Insomniacs, Killjoys, and other friendly people

Even in my dream, I knew it was a dream. No cellphones. No sales people. No Sonia Gandhi. I snuggled into my dream.
The telephone exploded. I fell out of bed and grabbed it.
"Hello," I croaked groggily.
"Good afternoon ma'am. I'm Raju from _____. As you're our valued customer, we're offering you a free SIM card..."
"Dear Raju from wherever you are..." I whispered half asleep and then fell into bed and right back into Dreamland. Karnataka had a government. Everyone understood Mamata Banerjee when she spoke. Britney Spears had finally grown up. Newspapers ignored Paris Hilton, Tom-Kat, and the Beckingham Palace. People admitted all they did in Davos was have fun. George Bush was hiding...the phone screamed again.
"Good afternoon ma'am. Are you Aparna Muralidhar?"
"Who wants to know?" I yawned.
"Ma'am, Aparna Muralidhar has won a trip for 2 to Malaysia in a raffle."
"What raffle?"
"Are you Aparna Muralidhar?"
"I am now."
"Congratulations Ma'am! You've won a trip to Malaysia!" he squealed.
"Okay okay, no need to get excited," I said irritably. "How did I win?"
"Are you married?"
"Not that I'm aware of..."
"You visited the exhibition at ______ with your husband where you filled in..."
"Shoot! I missed my own wedding," I muttered.
"...a form for a lucky dip on the 6th of this month at 10 a.m..." he prattled.
"I did not. I was at work."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm not sure. I suffer from Alzheimer's. I'm never sure of anything. When can I go to Malaysia?"
"Err..uh...ma'am are you Aparna Muralidhar?"
"I'm not sure," I said distractedly, "look what you've done... you've confused me," I said and hung up.
I curled up under the covers once more. Reader's Digest was a great magazine again. Music was not recycled. Paper was. I was 18. Deccan Air stayed in the air. State buses crunched only gravel. Everyone had a last name. The BJP was young and was now called Batty Jatty Patty. The phone was ringing....THE PHONE WAS RINGING.
I groaned and snatched it from its cradle.
"Hello?"
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm Amit from ______ bank. We're offering you a personal loan..."
"Great!" I yelled into the phone. "I need a loan right now . I have Alzheimer's and I'm going to Malaysia with a husband I didn't know I had," I tried to sound as hysterical as possible.
"Hello!?!" he said perplexed.
"You can call Raju and check..." I yelled. Amit hung up.
I went back to bed.
I'd barely tucked myself in when the phone shrieked.
"Hello?"
"I'm calling from ____ insurance. We have a wonderful package..."
"Great! I'm going to Malaysia so I need travel insurance. Can you give me your number? I'll call you back."
He gave me his office number, his mobile number, and his home landline. Bingo and big mistake.
I took the phone off the hook and slept till 12 a.m. I woke up at 12 a.m., dug out Mr. Insurance's home landline and dialled.
"Who is it?" demanded an alarmed voice.
"I just wanted to say I'm not going to Malyasia and I don't want insurance," I said sweetly and hung up.

What about the children?

Along with Iraq, Pakistan is now officially in a free fall. Everything that can possibly go wrong with Iraq and Pakistan, has. In Iraq, tragedy is now bordering on the ludicrous. On Jan 1, 2008, a funeral procession for a bombing victim, was bombed. A year after Saddam Hussein was hanged by a kangaroo court and many years after the world woke up to the fact that Iraq never posed any sort of threat to anyone, Osama Bin Laden, the object of George Bush's desire, continues to cock a snook at him. Whatever his faults, Osama has proved a far better human being than Bush: at least, he's hiding.

Pakistan has been running with the hares and hunting with the hounds a long time now. Her embattled President, framed within many a rifle's cross-hairs, is not a man you can loft on to a horse and hope for a ride-into-the-sunset goodbye. After years of feeding him cookies under the table and patting him on the head, Bush now finds himself staring not at the loyal Poster Child he'd hoped to find purring gratefully. With Benazir Bhutto's death - which has been greeted with a convincing show of outrage around the globe - the beleaguered General has marched his nation to the edge of the abyss; in fact, where he is now, the abyss must look pretty inviting to Pervez Musharraf. Pakistan doesn't know who the enemy is anymore; worse, they
don't know who's whose enemy which is more than a little alarming for a nuclear power. Typically, America has stopped the cookie-under-table arrangement overnight and has now queued up behind the Lal Masjid clerics, the Pakistani public, the Pakistani Army, the ISI, Nawaz Sharif, Imran Khan, the Taliban, and a handful of assorted tribes and warlords across Pakistan and Afghanistan who make up Musharraf's distinguished list of enemies.

Then, there is Afghanistan (though barely) where the Taliban continue to have a free run despite (or 'because of' depending on your political leaning) Hamid Karzai. Karzai, Musharraf, and Nouri al-Maliki (the Iraqi PM) all have a common nemesis: George Bush. Only Bush could've accomplished such unmitigated disaster with such cheerfulness. His foreign policy (like him) is ultra simple: Get oil. But make it look like you're getting Osama. And get out of my way (toss grenade over shoulder). Famed as much for his brain and his tongue being in different time zones as for his juvenile rhetoric, Bush has demonstrated how much a sleepy conscience and a me-cowboy smugness can accomplish. Tripping on countless bodies and body parts while supposedly chasing Osama around the globe, the trail of destruction he has left in his wake now spans 3 countries that have plunged into a desperate humanitarian crisis. It is now officially accepted that every Iraqi family has lost or knows someone who has lost at least one person to the war.

Think about the trauma of a long-running war on the children. Their childhood snatched from them. No education. No play. No employment. No future to look forward to. No hope. And the cycle of violence and death playing itself out incessantly in front of their young eyes - all the essential ingredients to incubate assembly-line suicide bombers.

We should stop pretending this is "their" problem - it's now "our" problem. Children know no barriers of geography, race, religion, or colour. They are children of the world.

Will 2008 be the year that we give our children a reason to live and not a reason to die?

Radio ga-ga

It was 5:30 a.m. The RJ had floored the gas pedal on his motorized mouth. Listening to him talk made me gasp for air. He bantered with his colleague in 5 languages as his breathless listeners tried to keep pace. I wanted to throttle him. How can you be happy at 5:30 in the morning? Between them, he and his colleague gave their listeners some pretty useful information. Like if you sprayed perfume on a grizzly, his fur would turn purple. Of course if you did that, everything would turn purple for you, so please don’t try it. I wondered why RJs didn’t come with a statutory warning. Their inescapable verbal violence was turning me into a palpitating schizophrenic with racing thoughts. For example: I was now imagining a perfumed purple-fur grizzly waltzing into the radio station and tickling the bejeezus out of the chattering RJ. Suddenly, Elton Jane began serenading us with “Circle of Life.” Just when he hit his highest note (suhhhhhh-kle), they cut him off and went into ad break. “Tonight, Shekar Gupta walks the talk with Karunanidhi” the announcer boomed enthusiastically. It was hard to get excited. DMK’s answer to Lord Rama could neither walk nor talk. The RJ bounced in. “And –duh-welcome back!” he yelled needlessly. Hello! You welcome back. I didn’t go anywhere. The RJ now had a caller on line who wanted to share his ‘most embarrassing moment’ with the world (isn’t anything sacred anymore?) for which he hoped to win a prize – can you think of anything more embarrassing than that? Dressed to the nines on his way to an off-limits celebrity event, the man had slipped in wet slush. “Nothing is slimier than wet slush,” he concluded soberly having learnt his lesson well. ‘You haven’t met Deve Gowda, have you?’ I thought. The RJ then brought on a spiritual guru, a life coach who began by saying, “Attachment to material things is the root of all misery. Practice detachment.” For a moment, I considered taking his advice and smashing the radio to smithereens. “Be calm in the face of provocation,” he continued. Okay, so I could play Beethoven while I gently pounded the radio with a hammer and a smile. There was only one problem: It was not my radio, I was in a moving vehicle on my way to work. I suddenly understood why Tarzan was such a happy man – he had his own transport and he sang his own songs. “Did you know mosquitoes have teeth?” the RJ asked brightly interrupting my thoughts. My mind raced away: Did mosquitoes get dental checks? If they bit diabetics long enough, would they have dental caries? Did they brush?.....
By the time I got to work, I was wide-eyed and dizzy and desperately need a nap...and that’s when you saw me. So, that’s the story. Now, please, I want my job back.

For Mozart, press 5

"For customer service, press 1.
For your bank statement, press 2.
For your account balance, press 3.
For money transfer, press 4.
Or wait for operator's assistance"
I waited.
"Sasha, Customer Service Executive. May I help you?"
"Hello?" I said cautiously.
"Hello."
"Hello?" I said again.
"Hello!"
"Hello?" I said a third time.
"Yes! Hello! What can I do for you?"
I exhaled. Satisfied I was talking to a live human being, I said, "My name is Aparna Muralidhar..."
"Yes Sir?"
I winced. "I want "stop payment" issued..."
"One moment, Sir" she said and put me on Mozart.
I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes. A cheery image flashed across my mind's eye. I was skipping happily and singing "Joy to the World" in a brightly lit hall while I twisted Sasha's arm behind her back and held her head under water. I shook my head and the image passed. Mozart was interrupted.
"Raja, Customer Care Executive. May I help you?"
"Yes. My name is Aparna Muralidhar. I want stop payment..."
"Your account number Sir?"
"MISS!! M-I-S-S, MISS!!" I hissed.
"Sorry, there's no such number. Thank you for calling customer care. Have a good day Sir," he hung up.
I hung up calmly and dunked my head in the bucket of cold water that I always keep beside me when I call the bank. I wrapped a towel around my head, counted to 10, and dialled again.
"For customer service, press 1.
For your bank statement, press 2.
For your account balance, press 3.
For money transfer, press 4.
Or wait for operator's assistance"
I waited.
"Sasha, Customer Service Executive. May I help you?"
"Yes, I had called just now regarding stop payment..."
"One moment, Sir. I'll transfer your call..." Mozart.
"Raja, Customer Care Executive. May I help you?"
"Yes. My name is Aparna Muralidhar. My account number is..." I recited the 10-digit number. "I've issued a cheque that I want..."
"One moment Sir...yes, I have your account."
'Congratulations you twerp,' I thought. "As I was saying..."
"What is your birth date Sir?"
"8/5/1972 Madam" I sneered.
"And how old are you Sir?" He was apparently happy to belong to either gender.
"872 years Madam."
"One moment Mrs. Muralidhar...."
"MISS, MISS, MISS!!!! What are you? DEAF!?!?" I shrieked.
"Sorry Ms. Muralidhar. What can I do for you Sir?"
"I want to issue stop payment on a cheque," I said wearily.
"You'll have to speak to my colleague. I'll transfer the call, Sir..." Mozart.
"Keerti, Customer Relations Officer. Can I help you?"
"I hope so. Look, I've narrated this story thrice already. I just want a cheque to be stopped from being encashed..."
"Your account number Ma'am?"
I gave her the number.
"Cheque number, Ma'am?" At last we were getting somewhere.
"Sorry Ma'am, it's just been debited from your account a minute ago. Thank you for calling Customer Service Ma'am. Have a nice day."
You bet.
I counted to 10 and called the bank again. I was determined to have a nice day. When Sasha came on line, I said, "There's a bomb strapped to your chair, you twit. If you so much as breathe, they'll have to scrape you off the walls."
"One moment Sir," she said and put me on Mozart.

Coming Home to Roost (or Somebody Please Pinch America)

In 1973, America was brought to her knees by an incensed Saudi Arabia which imposed a total oil embargo on the US, punishing the superpower for siding with Israel in the Yom Kippur war. The short-lived embargo caused America to have a full-blown panic attack. Her concern over Middle-East oil dependence now turned into an obsession. Almost as soon as the embargo was lifted in March 1974, America struck a deal with Saudi Arabia. The House of Saud was wooed with political, economic, and technological support (and if required military protection) for its continued rule and the "modernization" of the Saudi Kingdom. The ancient desert land would be converted into an oasis of unrivalled wealth and opulence. The House of Saud would rule forever. In exchange for uninterrupted oil supply. It was an irresistible deal for the Saudis with their volatile neighbours, lack of military might, and plenty of oil. America's corporates went ballistic in giving the desert kingdom an image makeover. World class goods, services, and facilities soon turned Saudi into a mecca of every luxury that money could buy. It also gave the new generation of Saudis access to the best education system in the West. Their lifestyles changed. They moved away from the traditional Wahabi culture of puritanism, modesty, humility, and submission to their faith and became brazenly materialistic which was an affront to the conservative Wahabis and angered them greatly. One man was witness to the "deal of the century" between Saudi Arabia and America: John Perkins.

For over a decade, Perkins worked as an economic hit man for the American government. His job was to assist in what he terms America's "empire building" - not by military conquest but by economic conquest. America's empire builders are differently attired warriors whose battles are fought in corporate boardrooms and financial institutions around the world. In his book "Confessions of an Economic Hit Man," Perkins describes in shocking and sometimes morbidly fascinating detail America's modus operandi that catapulted her to Sole Superpower status.

Economic hit men are academically brilliant economists who cook the books of Third World economies to produce over-inflated and mostly falsified data to justify granting of huge loans by American controlled international financial institutions to desperately poor countries in a supposed bid to modernize them and bring them into the mainstream. Mammoth infrastructure, electrification, and engineering projects are undertaken by American corporates. In reality, the returns from these projects will never be enough to repay the loans. Once the countries are mired in debts that they cannot repay, America calls in her "pound of flesh" in the form of access to natural resources, crucial votes in international political bodies, trade concessions, and land for military bases. What follows is large scale land and resource grabbing, destruction of ecosystems and indigenous cultures. As an economic hit man, Perkins has seen plenty of economies spill their guts; he's helped rip apart some of them. In Indonesia, Columbia, Panama, Venezuela, Guatemala, Ecuador, Iran, and Iraq, Perkins describes the rise and fall of regimes at America's whims.

When the economic hit men run into opposition, the jackals step in to try and bring their opponents around with threats and bribes. If they fail, the CIA arranges for the opponent's permanent disposal. Latin and South American history books are littered with dead heroes who took on American "corporatocracy." Omar Torrijos of Panama, Salvador Allende of Chile, Jaime Roldos of Ecuador, Jacobo Arbenz of Guatemala...Perkins tells their stories - their struggles, their heroism, their martyrdom all of which proved too little to halt the roll of the juggernaut. If the jackals fail, the American military steps in to forcefully take what doesn't rightfully belong to America - in unprovoked acts of aggression against civilian populations that pose no threat to the United States...like they did in Iraq. America's ill-advised misadventures in Middle Eastern politics is now legendary. She's saddled with Israel who she can't offload because of domestic compulsions, and she's never going to be trusted by the Arabs because of the Israeli albatross around her neck. Decades of tight-rope walking have taken their toll on America, and her growing impatience has made her impulsive and foolish in the Middle East.

Perkins' cathartic outpouring reads like a story searching the landscape for a place to wash off the blood on his own hands. Perkins sketches Roldos and Torrijos with boyish admiration and a yearning envy of their courage of conviction - something he readily admits he lacked for a good part of his career. His story forces the reader to face his/her own culpability in driving our world to the brink of disaster. Every page in Perkins' book underlines the power of the individual and is a subtle call to the reader to be the change that we seek in our world; it forces us to acknowledge that each of us can make a difference for better or for worse, and Perkins comes away with a heightened awareness of this truth from his encounters with the characters in his book.

Having interacted with the people in Third World countries he was assigned to, Perkins knows that they are not anti-democracy, anti-progress, or anti-America. They are anti-greed. They resent a foreign economy's intrusive barge-in. It doesn't help that America is usually clueless about the cultural complexities she barges into. They resent the dollar's purchasing power that corrupts natives and pushes those on the fringes, off the cliff entirely. It angers them that when they oppose America in their own land, her characteristic response is "Go jump." Perkins describes the corporatocracy as a marauding giant that devours 25% of the Earth's resources while comprising only 5% of its population. America teaches and rewards reckless wantoness and has become a society that judges its people not by what they are but by what they have. "The lives of those who "make it" and their accoutrements - their mansions, yachts, and private jets - are presented as models to inspire us all to consume, consume, consume. Every opportunity is taken to convince us that purchasing things is our civic duty, that pillaging the earth is good for the economy and therefore serves our higher interests," says Perkins of a society where more is less. He describes this blood-thirsty quest for global dominance as "a monstrous machine that requires exponentially increasing amounts of fuel and maintenance so much so that in the end, it will have consumed everything in sight and will be left with no choice but to devour itself."

In the same world, 24,000 people die of hunger every single day; 12 million American families are unsure of their next meal; 30% of the world's pollution is caused by America's rogue corporates who have contributed significantly to punching the ozone hole. When nature hits back, the whole world pays for America's myopic self-indulgence.

In Indonesia, Perkins meets a University student who tells him: "Stop being so greedy and selfish. Realize there is more to the world than your big houses and fancy stores. People are starving and you worry about oil for your cars. Babies are dying of thirst and you search the fashion magazines for the latest styles...You shut your ears to the voices of those who try to tell you these things. You label them radicals or communists. You must open your hearts to the poor and downtrodden instead of driving them further into poverty and servitude. There's not much time left. If you don't change, you're doomed."

A proud ignoramus, America knows little and cares even less about the world she inhabits. A genuine lack of knowledge and interest in other cultures allows Americans to believe that in all matters of governance and economics, America knows best. Her hyperbolic rhetoric and her "it's either my way or the highway" approach to all negotiations fails to factor in aspects of culture, religion, tradition, and other complex regional forces that influence the politics and the economics of a society; that democracy and capitalism as she knows and practices it is not the "one size fits all" solution to all the grey-shaded ills of the world. Leading a blinkered, self-centered existence, with a stubborn petulance that demands the world's indulgence, she invites the wrath of extremism against her citizens and to her shores. Labelling this wrath fundamentalism-terrorism-communism, America is happy to bracket the phenomenon and play aggrieved victim to the hilt while never acknowledging her own role in its growth.

In 1977, on one of his visits to Iran, Perkins meets Yamin a proud Persian trying to save the sanctity of his land from the Shah's sellout. Iran's beautiful mountainous desert land is as old and complex as its civilization. "The desert is a symbol," Yamin tells Perkins. The Shah who has been installed after America has overthrown Iran's democratically elected Mohammad Mossadegh, is lording over Iran. Openly pro-American, the Shah has sold the beautiful desert land (and his soul) to the corporatocracy. A Flowering Desert project is underway to green the desert. The corporates will make a killing, but to Yamin and his countrymen, the desert is not an opportunity for exploitation. It is a sacred relationship between the Beduouins and their beloved land. "The desert is our environment. The Flowering Desert project threatens nothing less than the destruction of our entire fabric. How can we allow this to happen?...We are the desert," says Yamin passionately. His words fall on deaf ears till Ayatollah Khomeni and his clerics instigate a riotous and violent street uprising to snatch Iran from the hands of the Shah. The Shah is forced flee to Egypt and then to America to escape the murderous rage of the Ayatollah.

It would be unfair to attribute all of America's success to corporate greed. Victims of humanitarian crises around the world have been beneficiaries of American altruism for decades. Her unconditional respect and recognition of merit and hard work has made America home to millions of non-Americans. America's impressive roll-call of innovators in every field is a tribute to her legacy of nuturing and rewarding individual creativity. She has it made and she's willing to share her wealth and success with all those who keep her banner flying high. Usually fair and impartial in her judgements in her own land, America's vibrant democracy affords her citizens a genuinely optimistic chance to constantly better their lives. She celebrates not just individual successes but glorious comebacks as well. She loves to pull people out of the dumps, dust them over, give them a second shot at the "American Dream" and cheer them from the sidelines as they come in for their home run. All this keeps her forever young, bold, and creative - a reputation that she guards jealously. It also makes her terribly restless and willing to do whatever it takes to stay Numero Uno - including crossing her shores to find the resources that will keep her keeping on. America is benevolent and beautiful but only as long as she stays home.

America has never had a distinct culture of her own in her 2-century-old existency. Dubbed the melting pot of the world, she makes up her culture as she goes along. Now is Nirvana. Her insensitive meddling with cultures that are as old as civilization itself is regarded as an unconscionable transgression by the more conservative keepers of their cultures. When the clash threatens a value system, reactionary rage is bound to throw up die-hard defenders of their faiths and lands. Rampaging the earth on the lookout for the next big buy, America has managed to make the "American Dream" a global nightmare with entire societies trying desperately to keep up with the Joneses. Technological leaps in communication (and the CIA's own declassifed documents) have now made it possible for everyone to see what's happening everywhere. And there are plenty of people who don't like what they see and have access to the same technology to demonstrate how offended they are. In the much cliched "global village" there are no more well-kept secrets. So now, the chickens are coming home to roost.

"On May 7, 2003, a group of American lawyers representing more than thirty thousand indigenous Ecuadorian people filed a $1 billion lawsuit...against ChevronTexaco Crop. The suit asserts that between 1971 and 1992, the oil giant dumped into open holes and rivers over four million gallons per day of toxic waste water contaminated with oil, heavy metals, and carcinogens, and the company left behind nearly 350 uncovered waste pits that continue to kill both people and animals."

With her history of engineered assassinations and political coups in foreign lands to serve her own interests, her unprovoked aggression against weaker societies to enslave their resources, her brazen mining of the Earth's resources beyond her own shores, her bull in a china shop stomping on delicate toes, aggressive trading tactics, and gluttonous greed, America wonders (seemingly innocently) why the world loves to hate her. Perhaps it's time the world gave America a wake-up pinch.

"Is There A God?"

Manmohan Singh: Yes, and I am her most faithful servant.

Nicolas Sarkozy: Only in France.

Sanjay Dutt: I hope so.

China: No, but if you place an order we can make Him.

George Bush: I am He. Duh.

Salman Khan: There'd better be.

CPM: We're not saying there is no God. We're just saying show us the proof there is.

Arun Jaitley: I cannot comment as the matter is sub judice.

Hillary Clinton: Ask me next year.

Mamata Banerjee: I am the proof.

Hugo Chavez: I don't know about God. But there is a devil who thinks he's God.

Woody Allen: I don't know yet. I'm trying find out in my next film titled 'Who allowed the Devil to wear Prada?'


Kapil Sibal: If there is, how do you explain Arun Jaitley?

Dick Cheney: Maybe...at an undisclosed location.

Pervez Mussharaf: You tell me.


Fidel Castro: Where?

There's still hope...

Secularism comes naturally when geography and economics don't allow it to be any other way - like India where each state is practically a country of its own, foreign to its neighbour in language, culture, customs, food, clothes - there's no unifying factor, no common denominator for "being Indian." Yet, we've lived for centuries in mostly peaceful coexistence. Because of this diversity within our own land, we have learnt tolerance better than any other race in the world. Instances of bigotry have been fewer than you would expect in such a diverse nation with abysmal literacy and employment rates. Being "Third World" has helped to a large extent to make us more tolerant. Economic and societal compulsions force us to share limited space with different kinds of people. There is no money (or MasterCard) to buy ourselves a better life without our neighbours whom we might hate but cannot choose, so we learn to love our neighbours. We're still dependent on one another in more ways than people in more developed countries where money can get you into a better neighbourhood if you don't like your present one. This luxury decreases everybody's tolerance levels. Urban India hosts multitudes of rural immigrants who've flocked to cities in search of better lives. Away from their homes in an alien land, with no money or work, they turn to each other for support. When you don't have money, you don't care if you're a Bengali, a Kannadiga, a Malayali, or a Gujarati; what you are first is Poor, then you're Indian/secular poor Indian who is keeping our democracy alive. While the likes of me will blog about it from within the warm confines of my room, it's the secular poor Indian who is trudging to caste his vote to throw out non-performing elected reprsentatives and bring in new ones; they do it because they have more at stake than we do. To the middle-class Indian, it makes no difference who's ruling. To the poor secular Indian, it does, so while I blog about it, my fellow countrymen quietly walk the talk. That's why there's still hope...

The Journal of the One-legged Hopper

I've just about had it with this city's traffic. I've found a new mode of transport. It's called the One-legged Hippity Hippity Hop. All you need is a pair of good legs.
No driving license, no parking hassles, no traffic lights - it's your ticket to anywhere anytime.

Monday August 16, 2007, 9:30 a.m.: I've just hopped into an air-conditioned office where the receptionist (a cross between Jennifer Aniston and Shilpa Shetty) gives me a head-to-foot once over. "I want to see your manager," I rasp breathlessly. She gets up, she's chewing gum, she's been poured into her clothes, and she never takes her eyes off me till she ducks around the corner and trills "There's a kangaroo in to see you."

Monday August 16, 2007, 5 p.m.: I'm hippitying to the grocery about half a kilometer away when a car zips past next to me, a window rolls down, and I'm showered with coins. "HEYYYYY!" I scream "Come back, come back. Look, look," I jump up and down with both legs and I thank God I can't see myself. I pick up the coins, count the change, and pocket it.

Tuesday August 17, 2007, 11 a.m.: I've hippited in to a gift shop. Everyone stares at my left leg which I've folded backwards 90 degrees at the knee and forgotten to lower. I decide to brazen it. I point at my legs and shrug and twitter. Everyone shrugs. No one twitters though.

Wednesday August 18, 2007, 9:45 a.m.: I'm in a mall. I've come to the parking lot and I put my legs down and sit down to rest. The security guy blows his whistle angrily at me. I get mad. I mime a steering wheel and back out in reverse humming "Here comes the bride" on the top of my lungs. Then, I shift gears, zoom in again, park, and jump out of my air car. "Happy?" I snarl. His whistle and jaw drop. I go back and lock my car.

Thursday August 19, 2007, 10:30 a.m.: I'm still hopping around in the cool mall, shifting legs every now and then. I get plenty of eyeballs and cat calls. I feel like a Babhi doll.

August 22, 2007, 9:30 a.m.: Oh, I think I missed 2 lunches and 2 dinners. This doesn't seem like such a good idea after all.

August 22, 2007, 5:30 p.m.: I'm in a shop looking for stilts...

Whodunit (yawn)

What's so surprising about CIA's alleged edits to Wikipedia entries? If you start a free-for-all online encyclopedia that people anywhere can contribute to and edit, it's hardly news that they do. Virgil Griffith, the CalTech graduate who developed the tracker is a self-confessed hacker. I wonder if the spotlight is turned in the wrong direction. If there's any surprise in all this, it's that the CIA has the time to edit an entry which someone else can edit again before you can say 'Wikipedia.'

Other red-faced boys caught with their hands in the cookie jar include Fox News, The Vatican, Wal-Mart, BBC, US Congress members' offices, and Diebold (interesting name for a voting machine vendor). Yeah right. We never heard of spin doctors before now.

BLOGPRINT - a contest for bloggers!

ATTENTION BLOGGERS WHO VISIT THIS BLOG

Sulekha.com in partnership with Penguin India introduces BLOGPRINT, a 6-month long contest starting August 1, 2007, and ending January 31, 2008. There are prizes to be won every week for 6 months. 52 of the best entries will be shortlisted to 25 by a jury. The 25 shortlists will get published in a Penguin book slated for a July 2008 release. Please log in to sulekha.com for details. Good luck! See you on sulekha!