God is a Virus

Friends, I have important news for you. God has revealed itself to me, and surprise, surprise, it is a virus.

Keep those knives sheathed, folks. I’m not talking about your gods. I’m talking about my quest for a personal god. Like most people, I also started off with the regular, run-of-the-mill gods that a family or a school usually tries to forcefully implant in your brain. Fortunately or unfortunately, I was dumb, and my brain kept rejecting those implants. It was all very confusing for me. 

 Still, my spiritual pursuit continued through my childhood, which most of the time didn’t go down well with my mom and many other people. Then, I reached the age of reason around 12. This is the time when most guys reach the age of reason and start spending more time in the toilet, sometimes with magazines with colourful photographs and stuff. There, they let their imaginations run wild. A toilet is like a cave where you can sit and ponder. Many of mankind’s greatest ideas were born either in a cave or in a toilet. A cave/toilet allows a person to focus. All our ancient gurus used to go into caves (which also probably served as toilets in those days) for ideas, except of course, Mr. Buddha. In his case, it was because he wanted to do number “two” with everything, or was it that he wanted to be one with everything? I don’t know. As I mentioned earlier, it’s all quite confusing.

In the course of my spiritual journey, I also went through a whole gamut of god men, trying to make sense of this confusion; but that too turned out to be a dead end, as I crashed into words like corporeal manifestation and cosmic consciousness. From the afro hair dude to the sad kuru, whatever they said went over my head. Their teachings fell under the field of studies generally known in educational circles as Bovem Stercore-ology, which was beyond my brain's reach.

I remember a guru who said that the sound from a damru (drum) was the first corporeal manifestation. That is, the first physical thingy ever in this universe was the sound from a drum made of wood and animal skin, which, of course, are not physical thingies. Wait, isn’t wood a physical thingy? Where did the animal skin come from? I was stumped. I realized that I’m probably not the sharpest tool in the shed. I needed clear, simple explanations, and that’s when Nityananda kuru appeared on the scene with his unvarnished bovem stercore in a language that the common folks understood, unlike those sad kurus and sri-to-the-power-of-n kurus and their pretentious stuff. I almost made up my mind to fully accept this new kuru as my spiritual guide, and thought of doing some deep thinking in a cave prior to taking the plunge.

Well, not everyone has access to photogenic caves like Modiji. He has the wherewithal to marshal the entire political science government machinery to arrange for caves in Kedarnath. I don’t have that kind of connections, so I make do with the toilet. Modiji has cameramen and strategically placed mood lighting to showcase his berobed, bearded profile, while his x-ray eyes peer straight at the camera through closed eyelids. I, on the other hand, sit on the throne sans robes, my lungi on the floor, my newspaper, book, or smartphone in hand. I thought of asking my wife to take a picture of me in profound thought, but then good sense prevailed, as I knew her threshold for toilet humour was pretty low. I also thought of taking in a bird, a small one, not a peacock. Maybe, a bird of paradise. But Japanese toilets, though famous for being high-tech, are notoriously small. If my toilet were any smaller, I would be making squishing sounds going in and out. So, out went the bird of paradise photo shoot idea.

Anyway, I was sitting there in my make-believe cave, deep in thought, one day recently, when God spake to me, “I’m the virus”. I was sceptical at first, thinking I misheard a fart, but then it asked me again, clearly, to think of the primary criterion for being a god. The primary criterion for a god, we all know, is to “Kill indiscriminately”. A few women menstruated somewhere - send a flood; couple of guys kissed elsewhere - time for an earthquake; boys spending too much time in toilet – smite a town somewhere with a tornado. Evidently, this god is also killing indiscriminately, and that too on a global scale. Ukrainian holiness blames gay people for the coronavirus. The Viral God punishes the holiness. So, that makes you wonder what the holiness has up his robe. Anyhoo, I was getting pretty convinced about this god. It also said that it created the coronavirus in its image. Makes sense. Most humans, conceited as they are, imagine god resembles them in appearance. Well people, now is the time for you to accept the new fact, repent, and follow the true god, the Virus.

Further, it has told me that I’m the chosen prophet and I have to spread the word. I asked for some instructions, y’know, rules. Any religion worth its salt needs rules. As I said earlier, I like them simple. Too many commandments might put people off. George Carlin once simplified and summarized the ten commandments into two. So, I was hoping for something on that line, and I was not disappointed. There are essentially only three commandments in my religion now (which I regularly break).

1. Thou shalt not go into Closed spaces

2. Thou shalt not go into Crowded places

3. Thou shalt not be in Close-contact settings

Spread the good word. Make this viral.

All this may sound a bit too facetious for a religion, and I conveyed as much to the Lord. The Lord Virus has reassured me that the rest of the rules regarding sacrificing virgins (both boys and girls,) beheading apostates and infidels, lynching, etc., which are essential for a religion to gain acceptance in this modern world, will be delivered to me in due course and it has asked me to be prepared, preferably in a cave/toilet. So, till I get those remaining rules, follow the above three.

P.S. The greatest thing about this god is that you can actually see it. Unlike certain religions that prevent you from taking and showing pictures of gods (imagine the trillions lost in merchandising,) this god can be seen and photographed with gadgets in certain temples called labs. Certainly adds to the credibility.

Jhumlasana, Hanko and Hypotenuse

“Accha, look,” my 11-year old son shouted from the tatami room. I turned back to see him lying supine on a pile of pillows with his head, arms, and legs stretched and dangling down. “Modiji’s yoga pose,” he said. He was doing Jhumlasana, a signature move that was conceived and popularized by Indian PM Modi. Modiji, we all know, performs his stunts on rough, inhospitable terrains such as on rocks and stuff, which is possible only through years and years of practice posing in front of cameras. So, ideally kids shouldn’t be trying those at home, but it has been a tough couple of months for my son. Ever since the coronavirus-related restrictions came into place and the consequent lack of entertainment, he has been restless around the house and frankly quite a handful – riding his RipStik blade inside, playing hoops with a small ball and toy hoop in the bedroom, making a metre-long straw to drink his juice, burning old birthday candles, remodelling his RC cars, and creating his own hip-hop bling jewellery with gem clips, one of which I had to wear on my neck for a few hours while working.

It’s been more than six months since $#it hit the Chinese fan in Wuhan, and almost four months since I started wearing a mask when going out. Back in early February, I remember driving my niece to a concert in Shibuya. On our way, we saw the infamous COVID-19 infected cruise ship, the Diamond Princess, quarantined in Yokohama port while crossing the Rainbow Bridge. Once we reached Shibuya, and after ensuring that my niece was safely inside the concert hall, we whiled away the time by strolling around the district taking in the sights, had coffee and cake at a café crowded with fashionable youth, and later just sat outside the concert place waiting for my niece to come out. The area was bustling as usual with hordes of people, many of them tourists, and mostly young. But one thing stood out. Most of them had masks on. 

This was in early February, as I said earlier. The pandemic was yet to overrun Italy and other European nations. Modiji, the masterstroker was planning to fill up a stadium later in the month for his phrend Trump the Two Dick (an honorary title bestowed on cowshed/stable geniuses; from the Hindi word Dho Lund). In fact, he won’t take out his next masterstroke, the one for saving India’s middle class, for another month and a half. However, based on a titbit of information released strategically in June, we know that Modiji was aware of the COVID-19 pandemic much earlier than anyone else on the face of the earth. Not only that, he had prepared a secret plan to tackle this crisis as early as January. He then secretly buried that plan under a neem tree in his backyard and, as is his wont, shot off a poetic letter to his mom. Neem tree, as per our ancient texts, has magical powers and on full moon days, when Jupiter is near Uranus and you feel the urge, dogs will pee on the tree at the stroke of midnight, imparting special powers on whatever is hidden under it. Anyway, after almost three months of keeping it hidden, Modiji pulled that magically-charged plan out on March 24 at 7:45 pm. That time 7:45, you see, is important. According to numerology, 7 + 4 = 11, and 11 + 5 of course is 16. Now comes the interesting part. 1 + 6… Voila, it’s 7. What comes after 7? Eight, obviously. So, at 8:00 pm on March 24, Modiji came on TV, secret plan in hand, and said “Mitrroon”. The rest, as they say, is history, as the country went into lockdown and slew that virus in 21 days. But, then there is the old Swedish Gir jungle saying, "Modiji hai to Moomin hai (Modiji is Moomin)," or something like that.

Sorry I got carried away by the Indian story. I was planning to write about what has been happening here in Nippon. The Japanese PM, perhaps taking a cue from Modiji, ordered a lockdown here in Japan in April. Well, not exactly “ordered”. Given his boob size, which is nowhere near 56 inches, all PM Abe could do was make a request. “Please try and stay home and do not go out if it is non-essential…”. So, many people kept going to work on crowded trains and buses, because they have to do this very essential thing called pressing a hanko on papers. The hanko is your personal seal. Everything in Japan needs a hanko. You may be tattooing 命 on your butt cheek or you may be buying a smartphone. All the relevant procedures will be completed digitally, but then they’ll print everything out and you have to press your hanko in at least 10 places to make it official. So, in modern, digitally-savvy Japan, workers trudge to offices in the midst of a lockdown to do this extremely “essential” act.

Anyway, we, as a family, decided to practice self-restraint and limited our trips outside to once a week to buy stuff. We switched from shopping at different neighbourhood shops to shopping at a big supermarket a few kilometres away. In the first week of lockdown, the place was crowded with people buying up things, and the checkout queue snaked around inside the store with waiting time of up to an hour. There I was, standing in a queue, thinking whether I should fart loudly if I have to cough for some reason, when a lady in the adjacent queue coughed. I immediately began making calculations – we are about two feet apart; she is four and a half feet tall; I am six feet; How do you find the frikkin’ hypotenuse of a triangle h = 1.5 feet, l = 2 feet? Fortunately, I’ve been teaching my boys and knew the formula for hypotenuse, ⇃(h² + l²)  i.e.  = 2.5 feet. Now, convert it…c'mon... my mind raced… 1 foot is about 30cm. Shit, the government said a minimum of one metre in social distancing and this is only about 75cm. Does the coronavirus float up like helium? Does it know about government guidelines and refrain from attacking sideways? I was not sure. Fortunately, going against Murphy’s law, my line moved and I heaved a sigh of relief. The next week was pretty much the same, but the shop restricted entry to one person from a family or group. And by the fourth week, nobody cared (except for masks and some social distancing). 

Right now, things seem to be under control. However, many new cases are being traced to hostess clubs, pointing to some guys losing control. Well, can’t help it, as they have been atmanirbhar (self-reliant) strokers for a while now. Meanwhile, nobody seems to know how this is all going to end. I too don’t know how to end this rant other than by chanting Go Corona, Go! 

Yeddy Current, etc.

Yeddy Current and Freedom (to die on railway tracks) at Midnight

As some dude said, based on a fake Gandhi quote, “The measure of any society is how it treats its most vulnerable members,” and we, I’m proud to say, have measured up to the highest level. In these times of corona, we knew who those most vulnerable were. The builders, of course! Quite clearly, they have been suffering for long and Yeddy knew that instinctively. And, to his credit, he acted immediately. He rightly and rightfully instructed those inconsiderate migrants to go round and round in circles in their tin bungalows. This, he knew, would generate a current known in scientific circles as "yeddy current" (no relation to the eddy current you learn in physics). Another thing is that this Yeddy current is also beneficial to the environment according to some NASA studies.

Even then, some of those migrant guys are defying government orders and selfishly walking and cycling home, insensitive to the fears of the vast middle class. Why can't they buy one of those exercise bikes or treadmills off Flipkart or Amazon and install it in their balcony? C’mon yaar. Anyway, it's heartening to note that people like Yeddy and Yogi and the police are rising to the challenge and imposing strict measures and scrapping these stupid human and labour rights.

Also, it’s about time these people learned where their respective places are in the society. When you think about it, we did have an excellent ancient system, with in-built social distancing rules and all, which was screwed up by all these new-fangled ideas.

In the olden days, people knew where they stood in the pecking order. Sivan knew that. Remember Sivan? I had written about Sivan some time ago. Though his name was Sivan, nobody called him that. Partially deaf and considered by many as being a few cards shy of a full deck, he was “pottan” to everyone. Pottan is a term used generally for a deaf person, and often also used to paint someone as stupid. My mother used to call Sivan that. Her household help and driver called him that. Everyone in the neighbourhood called him that. Those who came looking for his service called him that. Even I used to nod when someone asked the confirming question “Pottana?” when I say something about Sivan. The only person who seethed every time she heard that word was my wife, who always addressed him as Sivan-san. But then, being a foreigner, she doesn’t understand the nuances and intricacies of our ancient system of keeping people in their respective places.

Well, one day, Sivan was on one of his evening jaunts, unkempt and unshaven, bundle of belongings hanging from his shoulder, trudging along as usual, exchanging pleasantries with a utility pole here and a stray dog there, but generally being harmless, when, out of the blue, there was a stinging pain in his bottom. He turned around and saw a police jeep with a policeman swinging his thick cane at him. Sivan did the only thing that he knew he could do. He ran. He ran like hell. The police did the only thing they knew. They chased and kept swinging that stick at him. “F#$%ing a$$%*+#! The temerity to walk with bundle and s#$% on the road,” the policeman shouted. Sivan kept running and ran into my parent’s place. The police stopped at the gate. They didn’t open that gate and charge inside. That gate had certain rights that Sivan didn't have, which the police didn't dare infringe on. They noticed my parents’ household help standing there and asked about the bad guy who just ran in. She said she knew the person and saved Sivan’s ass for the day.

A few days later I heard about this incident and went to Sivan. I was all indignant. To be honest, I still don't know what had gotten into me at that time. Could've been a mild bout of anti-nationalism. “C’mon Sivan. Let’s go file a complaint,” I said, spouting highfalutin words like human rights, etc. Sivan, however, just plainly refused. Under normal circumstances, I would expect such a refusal to be accompanied by a sarcastic smirk, but Sivan was all sincere in his response. He was adamant that he didn’t have any complaint against such big-big officials, who have the right to punish people like him as and when they pleased. He was also scared of the revenge they’ll take out on him for his insolence once I went back to Japan, if he complains.

I thought over it. I will be leaving in a few weeks. And, I am no activist. Neither I’m a man of action, like certain leaders who can take dramatic overnight decisions. For example, someone like Bollywood villain Ajit says, “Aaj aadhi raat ko theek barah baje, Hindostan ke baarder pe apna helikaapter aayega (Tonight, at 12 o’clock sharp, my helicopter will come to Hindustan’s border). Michael, tum cycle leke jaa (Michael, take your cycle and go)”. Michael will dutifully take his bicycle and go to the border. If a supreme leader gives such an order, every Michael in the country will dutifully get on their bicycles and go to the border. That’s the power of supreme leaders. I wouldn’t go, because I’m not named Michael. But, I’ll be standing in my balcony, clanging my vessels in moral support when those Michaels pedal by. My train of thoughts was going crazy as if in search of migrants on tracks. Anyway, good sense prevailed, and I got out of my reverie and thanked Sivan for teaching me the right concept regarding rights.

Looking at the things happening now, I beseech the government to grasp this golden opportunity and eliminate or modify those foreign concepts, while lobbying internationally (Trumpji, I’m sure, will be amenable) to amend the Universal Declaration of Human Rights to reflect the real issues faced by vulnerable sections of the society such as builders, stockbrokers and jewellers. Clauses granting nations the right to split people into first-class, second-class, and so on should be included when revising the declaration. As mentioned earlier, we have the ancient blueprint for that. The possibilities are infinite if you can sub-divide those classes further. Everyone will know their responsibilities and will stop going walkabout on railway tracks and all. Let’s hope we don’t miss that train of progress this time at least.