The Importance of Using a Voice

These past few weeks, I have been increasingly getting more vocal regarding politics and economics online. Whether on Facebook or Twitter, I have started putting up more commentary around either economic or socio-political issues currently being faced across the world. Not unrelatedly, I've been posting a fair bit about my views on the current rounds of fiscal consolidation underway across Europe, the welfare state (and often its unsustainable structure) and these past two weeks, quite extensively about the current round of banker bashing underway in the UK, especially in relation to the Royal Bank of Scotland.

The past 24 hours, however, have been perplexing, to say the least. Most intriguingly, I have been stunned by reactions to updates on both websites. But what I have to say is that these past few hours have made me revisit my opinion of both networks.

Background: I posted updates relating to my views on (1) the welfare state, (2) the inherent hypocrisy of free tertiary education, and (3) the fact that I disagreed with the NHS fundamentally. And let's just say that both sites got a LOT of attention.

On Twitter, I was immediately attacked by various people that I've interacted with quite socially over a few months; perhaps the most memorable comments included being called "a fascist" as according to the commenter there is no difference between capitalism and fascism. Other terms used included "filthy posh Tory" and other such pleasantry. As a foreign national working in Finance in London, I also received a couple of typical "fuck off and go home, you evil banker" comments, which I politely blocked without dignifying with a response.

The reaction on Facebook was, however, quite different. My update precipitated a massive debate, with people weighing in on either side. There was some unpleasant sniping between some, but what I was most struck by was the otherwise generally mature and coherent level of debate. (One that is still currently underway, as the responses continue to pour in).

I don't mean to indicate that all Facebook interactions were positive, and all Twitter interactions negative. I received several supportive comments on Twitter, and not all Facebook responses were as positive as described above. My favourite Facebook-related point was being messaged privately by a friend with the eloquently phrased, "the shit you post is offensive".

Aside from the merits or demerits of my views, though, what I have to say these past few days have taught me is that I should remember that fundamental differences between Facebook & Twitter. As a lover of social media, and someone who has a fairly sophisticated online identity, I have over the past months been privileging Twitter over Facebook. I have met many people in real life that I first interacted with over Twitter, and some of them have become friends. Facebook, on the other hand, seemed to have begun to be reduced to inane updates from friends playing surreal online games like Farmville, and a simple way to share holiday photographs. 

But I have to say my views have shifted. Perhaps as a result of its' 140 character limit for each tweet, Twitter has shown itself to be a much shallower medium in many ways. The scope for opprobrium is incredible, and it is hard to make a point as eloquently as one would like; being succinct is not always enough. As sometimes it is difficult to say something without context. 

Compare that to Facebook, where I've seen incredibly articulate arguments presented both for and against my original update. There have been tangents, distractions and the odd bit of mudslinging, but in general I've been impressed by how generally well reasoned the responses have been. And has reminded me why I choose to be friends with the people on my Facebook.

So what is it that I have learnt from all this?

First: I will have to revisit my opinion of Facebook and not write it off as a has-been. Especially in the week that it announced its IPO, I have been reminded of why it is such a powerful tool, and why providing a forum to interact virtually with your friends is so valuable (especially in a global world where people live far away from each other). And clearly able to command a financial value for it.

Second: I will have to revisit my opinion of Twitter. Ultimately it is difficult to gauge, despite multiple interactions with someone, how they will react to something you say. And when they will descend into name calling and refusal to engage in debate.

Third: Some people are made very uncomfortable by political discussions. It can be challenging to see a full-on, intellectually rigorous but animated/heated discussion on something that is quite polarising, politics especially, where it is easy to inflame passions, and not stay on the sidelines.

Fourth: I cannot censor myself. When I was getting flamed online last night for stating my views, I could have shut up. But that would have meant suppressing my thoughts, my views and being silenced by those who use shrill hate rather than reasoned argument to win the debate.

Some people sent me private messages last night, saying that I was getting grief for stating a political opinion, and that it was best to not discuss politics online. But that to me was something I cannot fathom. What is the point of sharing waffly, inane, utterly idiotic updates on a permanent basis? Why not share an opinion, a thought, an argument? Why not use the brains we've got? Why not argue, debate, discuss, disagree? Even if the ultimate outcome is agreeing to disagree, why not just engage? Maybe I'm just the stereotypical "argumentative Indian" but if I am, why hide from it?

One final point. I am a strong (possibly die-hard believer) in the freedom of speech. That does not mean that I believe that freedom of speech means I believe in the right of someone to not be offended. People will find different things offensive. But if we try to avoid offending people, then we might as well stifle all debate. And then where would be? North Korea?

So here's to many more evenings of political updates, tweets, and opinions. Because it is my right - nay, my duty - to say what I think.


UPDATE: It has been brought to my attention that this post seems to justify my recognisably aggressive tweets regarding the NHS (amongst other topics). In the interests of full disclosure and transparency, here's a quick background check. I am not, I should stress, out to apologise for my behaviour. I am merely hoping to contextualise what might have been perceived as offensive.


Firstly, I should point out that I am a standard bearer of capitalism. That means that I wholeheartedly believe that free markets are the only way to spread wealth in a manner that is fair globally. Because true fairness implies people getting what they deserve, not a system based on entitlement & privilege dictated by the accidents of birth and global geopolitics. 


This support of a capitalist structure has over the years earned me much venom. I have been ruthlessly attacked in public and online by people who assume that because I believe in capitalism I've somehow sold my soul to the devil. When they'd rather have me sell it to Marx.


As a result, many people I interact with on Twitter only saw me go somewhat ballistic on Thursday night. I should clarify (as I've done in my comments below) that much of that was the culmination of a week of Twitter flaming. My tweets earlier in the week about the Stephen Hester bonus fiasco, the Fred Goodwin witch hunt, and the ongoing car crash that is the Eurozone had earned me a lot of venom, much of which I blocked. But by Thursday evening, when a fairly innocuous tweet got me two particularly unpleasant responses, the gloves were off.


Were my tweets well thought out, articulate, and reasoned? No. I recognise that. I also know that those were tweets of someone who was lashing out after being cornered and harangued for days. Which is why I will recognise that they were incendiary, provocative and potentially perceivable as quite abusive. But I will also not apologise for them. Because even though I know that it is the sign of being a better man to turn the other cheek, eventually even my patience snaps and then - to quote one of my own tweets - I dance the tandav. The dance that destroys the universe. 


So. If you're here reading this because you were witness or party to Thursday, I hope this provides you context. As I said, I will not apologise for my tweets. Because I did not start the fire. But I hope that this will help contextualise what happened. 


A final point. Freedom of speech is something I am very wedded to as a concept. I however completely recognise that there is no such right as the freedom to not be offended. Therefore I know that my right to say what I would like will offend several people. Does that mean I will stop saying what I believe? No (the only exception being if what I said was particularly bigoted, prejudiced or outright illegal). But I appreciate that if I am purposefully provocative, I may alienate many people. That is a risk I run, but I should stress it is one I run fully conscious of its presence.

Counting the Years

It's either very late, or it's very, very early.


My living room lights are set to a low setting. There is an odd combination of Hemant Kumar and Joan Baez playing softly on my laptop. And while I sip a glass of red wine, I write this post.


Because today, it is my 31st birthday.


I've never been much of a birthday guy. Growing up, birthdays were mostly small, private family affairs. We never did big public celebrations. As the son of parents with a hectic social life due to my father's professional responsibilities, family celebrations were characteristically personal. There would be a cake (quite frequently Black Forest) with candles. There would be presents, but never elaborate ones. Small, discreet, tasteful. There would be fine china laid out on the dining table (always impeccably dressed up itself in my mother's finest linen) and there would be your favourite food as part of the meal. But I can look back at all my birthdays growing up as being incredibly private affairs.


Things have changed recently though.


For the past few years, my birthdays have become a bit of a "thing" on my friends' social calendars. Coming as it does in January, there has been increasing pressure over the years to make it count, and to make sure that it is spectacular enough to overcome the January blues. And so they've become bigger, bolder, more fabulous each year. 


There was the year when I took a massive group of friends out to a Vauxhall nightclub for that uniquely British thing - roller disco. Oh, how they all mocked, groaned and scoffed when the invitation was sent out. Only to be recorded in every photo taken that night grinning like a child as they careened across a wooden floor, vodka & tonic in one hand, other arm outstretched as they clung desperately to a balance that could escape at any second. (There might have been some bruises the next day)


There was that other year too, when the only way to bring in my flirty thirties was to organise a Bollywood-style fancy dress party. There was the friend who came and DJ'ed the whole night. There was the coordinated dance routine. There was a Santa Claus. There was even a Ukrainian belly dancer. All in the name of Bollywood.


And even I, the eternal melancholic, has to admit that things could be worse. 


So here I sit. Hands on my laptop. Sipping some wine, and drinking to my own health. It is a night I ring in another year, a night I look back at the year past, and celebrate, amongst many things, the fact that I've survived another year on this planet. Which, given how horrible this planet can be to people, is not a bad thing. 


But it is a year that brings with it much promise. The promise of change. The promise of hope. The promise of despondency. And the promise of... life. 


Which is not something to be taken lightly.


Perhaps it is a consequence of old age, but I have become even more introspective with age. And so, oddly enough, the first thing that came into my head as the clock struck midnight was how I've lived my life. 


And again, I cannot complain.


There are things I've done that I'm incredibly proud of. There are things I've done that I cannot decipher, but that I am very glad I've done. And then there are things I've done without quite figuring out to this day why I did them.


So here, in no particular order of importance, are ten things I am proud I've done. 


1. I went backpacking. On the cheap. If ever there was a stereotype, it's that the best way to see a place is to do it on the rough. And boy, can I tell you, doing Asia on the rough is... ROUGH. I think that at certain angles, my butt will still feel the impact of a bad seat in a ramshackle van and the worst of Java's roads. But also of the fun that came with it.


2. I've skinny dipped. Not being someone who lives in either a C-grade porn flick or a bad Hollywood horror movie, this is not something I ever thought I'd do. But it's amazing what the combination of a wedding by a lake in upstate New York, poisonous amounts of alcohol and a warm July night can do.


3. I've had random, hot, sweaty, anonymous sex. Not once, not twice, not from a relationship perspective, but the ultimate in rough & tumble slap & tickle.


4. I've had dull, boring, it's-a-Sunday-morning-and-you're-here-in-bed-well-why-not sex. Which, though not really exciting, can be incredibly satisfying. Especially when you're hungover.


5. I've been to a movie premiere. In London. With real celebrities. Sadly, my own celebrity status was not appreciated.


6. I've got street credit in some awesome cities. I can get into high demand places in Barcelona, New York, Hong Kong and Berlin. Just because. 


7. I've had my heart broken. Badly.


8. I've cried in public in an unhappy place. It was in Auschwitz. It was horrible. It was important to see.


9. I've cried in public in a happy place. It was in Angkor Wat. It was beautiful. It was one of the best moments of my life.


10. I've broken into song & dance in a street. Because every so often, it's important to do that. Even if you don't live in a Bollywood movie.


None of which is spectacular, or exceptionally awesome, but is actually pretty fucking cool when taking collectively. Or so I'd like to think.


And so, I think it's fair to say that it's not been a life I can regret. Or resent. 


So I guess I can say this now: Happy Birthday to Me.

Blood on my lips, holy red wine

It is dark outside, and I am lost in my own private purgatory.

The rain shatters against the thin glass of the window; the tiny droplets slapping against the clear panes before trickling down in tiny rivulets while the lightning paints silver zigzags against the dull grey of the overcast sky. I am lost in my own musings, wondering about life in general. The brightness of the giant screen in front of me flickers, it seems in tandem with the jagged lightning and occasional thunder that makes its way through the thick glass, the city laid out behind my back in amber puddles and silver glass.

You are close enough to tantalise me with a taste of your fullness; the acrid bite of your soft sweat tickles my nostrils, while the ripe perfume of your hair fills me with longing and desire. I can see a glimpse of crisp hair in the corner of my eye, and so too can I see your gently sashaying walk as I turn my head to get an eyeful of you. But you, wilful, cunning, seductive and purely a beautiful fantasy in my own head, are not even in the same room, building, city. I seek you everywhere I go, looking for you in the hordes that pack the trendy clubs all over Chelsea and Greenwich Village, Mayfair and King’s Road. I have travelled continents, gone to cities that I would never have imagined, and only occasionally have I found you, your presence lingering in a dark and seedy bar, luring me in with the idea of your symmetry, and leaving just before I get there. I clutch at straws, the barman sadly telling me of all the tricks he’s seen walk through his doors, before pausing long enough to hand me my standard gin and tonic, Rick-like, his warm and sweaty hand lingering too long over mine as he takes his payment. “Don’t wait for the love of your life,” he says heavily, the curly hair of his chest curling with droplets of sweat that show through the open checks of his undone shirt, “they never stay long enough to cause you anything more than pain”.

And so he leaves me, as always, in the darkness of my barstool, the bland bitterness of the Gordon’s biting into the back of my tongue, and I am left to contemplate the brutality of human emotion, of the sentiments that drive us to seek ever more meaning in our diurnal ellipsis of life. The snake always swallows its own tail, I muse, swigging ever-increasing gulps of my drink as my jaded eyes scan the dark solitude thrown up by the shadows in this, a bar like many other bars. Where and when you will be is a question that I can never answer, but it is one that I seek to find eternal responses to each night that I go out on the hunt. Perhaps the irony of it all is that the only immutable part of our petty and insignificant lives is in our hunt for immortality, that never-ending quest for love, longing, fulfilment and completeness. The snake will swallow its own tail, but only because that tail is no longer part of the same snake when it makes contact with its lips.

Is that then the bitter poignancy, the arid desperation of our lives? That we go out hunting for ourselves each night, condemning ourselves to failure because if we cannot find the person we were five minutes ago, how can we find someone else? That the snake swallows its tail, not out of any other reason but a desperate urge to find something, and only through this wilful act of self-destruction is it possible to find itself, to consume itself, its own essence, its complete being? Is that the ultimate aphrodisiac? I cannot have you, but I can consume myself, so that I am a giant star imploding in on itself, gorging myself on the sweet succulence of my own flesh, tasting the veracity and feral tanginess of my own life fluids in my mouth? Could I drink a case of you?

A Case of You
Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Wheres that at?
If you want me Ill be in the bar.

On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue tv screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
And your face sketched on it twice...

Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I'd still be on my feet

Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that aint afraid
I remember that time that you told me, you said
Love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time

Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
And you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
And still be on my feet

I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
Color go to him, stay with him if you can
Oh but be prepared to bleed

Oh but you are in my blood youre my holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
I'd still be on my feet

(Lyrics by Joni Mitchell)