How's it possible that the first month of the nascent (?!) year would pass by without a single post by this crackpot blogger? Considering the fact that the concerned anthropoid used to write several posts in a week, you must be eager to know what kept her so occupied for a while that she forgot her ain true love : trying to save the world from the energy crisis by giving constant supply of natural gas in the form of blog posts ! So, without further ado let's try and rescue our dear planet.
But before that lemme present my arguments to the jury :
Almost 180 years have passed since Raja Ram Mohan and Lord William Bentinck banned the practice of Sati : the vicious practice of burning the widowed Hindu women alive in their husbands' pyres. We were unfortunate enough to witness such practices even in 21st century. But media has overlooked a modified reincarnation of this nauseous practice which has transcended any parochiality such as religious or gender borders. In the new Sati-system coined by the great Indian private B-Schools, any human being belonging to any gender (male / female or transgender) can willingly choose to be a Sati in the time frame of Dec to March during the final year of their MBA. And the re-branded avatar of this 21st century mass Sati system is knows as ' Placement season'. The senile husbands can be anything ranging from a company which has already filed bankruptcy to an assignment where you've to sell A K 47 to terrorists as a part of your OTJ training. The moment you've been tied up with any groom , the parental responsibility of your institution will be over. For the years hence after , you've to burn in the hellfire of an industry you've no clue about , a job you absolutely detest and the onus of the gargantuan educational loan. Are you asking what will be the plight of those who would absolutely refuse to get married to such pathetic grooms and enter into the burning pyre? Their cries will be obfuscated by the hullabaloo of the college promotion activities , modern day equivalent of the 19th century conch shells and drums.
Thus, ladies and gentlemen, I admit to the guilt of not writing a word for months. But you be the judge : With each passing moment I'm moving closer to my doomsday. With the eminent threat of such excruciating death , which intrepid soul can concentrate on anything else? After all aren't we supposed to secure our own future before we venture to save the planet?
But before that lemme present my arguments to the jury :
Almost 180 years have passed since Raja Ram Mohan and Lord William Bentinck banned the practice of Sati : the vicious practice of burning the widowed Hindu women alive in their husbands' pyres. We were unfortunate enough to witness such practices even in 21st century. But media has overlooked a modified reincarnation of this nauseous practice which has transcended any parochiality such as religious or gender borders. In the new Sati-system coined by the great Indian private B-Schools, any human being belonging to any gender (male / female or transgender) can willingly choose to be a Sati in the time frame of Dec to March during the final year of their MBA. And the re-branded avatar of this 21st century mass Sati system is knows as ' Placement season'. The senile husbands can be anything ranging from a company which has already filed bankruptcy to an assignment where you've to sell A K 47 to terrorists as a part of your OTJ training. The moment you've been tied up with any groom , the parental responsibility of your institution will be over. For the years hence after , you've to burn in the hellfire of an industry you've no clue about , a job you absolutely detest and the onus of the gargantuan educational loan. Are you asking what will be the plight of those who would absolutely refuse to get married to such pathetic grooms and enter into the burning pyre? Their cries will be obfuscated by the hullabaloo of the college promotion activities , modern day equivalent of the 19th century conch shells and drums.
Thus, ladies and gentlemen, I admit to the guilt of not writing a word for months. But you be the judge : With each passing moment I'm moving closer to my doomsday. With the eminent threat of such excruciating death , which intrepid soul can concentrate on anything else? After all aren't we supposed to secure our own future before we venture to save the planet?
