, making them need some outlet where they can sooth their conscience (the outlet usually turns out to be loud noises blaming the government for the plight of Lankan Tamils). The most dangerous ones are those who worry that a stable Sri Lanka might lead to them being asked to return and thus help continue the civil war by supplying arms and money (all of us know such people exist, however small in number they might be). Regardless of which group the sympathisers belong to, one thing is certain – they live far away in relative comfort, while the victims suffering from their hypocrisy are stuck in the battlefield.

A cease-fire was offered by the LTTE yesterday. The government responded that it would accept it only if the LTTE lay down their arms. If you’re familiar with the uproar created over this demand, you will know why my irritation came to a point where I had to write about this and cleanse it out of my mind. The LTTE sympathisers now demand that the government must (wait for it) disarm along with the LTTE! What madness is this? There is a very clear distinction between a national army and a terrorist outfit. The illogical claim that the army of a nation must demilitarize itself before negotiating with terrorists is itself a very strong signal that the intentions of the LTTE are not what they seem. This isn’t very promising stuff for an organisation that has entered cease-fire agreements in the past for no reason other than to rearm and regroup.

If only these people would just listen to reason. If only they stopped funding terrorists because of tribal patriotism. If only they stopped donating to bodies that are fronts for arms purchases. If only they stopped housing people in their homes and helping these outfits conduct their meetings in the security of middle-class suburbs. If only they stopped living in denial.

If only this migraine they created in my head would go away.

*Note: Feel a little better already. I repeat, I am NOT referring to the whole lot of Tamils living outside Sri Lanka (after all, Im one myself). Many of them are involved in a lot of good work that brings international attention to the crisis in the country. This was a purely selfish action on my part to make myself feel better.*

Come on down to South Park and meet some friends of mine...

I just went through my old blog and the only thing I found disturbing about it was how serious things had gotten. There was stuff about hate speech, hunting, religion, politics, homophobia and even ghosts, but the overlying tone was too sober to reflect the kind of person I often am. It’s no wonder I lost interest in it after a while. I do have my serious moments but for the most part, I can be a pretty ‘fun’ person, despite what you might’ve heard. So instead of contemplating philosophy or discussing politics, here I am with a tribute. And it is for what I see as one of the great shows of our generation...South Park!

Crude, vulgar and featuring eight year old protagonists, South Park isn’t a show that would give you an indication of what it’s really like unless you watch a few episodes. In fact, many people I know were either under the impression that it was a show for kids or dismissed it as twenty minute compilations of toilet humour. This just isn’t true.

Behind all that swearing and low brow humour is an intelligence that defies normal television shows and a political edge that is likely to remain unmatched anywhere. All that controversy about the pot-shots they take at celebrities, politicians, activists and religious leaders didn’t spark from just-for-laughs gags (though we get plenty of those too), it sparked from people realising the pot-shots had legitimate views behind them.

Ater all, the central theme of the show has always been the rarity of common sense. The adults of the town constantly lose control of their lives as they go overboard with the latest trends and at the heart of these events are the boys who relentlessly try to make them see the logical side of things.

I've always had a special liking for South Park, not just because I swear as regularly as Cartman, but also because I can sympathize with the predicament of the boys. The burden of being the only logic-valuing person in a group of superstitious, emotional and (sometimes) very intolerant people is a weight well known to me, and watching the boys get the message across to a town full of idiots gives me a certain satisfaction.

But if it was all messages and no jokes, the show would have never worked. The misadventures of Stan (the main hero of the show), Kyle (the second hero of the show), Kenny (who used to die in almost every episode only to return the next week) and Cartman (evil genius, racist, sexist, narrow minded, cruel, selfish, one of the greatest animated characters of all time) are just as hilarious as they are provocative. Crude and cheap humour it may be, but it’s more effective than almost anything else on television and has more memorable episodes than most shows have episodes in total.

People who dismiss it without having seen more than a single episode aren’t being fair to the show or to themselves. You can ignore the show if you want to, but the loss would primarily be yours. I know many people who once thought the same way, who are big fans of the show now. If you’re looking for a crude show with jokes about farting, swearing and disgusting behaviour in general, this show is for you. If you’re looking for an intelligent show that addresses social issues and does so with a masterfully satirical knife, this show is for you too.

I wouldn’t go far enough to say that the show has often been my moral guide or that it’s the funniest thing television has ever produced. But I’m certainly tempted to.