Torturing for Freedom

 

 

 

 The first thing I saw upon logging into LinkedIn was an old video of an ISIS operative gloating about the number of people he had killed and the women he had raped, followed by the usual chorus of comments about Muslims being terrorists and the inherent evil of Islam. As an atheist and no apologist for the faith—or any other—I acknowledge that this monster may be real, but could just as easily be another propaganda tool playing a role. What struck me, however, was how none of the commenters seemed remotely interested in digging deeper into the murky origins of ISIS—how it was propped up, armed, and financed as a counterweight to Iraqi Shia militias. No mention of the Western nation and its vassals responsible for the carnage and chaos in the Middle East, their infamous torture school (renamed but still operating), their illegal prison camp in Cuba, or the secret black sites scattered across the world. Moreover,  if we were to stack every Islamic terrorist atrocities against those committed by Christian white nations—their world wars, colonial slaughters, neo-colonial bloodbaths, South East Asian massacres, Middle Eastern invasions, brutal crackdowns on their own citizens—the so-called Islamic terrorists wouldn’t even rank-Babies.

I once knew a man who had his testicles electrocuted for a week—his only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a village wedding photographer mistaken for an insurgent because he looked "Mongoloid" enough for the army to pick him up. I met another who had cigarette burns covering his back, courtesy of his time in police custody. Then there was the time I got drunk with a Buddhist monk, only to later learn he had spent nearly seven years in solitary confinement in a Tibetan prison. I’ve heard senior police officers boast about how they battered people in custody, and I once drank chai with a BSF sub-inspector who casually used the word “torture” in place of “interrogation.” 

Already aware that most criminals don’t regret their actions in the least—at most, they fear human revenge or divine retribution—I once spent weeks scouring the web for scholarly and general articles on whether torturers employed by government agencies—police, military interrogators, intelligence spooks like those in the CIA or KGB—ever express genuine remorse. What I found was damning. The subject has been virtually untouched in academic research. And from the scarce evidence available—confessions of war criminals, testimonies from ex-operatives—the results were abysmal. The only ones who ever expressed regret—whether for torture, battery, or gang rape, all carried out in service of their nation and to protect our freedom—were those who had been publicly exposed or were hoping for a reduced sentence.
Most simply rationalize their actions, deny or defend them when confronted, and later shove it all into some dark, locked compartment at the back of their minds.

Coming back to the commenters on the ISIS video post—most aren't bothered about the 40,000 dead in Gaza, a million in Ukraine, or the over 1,000 Alawites massacred last week. Well, unless the mass or social media tells them to be. We humans have a way of keeping our biases intact and treating morality as nothing more than an arbitrary principle—weaponized or discarded as deemed convenient.

Disrespect - Thug Life

 

 I woke up to the ding of a WhatsApp message at around 3 AM, only to find a YouTube link sent by a friend in Russia—a former proponent of a laissez-faire economy, a citizen of another country, but now a fervent, born-again Putinist.
It was barely a couple of hours after the White House fiasco involving Trump and Zelensky when I discovered that all of Russia was in the throes of an orgiastic frenzy, rivaling porcine orgasms in duration.

I won’t delve into global politics or take sides here but will focus on two key elements: Zelensky’s two big mistakes and the keyword—“disrespect.”
It is apparent that the American side had set the stage earlier to create a media circus, though not at Zelensky’s expense. Possibly taking a cue from his Indian friend who blames Nehru for all the world’s ills, “Do-lund Trumph” and his team sought to use the opportunity for some crass Biden-bashing aimed at domestic audiences.

Here was Zelensky’s first mistake: he should have known better than to interfere when Trump and Pence were engaging in their thug talk on domestic politics. He should have simply stayed silent. But call it the stress of his job or the habit of lecturing the world for the past three years on how Ukraine wasn’t getting enough support—Zelensky seemed to have lost the ability to keep quiet.

His second mistake? In an attempt to appeal to the western masses and possibly endear himself to his sponsors, he spoke in English—a language in which he can barely structure a sentence correctly. As a result, he failed to understand when a conversation wasn’t meant for him to respond to and ended up getting bullied by two boorish individuals for whom English (or their version of it) is a first language. Incidentally a regular American trait, never saw or heard of a Britisher engaging in such behaviour.

Lastly, the word “disrespect”—a term that still triggers me, taking me back to my childhood and teenage years in Assam. There, getting picked on by elders—be it older teenagers, adults, or teachers—was a part of life. Any time you stood your ground against bullying or mistreatment, the statute of “disrespect” was invariably thrown at you. You were disrespectful to those older than you, and that was the final verdict—they were the judge, jury, and executioners. It’s plain thug talk, used whenever someone wants to pick a fight. Corporate managers use it for intimidation, street hoodlums use it, gang members use it, and prison inmates use it. A one-sided, irrefutable declaration—regardless of whether the accused actually did anything to warrant it or not.

J.D.Wance, the self-styled hillbilly thug, and Trump, the maverick, just put on a TV show at the White House—representing the U.S. exactly as most of the world sees them. Well, with the possible exception of legal and illegal Indian and Latin American migrants, along with those aspiring to join their ranks.

A New Year, but will it be Happy

The first day of the year brings symbolic "new beginnings," but in reality, it's just another date on the calendar. Unlike the winter solstice, January 1st lacks any astronomical or religious significance. Across major cultures, there are at least five different New Year dates. This one owes its existence to a Roman-era calendar, later corrected in 1582 by Pope Gregory XIII after the Julian calendar had accumulated ten extra days.

Interestingly, the Orthodox New Year, celebrated by believers of the Orthodox Church in Greece, Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, the Balkans, and Ethiopia, is also known as the Old New Year. According to the Julian calendar, it falls on January 14 in the Gregorian calendar. This festival coincides with the Hindu Makar Sankranti festival in North India, Pongal in the South, and Bihu in Assam, in India's northeast.

Astrologically and astronomically, this is the day the Sun moves from Sagittarius to Capricorn, heralding midwinter and the approach of spring—essentially, a true New Year. The Romans celebrated it as the festival of Janus, the two-faced god, and Christians later adopted the same date as the start of the new year. So, Pope Gregory XIII was not only poor at math but also bereft of any astronomical knowledge.

For most startups, January 1st is business as usual—or rather, no business, as usual. Aggregators might see some revenue, but burn rates far exceed it. Brick-and-mortar businesses that call themselves startups fare slightly better, but tech developers have it the worst: no clients, no investors, and no income. Most founders spend their time scrounging for grants and attending training programs at various incubators, hoping for tips to break the stalemate and win clients—or an investor’s ear (with an elevator pitch first perfected in their local language).

Not surprisingly, in India—with its Gordian knot of red tape and bottomless pit of graft—the fiscal New Year aptly starts on April Fool’s Day.

The only people with relatively secure jobs seem to be incubator staff—organizing workshops, hand-holding startups, and recruiting "success stories" faster than a cult leader gains followers. While some programs offer value, many are repetitive or led by individuals with little entrepreneurial or sector-relevant experience. Real-life issues are rarely addressed, such as: how founders can cope with or assist aging and often sick parents in other towns, deal with pompous and ignorant jury members in pitching sessions, or handle potential investors who treat them like dirt. Then there are shameless friends and relatives asking for loans the moment a grant comes through, chartered accountants who bungle compliance and saddle you with hefty fines—or worse, demand higher fees than agreed upon and surprise you with extra bills the moment any funds trickle into your account. And let’s not even get started on predatory existing businesses eager to tear newcomers to shreds, or the outright antipathy of the government machinery.

For most startups, January 1st is just another day of struggle. The only difference? The hangover makes it worse.

Bruce Lee & The Tao of Aete

 

Like many in my generation, I grew up under the stern, steely, daring, all-seeing eyes of Bruce Lee! He was everywhere—staring down from the walls of friends' bedrooms, roadside eateries, garages, and barbershops. In the late '70s and early '80s, he was the omnipresent aspirational icon in northeast India. Regular fights in the serpentine queues outside theatres screening his movies rivaled those in his films.

With a large section of the population having Mongoloid features, teenagers and young men imitated his look—sporting haircuts that resembled bristles on a wild boar’s back, maintaining perennially scowling expressions, and joining martial arts classes. Even those who didn’t join such classes still acted like Kung Fu or Karate experts. Meanwhile, traders made a killing selling Jalandhar-made fake Chinese nunchaku, pirated or original copies of Kung Fu Weekly (complete with the inevitable Bruce Lee poster), and Tao of Jeet Kune Do or Official Karate magazines, which graced the coffee tables of the well-heeled. Smuggled Chinese slip-on cloth shoes, dubbed "Lee Shoes," were on the feet of every self-respecting teenager.

By the time I got into martial arts in the late '80s, Bruce Lee had been dead for over 18 years. Taekwondo had emerged as the most popular "kicking sport," Karate had a modest following, and Kung Fu was all but forgotten. Still, several martial arts clubs in town thrived, each run by a motley crew of dedicated members carrying out morning and evening "Hu-Ha" sessions. These clubs often attracted an eccentric mix: arrogant bullies, driven wannabes (many of them feminists), cocky or frightened kids whose parents mistakenly thought martial arts would teach them discipline, self-defense, or self-confidence.

The instructors, however, were even more colorful—a veritable rogue’s gallery. They included a notorious gay pedophile, two muscle-for-hire types, a con artist extorting funds for “foreign black-belt exam tours” that never happened, and a brash(crude) young woman rumored to provide "services" beyond kicks and chops.  I chose to forgo the prominent schools, primarily because I knew most of their resident bullies and there was no way that I would humiliate myself as a bumbling novice in front of them. Instead, I selected the least popular of them all; Judo.. Unlike Karate with its dance-like katas, Judo offered close-contact sparring and had the unique appeal of being almost unknown.

 The Dojo was nestled on the top floor of the stadium's crumbling gymnastics hall and there were only two students, an unbelievably good-natured Bengali and a perennially sneering Bodo of indeterminable age with an acute case of "Angry Nigger Syndrome!

Soon, my unusual choice piqued the curiosity of my college and stadium friends, leading to a steady flow of aspiring students—most of whom never returned after the first day.

One day, one of the stadium Sensei sternly called me aside. To be honest, I braced myself for another rebuke about some female-related issue, as I had somehow acquired the ill-deserved reputation of a Lothario. And most of my problems back then were either caused by women or related to them, not that much has changed.

The Sensei  called me because wanted my help buying a telephone call metering machine. Because long before mobile phones, cities were dotted with manned telephone booths called Public Call Offices (PCOs). One shop in town held a monopoly on selling these machines, and high demand meant deliveries often took months. The shop owners were family acquaintances, and I was good friends with the eldest brother, who remains a staunch well-wisher to this day despite being a couple of decades older.

Someone told him about my connection to the shop, so he wanted me to get him a machine out of turn—and at a discount. But instead of politely asking, he threw what the Japanese call an Aete, a challenge or dare. It was as if the onus was on me to prove my worth by meeting his demand.

Still polite in my younger days, I offered to accompany him to the shop and put in a request on his behalf. But no, this wasn’t enough for him. “Can you do it or not?” he retorted with a grin, snapping his fingers as he glanced at the gathering crowd. I repeated my offer to put in a word, but he jeered back: “So, you can’t!” I shrugged and walked away.

A few weeks later, walking through town, I saw the eldest brother from the telephone shop, grinning widely and beckoning me over. “Hey man, come here! I’ve got a great story for you,” he yelled.

Apparently, that Sensei had visited the shop without me, tried using my name—an effort worthy of a true dojo knucklehead.

Sensei: Are you so-and-so?
Shop owner: Yes, how can I help you?
Sensei: Aren’t you friends with Ravi Pagal (Madman)?
Shop owner: I know many Ravis, but none of them are mad.
(He later admitted he immediately thought of me.)
Sensei: … Heh heh…
Shop owner: Can you be more specific? I really don’t know any “Pagals.”
Sensei: I mean Ravi Deka… we all call him that!
Shop owner: Well, let me tell you this: I know Ravi very well and consider him one of the most intelligent young men I’ve met. You know what? When stupid people fail to recognize superior intelligence, they call it madness.
(At this point, the whole shop burst out laughing.)
Sensei: Er… heh heh… no, no, he’s my good friend, like a younger brother! Actually, I wanted a PCO machine…
Shop owner: We’re out of stock and not taking bookings. (Though, he admitted he had a spare box under his desk.)
Sensei: But Ravi said—
Shop owner: Cutting him off: I don’t know what he said. But feel free to come back with him, and we’ll see what we can do.

Red-faced, the sensei left and never brought up the topic with me again. This episode wasn’t about my sanity or intelligence but rather his lack of both. While we laughed at his foolishness, it also made me reflect on the toxic bullying I’ve witnessed throughout my life—friends, relatives, employers, and clients alike using Aetes or dares to manipulate others into impossible tasks, and always for free.

Over time, I learned to counter these situations using a principle I picked up in Judo: kuzushi, or balance. Instead of justifying myself, negotiating, or arguing, I listen patiently and then shift the burden back onto them. I simply ask for a wish list and budget, then respond with what I can do, when, and at what cost. This approach separates genuine clients from time-wasters, saving me countless headaches.

After all, Judo in Japanese means “The Gentle Way.”

 Epilogue: Not being Putin,  the novelty of tumbling around daily in sweat-drenched GIs with equally sweaty guys—who collectively stank like horse farts—wore off. Fed up with persistent back pain and swollen wrists, I  traded it all in for the world of bikes, peace, love, Rastaman vibes, and their hazy fumes.

Fast-forward a few years, and I read in the newspapers that the sneering Bodo was jailed for planting a bomb in a city marketplace, killing many people. Another Dojo  student was caught with a kilo of heroin, though it miraculously turned into flour at the forensic lab. Finally, the Sensei himself was arrested for extortion, claiming to belong to a militant outfit.

Philosophical principles and a sprinkling of Japanese wisdom aside, years of Judo neither taught me discipline nor provided inner peace. It didn’t improve my concentration, and it certainly didn’t attract female attention. The world of martial arts is riddled with an incredible amount of bullshit and fallacies. While it looks cool in photos or deadly in films, the reality is far less glamorous—it’s much like Facebook, where human flaws like posturing, insecurity, ego, envy, ambition, and bullying take center stage. The difference? Martial arts leave behind not just bruised egos but broken bones and bodies crippled for life.

One of the most brutally honest appraisals of this field by an insider is the book Angry White Pyjamas by Aikido black belt Robert Twigger.

 

Blame it on the Gods

In an exercise straight out of a hilarious early 70s Ted Mark novel, like the one where the US President (a parody of Richard Nixon), undergoing a psychiatric evaluation, was asked by a doctor whether he was attracted to his mother, before another inquired if he had ever acted on it—I too was facing a similar situation, but in a woke mid-2020s fashion. First, I was asked whether I identified as male, and next if I had the necessary hardware provided by Mother Nature. And no, this wasn’t some gender rights imbroglio I unwittingly got into, but a questionnaire from a US-based Impact Startup Fund for their fellowship program, one whose DEI agenda far overshadowed their green credentials.

The rest of the questions were pretty staid: what you’re doing, why, who benefits, and so on. Until my non-bionic Terminator brain’s non-electric eye stumbled upon one for which I had no ready answer. It was like being back in college, sitting for a Corporate Finance paper—a subject I utterly detested, never understood, and had zero interest in then, with zero regrets about it now. If I now have the excuse of dyslexia and ADHD for barely scraping through Accountancy and Statistics, in Corporate Finance, I just slept through lectures, eyes wide shut, often helped by ganja smoked atop the library building beforehand, sometimes in the reading hall.

Thus, when I sat for the finals, I just wrote down whatever came to mind, though I am still convinced that I flunked the paper due to a severe stomach infection I had on that day and not my ignorance. The next year they passed me, hoping to see the last of me, not for any knowledge gained.

Coming back to the form, the question was: "Explain how systemic discrimination on the basis of race, religion, or any other factor has affected the field in which you are engaged?" Honestly, I had no answer. I made myself a cup of coffee and tried accessing any remaining archives in my terminator brain related to Corporate Finance exams, or at least recalled how to get back into that mode. And before I knew it, I had my Eureka moment. Despite the urge to run down the street in Archimedes' style and dress, I settled for returning to my desk with mild euphoria, having cracked the biggest puzzle that has plagued me since I began designing and developing green sustainable boats—why the hell wasn’t anyone interested in the subject?

From the first time I pitched for a government-owned refinery's startup ideation grant to the country’s leading tech accelerator, the result was always the same: utmost disinterest and inevitable rejection. Surely, the problems I presented—like the shortage of rescue boats during recurring annual floods, unsafe medieval boat designs, and the fact that scores, sometimes over a hundred people, drown each year in Indian boat accidents—would resonant with someone? My innovative proposal to use bamboo composites, the most sustainable plant material, should have appealed to climate tech advocates and funds. But no, nothing! After about 20 or 22 rejections, I shifted gears and claimed that I would first design an electric boat motor for the armed forces, with bamboo composite boats only as test beds. That's when I finally got my first grant. Fine, I built both.

The reply to the question is that the root cause of apathy towards boats and water transport lies in faith, more specifically, the most nautical sector-unfriendly religion in the world: Hinduism!

While the ancient Greeks had Poseidon, Christians have St. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, the Chinese have Guanyin, protector of the seas, and the Arabs crossed the Indian Ocean under Allah’s protection, the Hindus—except for the Chola empire and coastal communities like the Kachis, Malabaris, and a sprinkling of Marathas—all believed that crossing the ocean made them lose their caste and religion. Thus, there is no single pan-Indian Hindu sea god, no matter what the online Hindutwawadi revivalists and YouTube experts claim: at most, some local demi-gods.

Even when Ram had to rescue Sita from Ravana in Sri Lanka, instead of building a flotilla of warships to reach the island, he used an unpaid monkey labour force to build a highway across the strait. In all the branches of Hinduism, water is for drinking, bathing, and pouring over the heads of gods. Rivers are all declared holy and hence meant for rituals, immersing ashes of the dead, and performing daily ablutions—you got it, having a crap.

Most riparian and coastal communities, along with their professions like boat-building, ferrying, and fishing, were invariably relegated to lower castes. Even after many converted to Islam or Christianity, their social standing didn’t change even after independence. They may have got some education, quotas and reservations, and a few health facilities, but nothing has been done to modernize their tools of trade or traditional livelihood. Their boats remain as primitive as they were at the dawn of the century, with not a single government program for affecting any positive change, either with modern technology or by upgrading their skill set.

This is not surprising, since post-independence economic policymaking has been shaped by those with an upper-caste, middle-class mentality. For them, both then and now, river and water transport never played any significant role. In fact, in their zeal to improve irrigation during the Green Revolution to boost agricultural production, they collectively destroyed the hydrology of most Indian rivers with an almost compulsive spree of dam and barrage construction and canal digging. As a result, most rivers today are either running dry, have raised beds from accumulated alluvial deposits, and floods are occurring in places that never had them before. Predictably, all riverine connectivity has been cut by multiple dams, with no vessel locks ever built to facilitate boat traffic. What was once a vibrant river transport system across the subcontinent has been relegated to forgotten history.

This same disregard for all things nautical extends beyond rivers to the sea. Despite India’s massive coastline, relatively cheap labour, and domestic steel production, the country has less than 1% of the global shipbuilding market. Meanwhile, South Korea, a country the size of India’s northeastern region, commands 30-35% of the market.

For once, it wouldn’t be wrong to blame the gods for the current state of India’s rivers and maritime industry. 

And yes, the US DEI chaps didn't select me for their fellowship either...

 

To those interested in learning about the absence of Divine (Hindu) presence in India's maritime tradition, I will highly recommend reading Devdutt Patnaik's article on the subject. The above image has been copied for his article as well, needless to say, without his permission.