Every time I travel the Indian Railways (which thankfully I do not use very often these days after successfully convincing my mother that not all cars on the highway are run over by trucks), I am amazed by how little this anachronistic monster has changed in all these years. It is still a moving museum, a piece of Byzantine art that, in spite of all our talk on modernity, of scientific and technological prowess or our rise as a ‘superpower’, simply refuses to change, a few model rakes, bio-toilets and the engine-less train-18 notwithstanding. It is justifiably an embodiment of everything that is wrong in this country. A grim reminder of our abject lack of creativity and our unwillingness to shake off the colonial past that has stuck to us as much as our murdered, disfigured English.
It’s the Teachers’ Day, they remind me again on a distracting day of tense US Open. It’s the day to appear in happy selfies, when you are wished by your students either with the bare minimum triplet, or with an outpouring of heart, reminding you of their first encounter or lesson that you strain hard to recall. It’s the day when, sometimes, an unblown cake bearing your name falls prey to a transparent plastic knife.
People kill people. Guns don’t.
True. Packed with harmless powders lying lazily behind cold metal, they are just a little device of hammers and springs that doesn’t do anything on its own. Sold in swanky showrooms where they are laid out enticingly under the glare of piercing lights that reflect off their polished bodies, they are just as innocuous as your shiny figurine of the Spider man. Yep, they are slick, super sexy toys. Big men love them. Kids love them. They are cool to have
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