Wishy-washy Arguments in Support of Belief. Yawn.

Following a few heated exchanges between us on Twitter, a journalist friend of mine has decided to put up a blogpost defending the ultimate accommodationist position: Why can't we all just make nice-nice and be happy together?

Okay, that was taking a bit of liberty (strictly tongue-in-cheek, of course!) in paraphrasing her position, but basically she is questioning the source of belief and the lack thereof. In particular, she is examining those beliefs that are not evidential/ material/ cogent in nature (Hmmm... Is there any other kind?)

She starts with a valid question:

How do we know these exist, if we choose not to believe that they exist?

Most unfortunately, she considers this as a rhetorical question, and therefore, comes up with a simplistic, outlandishly puerile, answer:

The answer to this is also simple: we know they exist and therefore we believe that they exist.

I can't even begin to describe the logical fallacies in this circular argument, that a seasoned journalist should never have committed IM(NS)HO. When did journalism stop being about fact-checking, objectivity, logical consistency, integrity of reportage and all that jazz? Sigh.

A most awesome rally! Only if...

S and I were at the Rally To Restore Sanity And/Or Fear yesterday! It was an incredible and awesome experience. Not to mention - ahem! - brief.

No, really. We were at the site of the rally for all of glorious seven and a half minutes before beating a retreat. I was/am so ashamed of myself, and it fills me with embarrassment even as I write this account.

And before any of you commiserate with me, no, it was not agoraphobia, nor enochlophobia. What made us leave post-haste was the concatenation of several powerful realizations - call it 'light-bulb moments' - chiefly amongst which were (a) both of us were vertically challenged compared to most of the crowd, and (b) the rally was being telecast live on Comedy Central and C-Span, and also being streamed live online.

A Decidedly Un-Robotic Open Letter to Nikhat Kazmi...

Dear Nikhat-didi,

aapne mera dil toRh diyaa... (You broke my heart). This was my first reaction when the end credits started rolling after "Enthiran: The Robot".

How could you? No, really, how could you? You are Nikhat Kazmi, an esteemed Senior Editor with the Times of India group and the author of a highly popular weekly film review column for the newspaper. La Esposa and I have been, for years, hanging on to every word you said in your movie reviews, because our collective opinions almost always found a reflexion in your eloquent ones. Sadly, you seem to have gone to the deep end now: you gave Four Stars to the newly released Rajnikanth-Aishwarya Rai starrer "Enthiran: The Robot". Intrigued about the movie and emboldened by your Four-Star review, we drove 50 miles to a theater in Gaithersburg to watch the spectacle, that purportedly broke all records by garnering Rs. 205 crores (1 crore = 10 million) through advance bookings before its release.

I want our money back.

I know we can't get those 2 hours and 52 minutes of our lives restored, but I have written them off to my stupidity and lack of foresightedness. I mean, seriously, what was I thinking? et tu, Nikhat-didi?

Dabangg: A pleasant surprise

S and I, with our friend, Neel, watched the newest Salman Khan starrer "Dabangg" last night in a movie theater in Columbia, MD. Not particularly fans of Salman, we were nevertheless intrigued by the news that it had broken the record of 3 idiots in the first week alone; so we took the half hour drive and checked it out for ourselves.

With extremely low expectations of the movie, I was ready for anything. Generally, S and I have always trusted the movie reviews by Nikhat Kazmi, a senior editor with the Times of India, because seldom it has been that our experiences have not resonated with her write-ups. Ms. Kazmi gave Dabangg four stars out of five, and wrote a generally positive review about this Khan Family production (Oh, yes! Salman in the lead, with his brother, Arbaaz, playing the underdog, and a smashing item number by Malaika Arora-Khan, in this Arbaaz Khan Productions movie). We decided to take Ms. Kazmi's cue (as we have done countless times), and leave our brains at home.

Boy! Was there a pleasant surprise waiting for us! I am not ashamed to admit that we enjoyed every minute of it! Completely mindless, the movie had no pretension to any message or subtlety; it was just plain old story-telling in the late 70s-early 80s Hindi movie ishtyle... A larger than life Salman, unabashedly corrupt in his role as inspector Chulbul Pandey, but with a frank degree of Robin-Hoodiness that makes him difficult to dislike. A hackneyed tale of sibling rivalry, but Arbaaz - undoubtedly a good actor - expressed well the angst of the younger, weaker brother. Sonu Sood, with a sculpted torso (and sadly, chicken legs), settled well in the role of a believable villain. Most of the other actors were in cameo roles, sharing the screen for short periods of time. We were surprised to see Vinod Khanna after a long time, and Dimple Kapadia in a deglamorized, albeit significant, role. Special appearances were put in by Mahie Gill and Mahesh Manjrekar, as well as veteran actors Anupam Kher, Om Puri and Tinnu Anand. In presence of such established industry regulars, Shatrughan Sinha's daughter, Sonakshi, the lead heroine opposite Salman, held her own quite well - although a large part of her role consisted of her giving smoldering looks; she is pretty and emoted adequately when required.

The songs by the Sajid-Wajid duo were hummable (my particular favorite, the title-song, 'Udd, dabangg, dabangg'), sung by the familiar voices of Sonu Nigam, Shreya Ghoshal, Sukhwinder Singh and the distinctive Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. Malaika was, of course, stunning as usual in the item number (by one Lalit Pandit), although the song somehow lacked her erstwhile Chhaiyaan-chhaiyaan magic. The fight sequences were well choreographed by S Vijayan; although almost all the signature moves (Matrix-type bends, leaps, falls, high kicks and punches) were reminiscent of similar sequences seen in Hollywood action movies, they were brought together into a cohesive whole that was thrilling. Salman also got to do his Hulk act where his shirt tears off and flies away - but a shirtless Salman has always been dear to the masses ever since his Maine Pyaar Kiyaa days. The dialogs were peppy and smart, very UP-Bihar belt type, with a surfeit of jokes that were sometimes downright silly - but they resonated well with the overall impression and flow of the movie. The cinematography by Mahesh Limaye was pleasing to the eye with scarcely a jarring moment, creating a nice, enjoyable visual experience.

It was undiluted fun! No higher cerebral activity involved, we enjoyed the thrill ride of Dabangg very much, as did the other viewers judging from their expressions.

In which I reason with my brother...

Yesterday I expressed my outrage on Facebook at two news items that were reported in the Times Of India - one about India still topping the list of highest maternal mortality rates in the world, and the other about the existence of an 'Untouchability fence' in Tamil Nadu. My brother, ever concerned about my health and well-being, took me to task for my comments, that seemed to him too vitriolic and negative (and therefore, bad for my health in the long run). He interpreted the comments as indicating that I was ashamed of where I am from, and counseled that respect is rare for people who reject their roots. He admonished me that if I felt compelled to post negative news and comments, I should demonstrate fairness by posting positive news also - perhaps thereby preserving some sort of cosmic balance, particularly since [he said] "No place is paradise and no place is a total hell". He also accused me of searching for "every ill on the planet" to comment upon (Just FYI: this is called the SIWOTI syndrome, "Something Is Wrong On The Internet") - which was still all right, but what shocked me was when he uttered this tired old sermon, "Be positive and solution-oriented, not negative and angry", very Deepak Chopra-esque in its vacuity and naïveté.

To a random pearl-clutching crank commenting thusly, I would say, simply, "f*** off." But this is no crank. This is my sharp-as-a-tack brother; he loves me dearly, and I have nothing but affection and admiration for him. And therefore, he deserves a reasoned response. I could start by counting off the interesting, heartening, even exhilarating news items that I have shared on FB, but that would be petty. Let me address the more serious questions.

Beautiful sentiments...

I am a great fan of Cuttlefish. Those who don't know him, check out his brilliant blog, Digital Cuttlefish; the man has an amazing talent for poetry, and is a rationalist and a frequent and well-respected commenter at PZ Myers' Pharyngula. Recently, when talking about Christopher Hitchens' battle with esophageal cancer - an ongoing discussion at Pharyngula - he expressed some beautiful and heart-warming sentiments in a comment. I was immensely moved; they brought tears to my eyes and a glow to my heart. I wished to share that comment with y'all.

Thus spake Cuttlefish:

How do atheists face death?

All too recently, I was at the bedside of a dying atheist. He was not conscious, so I can't speak to how he himself faced death, but I can tell you how his atheist daughters and atheist brothers did.

To the extent that anything offered comfort, it was the knowledge that the doctors were doing what could be done, and the knowledge that he was not suffering. The hospital chaplains were of no use at all, not even to those gathered who *are* believers. There is no way to put a positive spin on losing someone so early; no way to tell a 16-year old girl that this is part of God's plan and have her just accept it.

Of course, the families of other patients offered to pray for us, and assured us that God is great, and that if it is his will, our brother, our father, will recover. I assure you, even when you take it as a sincere expression of their best wishes, assurances of God's mercy start to ring hollow very quickly.

How does an atheist child face her father's death? As bravely as I have seen anyone face anything. There was genuine beauty in the things his daughters said, and none of it relied on an afterlife, or a heaven, or a god. None of it denied the hurt, the heartbreak, the incredible pain of losing a father at such a young age. Death's impact should not be denied; claiming he is in a better place is a slap in the face of the daughter who knows his best place is back home, helping with homework, mowing the lawn, reaching the things on the high shelf.

How does an atheist face death? By facing it, not by denying or diminishing it. Not by turning it into a transition to some other reality. Not by making up a story to make themselves feel better. It hurts because it's real, it's permanent, it's the end. It should hurt.

And now he lives on only in our memory, and in our changed lives. That is his legacy; that is the good he continues to do. He's not looking down and guiding; he doesn't wait for us to join him. If we love him, we can do our best to fight for his causes, to continue his work.

In the real world. The only one we have.

Gotra - the irrational, unscientific idiocy continues...

This great country of ours, India, with its underlying theme of unity in diversity, has a rich cultural heritage of education and knowledge, and civilization. It pains me immensely to find instances of idiotic and irrational customs, based solely in religious myths and superstitions, still existing in modern day India; the pernicious influences of such customs and traditions, fuelled by religious beliefs, are not only degrading the secular principles enshrined in the Constitution of India, but also actively harming the lives of many of its citizens.

Examples abound. Let me refer to a specific and recent one: the controversy about same-gotra (sub-caste) marriages among the Jats of Haryana. It all began with the 2007 murder of a young couple, Manoj and Babli, who were kidnapped and killed for the 'crime' of falling in love and marrying within the same gotra, against the wishes of the Taliban-style local village caste council, the Khap Panchayat. Though the perpetrators were arrested, tried in a court of law and given the death sentence, they were unrepentant - as were the other Khap leaders, who went on to ostracise Manoj's mother. The Jat cops who colluded with the murderers have not been punished yet.

The capital punishment handed out to the perpetrators was meant to act as a deterrent. Yet, undeterred, the Khap chieftains recently pledged to intensify their war against same gotra marriages, and started clamoring for amending to Hindu Marriage Act to ban same-gotra marriages. Recently, in a bizarre turn of events, a young Jat soldier, belonging to the traditionally caste-less Muslim religion, has caught the ire of the Khap for marrying a Muslim girl, whom the Khap considers to belong to the same gotra - never mind the completely different religion!