Election fever in India (currently more pandemic than the Swine flu) has once again shifted the pan of balance in favour of slothful Indian bourgeoisie. Interestingly, celebrities from every corner of Indian subcontinent are displaying their sporadic reverence to the masses. While Hema Malini was spotted struggling against flies and heat in some village to convey aaj basanti ke ijjat ka sawal hai, Sanjay Dutt was heard propagating Gandhigiri and Jadu ki Jhappi.
In a concurrent development, IPL (floundering to justify its origin, name, vision and motto) , the worshipped crickets were traded, ill treated and publicly insulted by their owners for their failures. The gems of nation are celebrated more as people’s personal entertainment paraphernalia and gambling cards.
People in the service industry fear to the emotion and irrelevant arguments of western clients. Nature of jobs and employment rate in the developing nations depend of the algebra of western economy. The western economy is driven by liquidity, credit availability and banking systems. Bankers, business tycoons, consultants and traders anticipate China, India and Middle East as their potential business spot. The formula for investment includes several factors of local demand. Big fishes from western economy offer all sort of lucrative offer to persuade the middle class of developing nations. FMCG giants pays millions to celebrities with flurry of stupid, irrational and unrealistic advertisement campaigns to coax the middle class of developing nations.
Ironically, the middle class is the most neglected, struggling, dissatisfied and unnoticed mob.
Most of the artists, who claim themselves to be mavericks and iconoclasts have to struggle for their existence. The primitive requirement for any such launch pads or platforms is to cater the public demand. The desire and quest to change the world redefines in changing themselves.
Ironically, most of the boasted achievements of such artists include the art at which he wanted to avoid or mock at.
Picasso says “I myself, since the advent of Cubism, have fed these fellows what they wanted and satisfied these critics with all the ridiculous ideas that have passed through my mind. The less they understood them, the more they admired me. Through amusing myself with all these absurd farces, I became celebrated, and very rapidly. For a painter, celebrity means sales and consequent affluence. Today, as you know, I am celebrated, I am rich. But when I am alone, I do not have the effrontery to consider myself an artist at all, not in the grand old meaning of the word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters. I am only a public clown - a mountebank. I have understood my time and have exploited the imbecility, the vanity, the greed of my contemporaries. It is a bitter confession, this confession of mine, more painful than it may seem. But at least and at last it does have the merit of being honest. (Pablo Picasso, 1952)”
The series of arguments related to these events boil down to a simple question “Who is your Daddy”
