Monday, May 25, 2009
Scattered Reflections
About a week ago, I went to watch a theatre performance- the first time ever in my life when I sat in the audience. My previous experience inside a theatre was on stage, and the second time was during an LST class.
Unfortunately, it turned out to be quite a disappointing event. For one, as I left the theatre, it dawned on me that I may soon turn into an addict- a theatre addict. And as if that wasn’t enough, raising the bar so high with the very first play that I watched might make other good performances appear quite pale in comparison. I know, I know, and I am thankful for your sympathies.
It might seem impossible to watch Bikhre Bimb by Girish Karnad and not turn into a theatre junkie. For the uninitiated (as I was, not too long before the play came to town), he is probably one of the most respected and distinguished playwrights in Karnataka. This play was a Hindi adaptation of his award-winning play in Kannada, the name of which eludes me at the moment, owing to my ineptness at the language. I do beg your pardon. A year in Bangalore, I should have learnt a lot more than just the rudimentaries.
The review of the play in the newspapers talked about the story of a Kannada author who struggles with her books for a long time, until she finally writes a book in English and gains instant recognition the world over. However, the guilt of betraying her mother tongue follows her as she climbs new heights of success and falls into new abysses of moral dilemmas. While waiting for the play to start, I had the nagging feeling that I might not like the play, owing to a conflict of the idea discussed in it and my own sensibilities and ideas.
Turns out I was wrong.
The play was far more than just a moral predicament arising out of a supposed betrayal to the mother tongue. In fact, this aspect was just a microcosm of the larger picture that the play attempted to deal with.
A one-and-a-half-hour performance executed to perfection through a compelling portrayal by a single woman, this play flit in and out of the light, dark and gray areas of human nature. While on stage one sees a sole performer, the presence of the other two absentee characters to the story is strongly felt. Whether that can be attributed to the adroit writing of the writer, or the skilful portrayal of the actress is hard to figure out. All that can be ascertained is the intricate weaving of human emotions, natures, helplessness, wickedness and morality into the plot, as the audience is left baffled as to their own stand. Who should they attribute the evil in the plot to: the deceptive and selfish wife, who cheats the whole world while bowed down by neglect by her own parents, tied to managing a household as she struggles with a handicap sister, a sliding career and an apathetic husband, or the home-wrecking ungrateful handicapped sister, who brings sunshine and cheer wherever she goes and whomever she meets, brimming with positivity and heavily parasitic, or the philandering apathetic husband, who himself finds no understanding from his wife as he stays at home and works?
Not an easy question to answer. The play progresses ostensibly to attribute all the blame on the protagonist, the wife. I still am not entirely sure, however, whether the feelings that it invoked in me were intended to be invoked or not, since they were in direct conflict with the ostensible flow of the play. I relied upon what we call ‘mitigating circumstances’ in law to deliver my judgment upon the situation, liberating the protagonist from all the blame that she carried upon her shoulders.
It is quite commendable how Girish Karnad managed to weave such a complex web of human predicaments, vulnerabilities and malice, while simultaneously arousing sympathy and admonishment in the eyes of the audience. Though it might be a little premature to say this, considering I have watched only one play, it does appear to me that Girish Karnad deserves every single one of the laurels that are showered upon him.
And with this, I welcome myself into the world of intelligentsia (yes, I did ponder over whether I wanted to look intellectual at the performance, or modish. I settled on whatever comes naturally to me).
Unfortunately, it turned out to be quite a disappointing event. For one, as I left the theatre, it dawned on me that I may soon turn into an addict- a theatre addict. And as if that wasn’t enough, raising the bar so high with the very first play that I watched might make other good performances appear quite pale in comparison. I know, I know, and I am thankful for your sympathies.
It might seem impossible to watch Bikhre Bimb by Girish Karnad and not turn into a theatre junkie. For the uninitiated (as I was, not too long before the play came to town), he is probably one of the most respected and distinguished playwrights in Karnataka. This play was a Hindi adaptation of his award-winning play in Kannada, the name of which eludes me at the moment, owing to my ineptness at the language. I do beg your pardon. A year in Bangalore, I should have learnt a lot more than just the rudimentaries.
The review of the play in the newspapers talked about the story of a Kannada author who struggles with her books for a long time, until she finally writes a book in English and gains instant recognition the world over. However, the guilt of betraying her mother tongue follows her as she climbs new heights of success and falls into new abysses of moral dilemmas. While waiting for the play to start, I had the nagging feeling that I might not like the play, owing to a conflict of the idea discussed in it and my own sensibilities and ideas.
Turns out I was wrong.
The play was far more than just a moral predicament arising out of a supposed betrayal to the mother tongue. In fact, this aspect was just a microcosm of the larger picture that the play attempted to deal with.
A one-and-a-half-hour performance executed to perfection through a compelling portrayal by a single woman, this play flit in and out of the light, dark and gray areas of human nature. While on stage one sees a sole performer, the presence of the other two absentee characters to the story is strongly felt. Whether that can be attributed to the adroit writing of the writer, or the skilful portrayal of the actress is hard to figure out. All that can be ascertained is the intricate weaving of human emotions, natures, helplessness, wickedness and morality into the plot, as the audience is left baffled as to their own stand. Who should they attribute the evil in the plot to: the deceptive and selfish wife, who cheats the whole world while bowed down by neglect by her own parents, tied to managing a household as she struggles with a handicap sister, a sliding career and an apathetic husband, or the home-wrecking ungrateful handicapped sister, who brings sunshine and cheer wherever she goes and whomever she meets, brimming with positivity and heavily parasitic, or the philandering apathetic husband, who himself finds no understanding from his wife as he stays at home and works?
Not an easy question to answer. The play progresses ostensibly to attribute all the blame on the protagonist, the wife. I still am not entirely sure, however, whether the feelings that it invoked in me were intended to be invoked or not, since they were in direct conflict with the ostensible flow of the play. I relied upon what we call ‘mitigating circumstances’ in law to deliver my judgment upon the situation, liberating the protagonist from all the blame that she carried upon her shoulders.
It is quite commendable how Girish Karnad managed to weave such a complex web of human predicaments, vulnerabilities and malice, while simultaneously arousing sympathy and admonishment in the eyes of the audience. Though it might be a little premature to say this, considering I have watched only one play, it does appear to me that Girish Karnad deserves every single one of the laurels that are showered upon him.
And with this, I welcome myself into the world of intelligentsia (yes, I did ponder over whether I wanted to look intellectual at the performance, or modish. I settled on whatever comes naturally to me).
Monday, May 18, 2009
I Prefer Being Read To
Fascism, SS, Auschwitz, Nazism, Hitler are all words we have been groomed to revile and admonish. Presumably the greatest evil forces mankind has seen, the perpetrators have not been treated kindly by history. Apart from the judicial trials, each one of them undergoes moral trials every time there is a mention of such forces in quotidian conversations. Literature is dense with diatribes containing gory details of the inhumanities that went on in that hell-on-Earth. Quite justifiably so too. Gassing people to death, parading them nude to test for physical fitness, freezing them to their mortality are acts that do not deserve an empathetic understanding of those who committed them.
I am no different. I have been a part of those quotidian conversations, I have read the literature, I have been taught History at school.
The two hours therefore were a period of immense internal conflict: conflict between my emotions, conflict between my moralities, conflict between the right and the wrong. Yes, The Reader does not do wonders to convention. The taboos of a May December romance and that of Nazism shirk their identity in the movie. A 15 year old boy making love to a 36 year old woman between reading sessions comes across as just another love story between people just belonging to different backgrounds. The good-natured protagonists evoke sympathy in their innocent romance. Yes, I know some would disagree with the term ‘innocent’ when it involves rampant sexuality, but I shall use it nevertheless. The romance might have originated with licentiousness, but it culminated into a tacit understanding of each other’s love and dependence, the love often curing the other’s complexes. The scrupulous woman exposes her piety through her tears inside a church, through her rewarded diligence in her menial job, through her insanity towards cleanliness. The boy exhibits affection in his conversations, he’s besotted in his poetry, nonchalance in the societal rejection of his love, child-like in the affair.
The story through the first half carries the viewer with the lovers through a studio, a quaint village, through intimacy and arguments until the viewer gets accustomed to their bond and begins to laugh with the couple, cry with the couple, begins to connect with the couple. And just as things are getting under your skin, the track changes. It’s not only the boy who’s left confused, but so is the viewer. The woman, who you had for long been connecting with, who you had for so long getting carried to different landscapes with, is suddenly the villain. Do you hate her? Do you feel sympathy?
The story leaves no doubt as to what it expects you to do. If the Jews were persecuted at Auschwitz, it was a superior decision; she was only doing her job. Time and again, her helplessness in visible when the Jury fails to understand her predicament in trying to do her job. So if women were dispatched to be killed, it was only to make room for the new batches that kept pouring in without caring for accommodation. But room needed to be made. And her job was to make room. How could she possibly have altered the requirements of her as from above? That wasn’t her decision to make. She was only a guard. How could she let lose the Jews from a burning chapel, when she was responsible for them, to ensure they wouldn’t escape? She was a guard meant to keep prisoners under custody, not to add to the chaos. Yes, she was a guard who did her job. What would you have done?
She needed a job, she got one, and she didn’t know better than to do it well, as proved time and time again. So she did. How was she to judge what the ulterior scheme was? For her, they were prisoners, and prisoners are to be guarded, and treated the way is prescribed and killed the way is ordered. Why should she be punished for doing her job?
And who is to say whether she was the perpetrator or the victim herself? I guess that is the larger question the movie attempts to answer. To reduce it to a cliché, she was a victim of circumstance, she was a victim of deceit too, she was a victim of her own shame.
Somehow, the movie carries you through these questions, so that you annihilate your conventional grooming and hatred, and sympathise with the woman. She was one of the many who did wrong, but that happened because she was wronged too, and continued to be wronged even after.
Would it be a misnomer to call it a ‘wrong’? The movie raises the legal question too, for those who care to notice. Something we discussed right in the beginning of our Law course. The boy’s teacher, very momentously says, how society believes it is run by something called morals; but it isn’t. It is run by something called the law. And each must be judged against the law as prevailed at that time- not our law, just like not our morals.
I did not hate her for her mercilessness. I did not feel apologetic about her mechanics. I only felt bad about her shame.
This entire passage might seem extremely vague, but the loopholes will be filled once the story is visited. I was afraid of spoilers, thus had to knit it this way. But that doesn’t change the fact that it is one of the most introspective, mentally turbulent movies I have seen- not because the stories of the protagonists were troublesome, but because my own was.
I am no different. I have been a part of those quotidian conversations, I have read the literature, I have been taught History at school.
The two hours therefore were a period of immense internal conflict: conflict between my emotions, conflict between my moralities, conflict between the right and the wrong. Yes, The Reader does not do wonders to convention. The taboos of a May December romance and that of Nazism shirk their identity in the movie. A 15 year old boy making love to a 36 year old woman between reading sessions comes across as just another love story between people just belonging to different backgrounds. The good-natured protagonists evoke sympathy in their innocent romance. Yes, I know some would disagree with the term ‘innocent’ when it involves rampant sexuality, but I shall use it nevertheless. The romance might have originated with licentiousness, but it culminated into a tacit understanding of each other’s love and dependence, the love often curing the other’s complexes. The scrupulous woman exposes her piety through her tears inside a church, through her rewarded diligence in her menial job, through her insanity towards cleanliness. The boy exhibits affection in his conversations, he’s besotted in his poetry, nonchalance in the societal rejection of his love, child-like in the affair.
The story through the first half carries the viewer with the lovers through a studio, a quaint village, through intimacy and arguments until the viewer gets accustomed to their bond and begins to laugh with the couple, cry with the couple, begins to connect with the couple. And just as things are getting under your skin, the track changes. It’s not only the boy who’s left confused, but so is the viewer. The woman, who you had for long been connecting with, who you had for so long getting carried to different landscapes with, is suddenly the villain. Do you hate her? Do you feel sympathy?
The story leaves no doubt as to what it expects you to do. If the Jews were persecuted at Auschwitz, it was a superior decision; she was only doing her job. Time and again, her helplessness in visible when the Jury fails to understand her predicament in trying to do her job. So if women were dispatched to be killed, it was only to make room for the new batches that kept pouring in without caring for accommodation. But room needed to be made. And her job was to make room. How could she possibly have altered the requirements of her as from above? That wasn’t her decision to make. She was only a guard. How could she let lose the Jews from a burning chapel, when she was responsible for them, to ensure they wouldn’t escape? She was a guard meant to keep prisoners under custody, not to add to the chaos. Yes, she was a guard who did her job. What would you have done?
She needed a job, she got one, and she didn’t know better than to do it well, as proved time and time again. So she did. How was she to judge what the ulterior scheme was? For her, they were prisoners, and prisoners are to be guarded, and treated the way is prescribed and killed the way is ordered. Why should she be punished for doing her job?
And who is to say whether she was the perpetrator or the victim herself? I guess that is the larger question the movie attempts to answer. To reduce it to a cliché, she was a victim of circumstance, she was a victim of deceit too, she was a victim of her own shame.
Somehow, the movie carries you through these questions, so that you annihilate your conventional grooming and hatred, and sympathise with the woman. She was one of the many who did wrong, but that happened because she was wronged too, and continued to be wronged even after.
Would it be a misnomer to call it a ‘wrong’? The movie raises the legal question too, for those who care to notice. Something we discussed right in the beginning of our Law course. The boy’s teacher, very momentously says, how society believes it is run by something called morals; but it isn’t. It is run by something called the law. And each must be judged against the law as prevailed at that time- not our law, just like not our morals.
I did not hate her for her mercilessness. I did not feel apologetic about her mechanics. I only felt bad about her shame.
This entire passage might seem extremely vague, but the loopholes will be filled once the story is visited. I was afraid of spoilers, thus had to knit it this way. But that doesn’t change the fact that it is one of the most introspective, mentally turbulent movies I have seen- not because the stories of the protagonists were troublesome, but because my own was.
Clinging on...
You often cling on to things. You live under the impression that it’s too precious to lose, too hard to let go. But maybe not. Maybe it won’t be that hard. Maybe it will be quite easy to live without. Maybe you’d understand that only after you take the plunge.
But you wouldn’t ever realise that. Because you’re too scared to let go.
But you wouldn’t ever realise that. Because you’re too scared to let go.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
I need to remember...
I clasp my hands together
To recreate the touch.
But I don’t feel the tingle in my nerves
With you that I used to as much.
I try to stroke my thumb
I close my eyes and think
Of your sweet breath on my hands
Of your lips on my skin as they sink
But the air creates no magic
The pretence does no justice
-to the joy in your smile
To the softness in your kiss
To the mischief in your eyes
To the love in your words.
No, the air only pierces
Through my mirage like brutal swords.
It awakens me to your absence
It reminds me of the void
It hits my face and runs
Like a lover annoyed
I know there’s no use chasing
I know the times have gone
I know I’m now awake
The dream’s left me alone
Yes, I think I was asleep
All through the days of joy
How else does one explain
Their sudden turn coy?
I think I lived a story-
A fairy tale for girls
The song, the dance, the laughter
Left me dizzy in a swirl
So dizzy that I now forget
The line between truth and lie
I mix up reality and illusion
It confuses me. I cry.
I cry because I know
It couldn’t have been a blur
But the loneliness tells me otherwise
The empty answers are a slur.
Why can’t I connect the past with today?
Why is my elation today so dismayed?
I ask you for the answers
I beg you to see
I know it all happened once
Won’t you try to assure me?
To recreate the touch.
But I don’t feel the tingle in my nerves
With you that I used to as much.
I try to stroke my thumb
I close my eyes and think
Of your sweet breath on my hands
Of your lips on my skin as they sink
But the air creates no magic
The pretence does no justice
-to the joy in your smile
To the softness in your kiss
To the mischief in your eyes
To the love in your words.
No, the air only pierces
Through my mirage like brutal swords.
It awakens me to your absence
It reminds me of the void
It hits my face and runs
Like a lover annoyed
I know there’s no use chasing
I know the times have gone
I know I’m now awake
The dream’s left me alone
Yes, I think I was asleep
All through the days of joy
How else does one explain
Their sudden turn coy?
I think I lived a story-
A fairy tale for girls
The song, the dance, the laughter
Left me dizzy in a swirl
So dizzy that I now forget
The line between truth and lie
I mix up reality and illusion
It confuses me. I cry.
I cry because I know
It couldn’t have been a blur
But the loneliness tells me otherwise
The empty answers are a slur.
Why can’t I connect the past with today?
Why is my elation today so dismayed?
I ask you for the answers
I beg you to see
I know it all happened once
Won’t you try to assure me?
Friday, May 8, 2009
It Rained Today
Delhi and Bangalore. Bangalore and Delhi. Two places that I have now come to call home. A lot of people would be surprised to find me accepting a second home in Bangalore so soon. For them, the city is much too hostile to North Indians. For me, this is the city where it rains a lot.
I remember my early months here, July, August, September. I used to promise myself that I would carry an umbrella whenever I would step out of the hostel. Downpours are quite unpredictable. Yes, I would forget more often than thought. But really, I am not complaining. There is nothing so natural that fills me with more joy (alright, maybe the ocean does. Am I a person with clichéd choices?) than heavy raindrops, or even light ones, on my head and dripping from my nose, with mud on my legs and soiled clothes on my body.
As a kid, I used to leave a bowl out in my veranda to fill with hailstones during a hailstorm. That would then serve as a dinner-time meal or something. Unhealthy, I heard someone say? Maybe. But so was the sand that I used to eat as a kid. Never got me ill. Why should this? It was all for the greater purpose of juvenile joy, unadulterated fun. I don’t know how apt the term unadulterated is here, though. But hey! That was hail, condensed out of evaporated water, which is devoid of all bacteria and dirt. No question of being unhealthy (my teacher later explained to me the concept of acid rain in urban dwellings. Delhi. Hmph.).
Now? Now I am a lot more conscious of getting wet in the rain. It’s been a long time since I did. Even before, for me it was never ‘dancing in the rain’, but just walking, standing, sitting, running sometimes, in the rain. I would spread my arms out like an eagle, tilt my head towards the sky, close my eyes, and just stand, with a quaint smile on my lips.
It rained today, and that’s what I did. I went to the terrace of my hostel building, spread my arms out like an eagle, tilted my head towards the sky, closed my eyes, and just stood... with a quaint smile on my lips.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Phoenix
This is probably the first personal post on this blog; comes after a long hiatus too. Apologies. The whirlwind in life had settled priorities in a different manner. But now that I find myself free of certain priorities, I think I can promise to stay close to this love of writing that I have.
While I am at it, might I also very shamefully confess that the horrendous beast called Writer’s Block has for long held me captive, and here I write, still under its chains, struggling to break free. You see, I had always prided myself in managing to let my emotions flow through the fingers, out from the pen. Lately,even though the emtions have been full, the ink seems to be elusive. From now on, I will wait for the day where I can lose myself in the world of rhymes again, to release myself of the human bondage of emotions and excuses of this world. Quite a heavy baggage to lug around in life; one that I unabashedly confess I had a swayamvar with. This is a promise I make here today. Since I don’t know how many out there care to hold me to my promise, I shall do it to myself.
Thing is, you need to prove yourself time and again, to gain the respect that you were previously used to. Thing also is that respect comes only to the winners. Hmmm. Not really. Let me rephrase that. You might have respect, you might not have respect, but in victory, you humble people (there are also cases I have seen in the recent past where victors were generous enough to give their own humility away to people. Believe me, that’s not what I am talking about).
Let me recount an anecdote to you. And while I am at it, you are at liberty to opine whether I am blowing my lungs out in the big loud trumpet that I possess, or that I am speaking of this as a mere example. While I have given you the liberty to opine either way (Freedom of Thought, enshrined in the Preamble, as my enthusiastic Constitutional Law Professor would have added at this point), I shall also give myself the liberty of clarifying that it is the latter.
It was a squirrel that carried the message of our extreme, profound idiocy over all of Law School the other day. Yes, a tiny squirrel that turned into a big reason for everyone to laugh over. If you know the background, you might catch the pun. But since you don’t, let me tell you that squirrel is a part of a definition challenge in Parliamentary Debating, wherein the Opposition rejects the definition of the motion put forth by the Proposition, claiming, plain and simple, illogicality.
Fortunate are those debators who encounter a definition challenge. Careers in debating have spanned without being witness to a single definition challnge, let alone be a part of it. The best debators in our college have seen at the most only one. The seasoned, international adjudicator, who has adjudged over hundreds of debates has also seen only one. Should it take any effort on my part to tell you the fortune that we possess for being part of such a rare and historic event right at the beginning of something that cannot even be called a career yet, but merely a few experiences here and there?
You get the point. We were the junior-most batch, against the senior-most batch. And needledd to say, we lost. But we were cool about it (allow me to recount the only consolation), as I have repeated over and over again, in efforts to salvage the sheer stupidity on our part. One of the speakers on the opposite side said that if we could prove that murder is equal to death penalty, then our definition would stand and they would gladly concede defeat. So this is what I say: what is the State ultimately doing when it awards someone a death penalty? Through the death penalty, it murders the person. Thus, murder = death penalty. So there. That didn’t win us the debate (we never expected it to), but that did win us a few bangs on the table.
What ensued were snide jokes over ‘definitions’ and ‘first years, please clarify’ all the next day, before the next round of debate. This spilled over even during the debate: the obvious contempt and amusement on the faces of our opponent were hard to ignore. “We accept their definition,” was their opening line. Somehow, through the course of the debate, the smugness slowly melted away, into anxiety over the course of the debate.
We had defeated a senior time. The smugness had paid its price. The underdog had risen. The laity had bowed.
It was quite a sociological study how their attitude changed post-debate. The “we will slaughter them”, “they have no chance”, was replaced by “dude, you guys are really good. We were nothing like this in our first year”, “dude, I am really sorry”, (handshake) (another there).
Yes, it felt good to win. Yes, it felt good to make the upset we were traditionally expected to make. But it felt best to turn the tables over, to rise like the phoenix. Okay, maybe I am overdoing it. But I notice such stuff. And I did this time too- how everyone reacted to us differently after the debate. And it felt good to prove everyone wrong. It felt good to prove myself wrong too. But that’s a different matter.
Surprisingly, the obvious-contempt-turned-awe in the seniors did not arouse acerbity in me. Somehow, after yesterday, I too perceive them in a different light, one emitting from respect. I don’t have an explanation to that. All I can say is that I feel proud in proving that we might not be pros like the others, but we’re not a useless bunch of first years making a fool of ourselves either. I feel proud in feeling not hatred or contempt over the others, but more respect than I used to. It’s not like we’re brilliant debaters, but it feels good to win this acknowledgement from those who are, as also from those who had signed us off.
While I am at it, might I also very shamefully confess that the horrendous beast called Writer’s Block has for long held me captive, and here I write, still under its chains, struggling to break free. You see, I had always prided myself in managing to let my emotions flow through the fingers, out from the pen. Lately,even though the emtions have been full, the ink seems to be elusive. From now on, I will wait for the day where I can lose myself in the world of rhymes again, to release myself of the human bondage of emotions and excuses of this world. Quite a heavy baggage to lug around in life; one that I unabashedly confess I had a swayamvar with. This is a promise I make here today. Since I don’t know how many out there care to hold me to my promise, I shall do it to myself.
Thing is, you need to prove yourself time and again, to gain the respect that you were previously used to. Thing also is that respect comes only to the winners. Hmmm. Not really. Let me rephrase that. You might have respect, you might not have respect, but in victory, you humble people (there are also cases I have seen in the recent past where victors were generous enough to give their own humility away to people. Believe me, that’s not what I am talking about).
Let me recount an anecdote to you. And while I am at it, you are at liberty to opine whether I am blowing my lungs out in the big loud trumpet that I possess, or that I am speaking of this as a mere example. While I have given you the liberty to opine either way (Freedom of Thought, enshrined in the Preamble, as my enthusiastic Constitutional Law Professor would have added at this point), I shall also give myself the liberty of clarifying that it is the latter.
It was a squirrel that carried the message of our extreme, profound idiocy over all of Law School the other day. Yes, a tiny squirrel that turned into a big reason for everyone to laugh over. If you know the background, you might catch the pun. But since you don’t, let me tell you that squirrel is a part of a definition challenge in Parliamentary Debating, wherein the Opposition rejects the definition of the motion put forth by the Proposition, claiming, plain and simple, illogicality.
Fortunate are those debators who encounter a definition challenge. Careers in debating have spanned without being witness to a single definition challnge, let alone be a part of it. The best debators in our college have seen at the most only one. The seasoned, international adjudicator, who has adjudged over hundreds of debates has also seen only one. Should it take any effort on my part to tell you the fortune that we possess for being part of such a rare and historic event right at the beginning of something that cannot even be called a career yet, but merely a few experiences here and there?
You get the point. We were the junior-most batch, against the senior-most batch. And needledd to say, we lost. But we were cool about it (allow me to recount the only consolation), as I have repeated over and over again, in efforts to salvage the sheer stupidity on our part. One of the speakers on the opposite side said that if we could prove that murder is equal to death penalty, then our definition would stand and they would gladly concede defeat. So this is what I say: what is the State ultimately doing when it awards someone a death penalty? Through the death penalty, it murders the person. Thus, murder = death penalty. So there. That didn’t win us the debate (we never expected it to), but that did win us a few bangs on the table.
What ensued were snide jokes over ‘definitions’ and ‘first years, please clarify’ all the next day, before the next round of debate. This spilled over even during the debate: the obvious contempt and amusement on the faces of our opponent were hard to ignore. “We accept their definition,” was their opening line. Somehow, through the course of the debate, the smugness slowly melted away, into anxiety over the course of the debate.
We had defeated a senior time. The smugness had paid its price. The underdog had risen. The laity had bowed.
It was quite a sociological study how their attitude changed post-debate. The “we will slaughter them”, “they have no chance”, was replaced by “dude, you guys are really good. We were nothing like this in our first year”, “dude, I am really sorry”, (handshake) (another there).
Yes, it felt good to win. Yes, it felt good to make the upset we were traditionally expected to make. But it felt best to turn the tables over, to rise like the phoenix. Okay, maybe I am overdoing it. But I notice such stuff. And I did this time too- how everyone reacted to us differently after the debate. And it felt good to prove everyone wrong. It felt good to prove myself wrong too. But that’s a different matter.
Surprisingly, the obvious-contempt-turned-awe in the seniors did not arouse acerbity in me. Somehow, after yesterday, I too perceive them in a different light, one emitting from respect. I don’t have an explanation to that. All I can say is that I feel proud in proving that we might not be pros like the others, but we’re not a useless bunch of first years making a fool of ourselves either. I feel proud in feeling not hatred or contempt over the others, but more respect than I used to. It’s not like we’re brilliant debaters, but it feels good to win this acknowledgement from those who are, as also from those who had signed us off.
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