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.

Catch life

Life doesn’t pass by in time lapse view. Try as much as I might, I’ll never see the flower bloom; now it’s a flower bud and now it has blossomed.

Tonight, as I explained to our son that his cartoon time is over, tears engulfed his eyes as an intolerable sadness dawned on the sweetest face. I awaited his, now usual, vocal and unequivocal protest.

But, unbeknownst to me, our boy had grown up a little tonight. His scream didn’t burst out of him neither were furniture disturbed by his able kicks.

Instead, a gentle nod appeared as if he had to come to accept the inevitable. Then, his tiny index finger pointed to me and then to the empty screen on which his beloved cartoon had been playing just until half a minute back – the purpose of such a gesture unmistakeably wanting to ask dad to turn on his favorite cartoon.

He then stopped; actually he stopped himself. Tears which had engulfed his eyes began to flow down his cheek as if a river broke it’s banks. They were unaccompanied by a sound that might count so much for a distant whimper in an empty desert.

It was as if he put something ahead of his wish… As if to say to me “Dad, this really hurts. I chose in spite of this to listen to you. This grief is my choice tonight. These tears are my choice.”… It was as if he said “Dad, I love you”. It broke my heart and then melted it some.

He grew up unseen. Now he was just a baby, now he is not just.

The post catch life first appeared on honestrooster.

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.

Idiot box

It’s no wonder “idiot box” is condoned as television’s alleged epithet considering the abominable content it has beamed toward unsuspecting viewers. But is that description veracious? There is reason to believe its not.

For starters, new breed of televisions are christened, ironically as, “smart” TV. So, that amply eliminates any niggling ambiguity about the accused object’s intelligence. That leaves examination of the other party to this idiocy, i.e. the viewer. Allow me to examine how this victim’s viewing habits, so to speak, has evolved.

The Beginning: When human began staring into tunnel vision, which nicely abbreviates as TV, he had no choice but to consume whatever state controlled single channel broadcasting beamed at him. That meant attending to ideological and religious bull dung programming in between handful commercials for a handful of oligarch corporations. It’s the simpler time which is rather tempting to become nostalgic about. Truth however is this period was intellectually debilitating. Probably the Era when television truly deserved to be declared an idiot box.

Middle Ages: After dark ages was the prompt arrival of multi channel private broadcasting which was equally fascinating for its briefly meteoric improvement over state television in programming quality and for its unstoppable and enduring deterioration into shameless voyeur disposing machines. But at least, the viewer had the choice to watch endless commercials in between brief programming about travel to far away lands or about cheating celebrities’ gossip. Invariably, it was the latter that was chosen. Television was no more the idiot box. It had become the idiot’s box.

Sorting Age: Its the YouTube Decade and it is the Television. In its own words “number of users who start at YouTube homepage, similar to the way they might turn on their TV, is up 3x”. With unlimited content, if you thought we’d do reasonably well choosing content, you would be totally and spectacularly wrong. Human race, in all it virtue, has most chosen phenomenally feather-head content such as a boy curse while playing video games and a woman showcase toys meant for 3 year old while pretending herself to be a 6 year old. To think these videos are worse than the innumerable make up tutorials and cats videos says depressingly a lot in itself – about us.

Even worse, if you stake claim to be that lonely viewer choosing to follow nothing but Stanford OCW, try accidentally click, which you will, on a cute cat video and the “smart” TV will offer a million more cats to binge adore on – So much for suggested videos. Because some genius figured choosing isn’t worth spending all our precious time on,  that responsibility has now been delegated to the box (or lets call it tube!). Its the era in which you sure hope that your roommate isn’t a religious fanatic, Ricky Martin fan or just patented pervert, because every “choice” he makes using your IP address will come back to bite your karma on your “home page”.

Television isn’t the idiot box or the idiot’s box anymore. Its the smart box arresting your attention against your will and then asking you “Whose the idiot now? Idiot!”


Life is a naughty little brat. Take eyes off it briefly and it sneaks tiny precious moments in and out in a blink. I caught it in its act today.

A faint supple squeak made contact with my hearing. I was too snoozy to barter scarce sleep for amusing inspection. Then a squeak again! I jumped out of bed like a kangaroo. Surely it must be important if it’s heard twice.

There he was, smiling straight into my eyes sans a wink and a “got you”. A moment is all I needed to grasp that my slumber had been victimized by a two and half month old human. Only half a moment happened though before my face blushed on its own and my lips said “good morning” – I recall on its own as well. This tiny gentleman for his response cheekily stuck his tongue out – and greeted with a wide smile. Again! and we traded good mornings and wide smiles a few times over and then… over and over again.

I have consumed many joys in life – few I recollect as unremarkable as this moment. None I recollect as unadulterated. This person, who I have had the pleasure to have been woken up by is the best person I have met. This isn’t a romantic thought – it is a supremely well thought through admission. He may or might not be the best person to wake me up some day in future – but the person he today is, is. To resolve why so is to render words redundant. So lets let it be.

What struck me later was how little this joy lingered through the day until it returned to memory in the evening. It was not for lack of  its delight, rather for my minds occupation with my daytime occupation. I was all too absorbed by deadlines and abundant conference calls. So absorbed that my morning glee all but jumped off the cliff into the ocean of forgotten moments. I’m glad it didn’t. I’m glad it returned to ever so gently inform me how life’s passage is unremarkable – sneaking tiny precious moments in and out in a blink. Life is a naughty little brat.


Despair for others is despicable not only for how it feels but also for how it defeats, eventually, our entire faculties to feel. It convicts us to an existence as, natural since it is to us, creatures of routine – plush sleep, delicious food, soothing weekends and annual vacations – all in spite of and amidst humiliatingly sharp awareness of present, continuous and intolerable suffering by countless victims. Victims whose innocence proves itself by their mere mention – murdered toddlers, en masse kidnapped school girls, beheaded journalists, shelled weddings, gassed villages, starved nations and several more among a depressive unending list.

Perhaps, to say this world is now going to hell might offer solace in that it indicates an opportunity to salvage ourselves before its too late. Grievously though, in reconsideration, it is an opinion uninformed by history, both recent and long past. The world has been, for many, a hell hole for far longer than we want to admit. How then, if at all, are we to make sense of good fortune, freedom and peace while surrounded by such dreadful agony.

Should we impotently reason away this human propensity to inflict suffering as merely second nature to us? should we pray on behalf of victims to a god, who likely is the one in whose name the said victims suffer? should we absurdly resolve to end this evidently unsolvable misery? or should we shamelessly be gratuitous for good fortune and publish a fucking blog post? Irrespective of the choice, indignation at self is, as must be, unavoidable. Guilt is, as must be, guaranteed.

There is however one sure course, one which televisions and radios are all too familiar with, to live uninterrupted by uncomfortable moral dilemmas – ignorance! It’s no surprise cat videos and makeup tutorials are watched far more exponential often, and usually, instead of reports from far away lands about human suffering. It isn’t for nothing that ignorance is claimed blissful. Nobody ever claimed “better despair than ignore”.

Oh such terrible corrupted bliss, such despicable despair. Makes you wonder whether it’s really such a loss if a comet is hurtling this way.