Thursday, May 9

Voices of sanity in wilderness


Here's a heartfelt letter of thanks from a Muslim man who thanks Hindus for helping his discriminated community. 

You can see the discrimination all over the world. But you personally should fight this. Have a gf. Or friend. So what if she he is a Muslim. Are they good? That's all you need to know and you don't need no stinking book or political party to tell you so. This is why I hate the Bjp. It's primarily filled by bigots. Hardly any of them exhibit any intelligence and their followers are usually idiotic as well. And the funny thing is that for a Hindu party, most don't know Sanskrit or have ever read any Hindu books. So they have no frikking idea what Hinduism is either. 

But as I said you don't need to read a religious book be a good person. 



Voices of sanity in wilderness |

Even as communalism grows in India, some of the fiercest voices raised in defence of Muslims happen to be those of Hindus

By Aijaz Zaka Syed,

Every time I despair of the land of the myriad hues and contradictions that is India, every time it’s many heroes give me fresh hope. And every time I stick out my neck to share the insecurities and concerns of my tribe and other dispossessed, I receive loads of fan mail most of which cannot be reproduced in these columns. Clearly, the Net is full of all sorts of fish. The comforting anonymity of cyberspace removes all inhibitions revealing our true colours.

But there are also those out there who never cease to amaze you with their generosity of spirit and ability to feel others’ pain. One such blessed soul is my friend Shashank Sharma, who heads a multinational IT giant. (I hope he will forgive this impudence to name him).

Wednesday, May 8

Robert Peston on his wife Siân Busby: 'I miss her all the time'

A paean to a loved one. Brave? Most definitely. Curious eh? To see and read these memories? Lucky that they had such a love to share and behold son. 

But one thing. Don't cry when I leave. One of my teachers told me that tears are an expression of regret. Regret that that person didn't get to do so many things. Play with them. Read with them. Dance with them. Cook with them. So on and so forth. We have had fun son. We have done so many things together. So nothing to cry about. But be happy for the times we spent together. That's the thing. Look around you at the people you love. Will you cry if they go? Why? Regret? If there's regret then why haven't you done those things with them? Do it now! 

Be happy son. 



Robert Peston on his wife Siân Busby: 'I miss her all the time' | Radio Times

Siân Elizabeth Busby died on 4 September 2012 after a long illness. A few days later I transcribed her handwritten manuscript for the end of A Commonplace Killing, her final novel. My motive was selfish: I wanted to keep talking to her. I still do. The tears could not be staunched as I read, deciphered and typed. Foggy-brained, the transcription was spoilt by spelling mistakes and typographical errors. All mine. Siân’s prose was as pellucid and accurate as ever. And brave. Here she was, all hope lost of reprieve from the lethal cancer, reflecting on what it is like to know that death awaits on the morrow.

What caught me off guard is that the work is complete, and – for me at least – more-or-less perfect. Siân worked on it until the illness became excruciating and wholly incapacitating. I did not know, until reading handwriting as familiar as my own and hearing her voice in my head, that she had finished this exquisite work. I should have guessed. When Siân put her formidable mind to a project, whether it was teaching herself to read as an infant, years before going to school, or curating a museum on the history of Judaism (a non-Jew, she could hold her own in a scholarly spat with the rabbis, and inevitably knew far more about my inherited faith than me), or directing a 19-hour Chinese opera, she always triumphed. And as if to accentuate my own vanity, she was never smug, always dissatisfied with her own efforts, routinely critical of her achievements.

Tuesday, May 7

The Weeklies

he Weeklies


Poverty is hugely distressing son. It destroys your dignity, there is no love and you become the worst of the worst. Having lived though serious poverty which included your parents crying about money or rather the lack of it, it's not something that I would care to repeat. 

You never know what may happen so always have emergency cash and good savings. I keep on telling you, save a third of your salary son. Cut down on outgoings. It may mean a few less luxuries or entertainment but as you can see from me, having fun doesn't mean you need to spend money. 

See what happened to this family. Or families. Washed up in a hotel. But they will get out. That is what's creditable. They are fighting. And that's impressive Kannu. 



From the outside, it is hard to know that people live in the Ramada Inn. The parking lot is always empty. The hotel sits facing a wide suburban boulevard called Kipling Street, just off Interstate 70 in Wheat Ridge, Colorado. The interchange where Kipling meets the freeway is packed mornings and evenings with daily commuters going to or coming from Denver and with skiers heading west into the Rockies. Hotels dot I-70 as it cuts through the 764-square-mile stretch of suburbia that runs from the city into the mountains, but at the intersection with Kipling is a cluster of seven budget-savers that travel websites warn tourists away from. The hotels advertise low prices—ranging from $36 to $89 a night—on neon signs next to gigantic flags that whip in the Front Range wind. Most offer even lower weekly or monthly rates. The Ramada is farther from the frontage road than the other hotels and is harder to notice, with its plain yellow stucco and dimly lit red sign. 

Inside the lobby, which has wide windows and a clear view of a long, low mountain called Table Top and the snowy peaks beyond, are plenty of clues that the Ramada is more than just a hotel. Off the lobby sit two sets of washers and dryers that each take a dollar in quarters, and on weekends families use one of the bellhop carts kept in a back hall to roll out baskets of dirty laundry. In the late afternoon, schoolchildren do their homework on the dozen tables where guests have breakfast. Residents sit at the two computers with Internet connections. They wander around in sock-clad feet and chat with whomever they run into.

At any given time, roughly 20 to 40 guests are staying long term. Since they pay by the week, they call themselves “weeklies.” To score the cheap rates, $210 for individuals and slightly more for families, they must pay in advance. Residents sign a form that lists the activities that could get them kicked out (mostly involving drugs) and warns that they won’t get reimbursed if they leave early, no exceptions. Some families stay only for a few weeks, some for months, giving the hotel the feeling of a dormitory. A rotating cast of front-desk clerks sells candy and rations towels and washcloths. Though some of the clerks are kind and helpful, the guests think of them as enforcers, and the clerks tend to treat the weeklies less as customers than as undergraduates stealing toilet paper and sneaking in hot plates.