In India, as I suppose was the case is many socialist and pseudo-socialist nations, living through death of any notable public figure, back in the 80s, was a nightmare. Three full days of national mourning for a peaceful, albeit sad, demise of an 89 or so year old former president or movie actor or such, could only be described as an over-reaction. I could accept, with considerable effort, a full 27 minutes mourning and throw in a few more seconds if it absolutely had to be mourned. But 3 full days? No – I refused.

My father, as he habitually did, argued against my opinion. He thought three-days of obligatory and enforced mourning was a measured reaction, one that was measured skillfully with a blatantly obvious political calculus. As you might imagine, my father and I empathized with each others’ emotional state, However, quite frankly, I did not agree with his rationalization of the whole situation. In hindsight though, I think he was right, I was perhaps still too immature to see his point at the age of eight.

The pain of having to stare into the television, hoping against hope minute after another minute during those agonizing 72 hours, that this 60 something year old “classical” singer would just shut up for a moment and allow for Spider Man to appear instead of his prayer so depressive that it was hard to tell if he was mourning the dearly departed or his own impending demise is indescribable. All the more so, if the said television was only acquired a couple of months earlier as a consequence of what felt like a few centuries of nuanced lobbying accompanied with steadfast and unrelenting revolution at home. Courtesy? Yours truly.

As if sitting through nothingness on television wasn’t enough, while I don’t entirely remember if my school was closed also on account of the mourning in consideration, I vaguely remember being burdened with 8 hours of “homework” on each of those three dreadful days. You see that’s because teachers back then were, as they still likely are now – and there is no other way to put it politely – Cynical born losers, or at least that’s how I felt about them back then. I say this with all the sincerity I can muster – this was no laughing matter, it was a thorough nightmare both as a past experience and as a current recollection.

This mourning business was annoying especially for its pretentiousness. The entire nation was putting up a melancholic act of respectfulness for an old man whose time had come. But nobody really cared that he wasn’t immortal. Everybody wanted to just get on with their lives rather than be stuck in this bubble constantly reminded of death – as if life wasn’t difficult enough. Oh well, such was the age of national television. What choice did citizens have except to accept whatever the few elite decided the entire nation had to watch. If only mass media were democratized? How wonderful it could have been. And you likely see here and i hope you see the sarcasm from a few nautical miles away!

30 years later, I’m coming to the realization that human race is pathological and dysfunctional in its reaction to death. Gross pretentiousness of near past has given way to vulgarity for how demised and their surviving kin are treated. Wailing kin, lifeless corpse, conspiracy, character assassination are all fair game click baits within hours. The velocity and volume of online videos and articles which envelope entire social media points to an industry deeply committed to its beleif of a fascinting fetish among citizenry for Death. Death is not news because you aren’t getting informed beyond the first hour, its not mourning beyond 3 days. Its weird, but decidedly a form of amusement derived from suffering that has’nt accrued to yourself.

Is there hope this might just be a temporary phase or us not knowing how to react to death online. There is absolutely none what so ever because if you come to think of it, this is hardly a new or an internet age phenomenon. Its a phenomenon as old as throwing slaves to lions not on account of punishment, but of entertainment. So its entirely plausible humans aren’t freaking out unnecessarily and over-reacting to death. Its also entirely plausible we are relishing that misfortune has arrived to another person’s life this time around and we had nothing to do with it.



Considering how Sartre lived, it is beyond doubt he scribbled each word, that he did, with the seriousness of an impending nuclear catastrophe: a quality that seldom can be associated to words here. I’m, however, unsure  whether seriousness is equitably warranted toward every written word. I sometimes wish words were not considered serious to a point of defeating reason and compassion: like holy texts.

Why is world awash with seriousness for the trivial like Twitter bursts of a peculiar president. Before you elucidate anything said by a powerful man is serious, allow my proposal to examine whether what is said is said with conviction or out of vanity; And whether what is said is considered for it’s impact or it’s redicule worthiness. Can we serve it the variety of attention it deserves: ignored as nuisance.

Not that I’m an expert, but I suspect there exists a limit to how much stuff brains can attend to seriously, for there isn’t much else but food taken seriously by a hungry man. So can someone please publish an app to tell us not what is but to tell us, just as reliably, what is to be taken seriously so we don’t all perish in a matter of centuries.

The post trivial first appeared on honestrooster.


Celebrities get asked this question, or something along similar lines, a lot: which is your most favorite among all the songs you’ve heard, all movies you’ve watched, all books you’ve read and so on. It usually is reciprocated with a cringe inducing reply or, more appropriately, a reaction which is painless to empathize with. But then, empathy is one thing and sympathy entirely another which I have none for the contemptuous and, at times, condescending reply.

Such questions are invariably appraised as those for which replies are sought to determine a preference or taste. It is conceivably the wrong perspective for, of course, there is no such thing as the best song, movie or book of all. It is instead a question asked to learn about loyalty to a particular moment of joy. And loyalty requires passion which in turn is rooted at least partially in irrational. 

A response to this question does not stand in need of recalling, for example, all songs and carefully analyzing merits of each to arrive at the one you’d bestow your personal all time best Grammy to. It requires a mad, unreasonable passion and conviction for how you felt that one time you heard a song and then never to let go of it irrespective of how wonderful many songs you might have heard to since.

Dear celebrities, just give us a mad reply with a mad conviction. Don’t be so bland as to cast off the question as brainless because you insist on using your brain when it’s needed that you use you heart. Show your passion, not your analysis.

The post passion first appeared on honestrooster.


Much was staked on my reply to a question I received several years back: how would you describe the color pink to a blind man? 

As I remember, my first thought was to surmise that time spent here was of no avail for conclusion about my job candidacy had been arrived at before this question was asked. As it turned out, it had, I think, been arrived at. Such suspicion attenuates the scent of opportunity liberating thought in a sense that it is no more constrained by the gravity of stakes. I proceeded then to consider the question solely on its merit.

What a curious question: inviting, through a response, proof for one’s faculties to empathize and tightrope through pretentious, absurd prospects for a reply. Would I even venture into such task or apologies sincerely for lack of imagination and vocabulary. What if it wasn’t the blind person’s curiosity, but my desperation, may be out of love, to share the joy of sight – how would I then set about my predicament.

I frankly don’t know. Yet, I replied “I’d tell pink feels like the scent of a rose”. I didn’t get the job.


Political ideology has hardly ever manifested in as strange a phenomenon as the intolerable obsession with replacement of a nation’s health care policy. An obsession strange not for how life is bequeathed with little regard (which unfortunately is common across nations) but for how the most vulnerable will uniformly suffer irrespective of creed, idealogical affiliation or, ironically as you’ll see, race amid an ensuing unnecessary beaureacratic tussle – A tussle intertwined with undoing a perceived legacy of an individual – An individual disliked undoubtedly in arrears of racial bias.

An iPhone, albiet only a mere material possession, is a curious object of desire which occasions immense joy upon its replacement for a next iteration of its own self. Makes one wonder if it’d be replaced as often and willingly if Siri were to remonstrate like a devoted partner cut loose. Makes one wonder if partners wouldn’t be replaced more often and willingly if they were mute like smartphones. The conclusions here are likely forgone.

Is replacement necessary? Countless cells replaced and a man is still clueless. Countless generations replaced and the world is still ignorant.


If honesty is about not only whether everything said is true, but also whether everything has been said, then how scarcely this blog catalogues my deep fears, vices and guilt borders between ironical and hypocritical in consideration of it’s name: honest-rooster!

There’s good reason for such restraint; after all, it connects to my LinkedIn feed. This kind of dishonesty, I reason therefore, isn’t unique to me. Shouldn’t it instead be the norm? Aren’t you better off resisting your speech rather than be embarrassed across “tens of millions” or “tens” or most likely two readers for an overly-enthusiastic or just plain-stupid thought. Especially when there is no lack of judging eyes. But then humans aren’t alike or, to some, not even same species. Many naturally disagree to this theory of restraint.

I’m endlessly fascinated by celebrities, politicians, acquaintances and friends who think of it as nothing to unresistedly post cryptic, at times blatantly vitriolic,  and often other times supremely narcissistic content – with eager expectation that it is widely liked. To think uncivil immodest conversations are unusual is, I admit, a rather naive view of human nature for it is evident that we, generally speaking as a species, are a bunch of flawed hindquarter cavities. However, it is the vaguely mundane yet universal phenomenon which escape my comprehension – like our irresistible penchant toward selfie!

Talking about judging eyes – the special selfie made with decided resolve (not accidentally), on a dull mundane hour of a dull mundane day (not on a special occasion), with none others in the frame (not a friend, not a celebrity nor a notable statue) marking the festivity of update-profile-picture is nothing but a face with a slapped-on smile, for the occasion, shamelessly declaring  “look at me; I have nothing to say”. I’m fascinated how we are OK, and frequently delighted, with this degree of nothingness in conversations? 

Come to think of it, how are we OK with using so many words to say nothing – nothing about our fears, vices or guilt? Perhaps I digressed – I meant how is one to not resist honesty and say all that there is to be said with so many judging eyes.

Page fear

Not all writing impacts readers; some do and it is unfortunate that some among them do. To write prose or poetry, one might plausibly argue, is the last remaining art unscathed by Trojan algorithms and codes peddled for adwords and other such click baits.

Little else explains overnight “instagraphers” slapping in a filter on to allegedly “unearthly” sunsets or singing sensations whose talent boils down to mastery over digital synthesizers and auto tune. Neither, incidentally, offer new perspective, a novel story or anything for that matter worthy of consideration or a mild ponder. Yet these works of “art” are evidently admired abundantly; conceivably, for not much else other than what the technology at use has achieved.

Words, in spite of dictionaries and translators, have fortunately not been entirely taken hostage to technologies of creation. The weight of responsibility this fact implies to preserve the page’s sanctity should make any pen tremble in fear. But that isn’t half of the problem.

In a case of the tail wagging the dog, much of words written are affected not by thoughts preceding writing but by reaction to it after. Writing isn’t confined to a book or a webpage consumed by unknown readers. Its scrutiny accompanied by showers of accolades and disapproving denunciation is immediate and prolific (admittedly, the point in made in spite of this blog entirely unaffected by such scrutiny). This sharing and feedback phenomenon would not affect the writer much if the pattern of reaction weren’t discernible. Unfortunately though, the pattern is less complex to decipher than a cooing parrot trained to thank you for a nut and “fuck you” for a fruit.

As a consequence, pages fill up with what readers wants to read rather than what writer has to say which doesn’t do much for its authenticity. And a page that isn’t authentic serves humanity rather well as tree trunk. But then, if that page is a bunch of pixels… well (sigh), there isn’t much else to yammer over here.

The post page fear first appeared on honestrooster.