1991: Quo Vadis

As the decade turned into the millennium's last, the country and my life were delicately poised; deliverance a few tantalizing months away. Personally, it was a cusp between hitherto sheltered school life and college plus the big bad world beyond; and not bereft of birth pangs. Those life defining moments pale into utter insignificance over the winds of change about to be unleashed on a somewhat ill-prepared nation!

To many, the national landscape appeared despairingly bleak with little by way of redeeming features. The economy seemed destined for a Hindu rate of growth. Any advantage from the baby steps of Rajiv Years had been mostly bungled away by succeeding regimes. Indeed, some ominously portended India turning a banana Republic, with IMF-World Bank painted as the new age avatars of the East India Company (though in retrospect it can be said that doomsayers read too much into what was certainly a perilous macroeconomic situation). Ascribing imperialistic motives to multilateral lending institutions was accompanied by barely-suppressed murmurs of a grand design on part of 'foreign powers' (read the United States, with its real or perceived proximity to arch enemy Pakistan).

This was more than mere Cold War hangover. It can be argued that years of Nehruvian Socialism had sapped away the nation's collective confidence, or its appetite for change. There also existed a school of thought (the Right) that looked further aft to trace the roots of our lack of self-belief and passivation. Swiftly gaining mindshare and acceptance, this view argued that the defeatism stemmed from events over the preceding thousand years in our history, notably the countless cross-Hindu Kush assaults on her suzerainty and economic wealth. Regardless, at this crucial juncture, the emasculating Nehruvian model was more than the smile of Cheshire cat, with significant coinage in political discourse and economic intent.

There is, of course, merit in debating the point of inflection when the Nehru model outlived its usefulness. However, in 1991 it was academic in face of income inequity and regional imbalance that were sorry realities of our prevalent socioeconomic existence. At another level, the incipient Licence Raj had merely changed the skin-colour of India's ruling elite: adding endemic corruption to the atmosphere of mistrust and lack of transparency that were British legacy. Again, shibboleths of Demos had taken a big beating from the futile poverty alleviation pledges of the 70s, the snuffed promise of 1984, and doomed Janata experiments. Governance seemed equally eclipsed by a bogey of terror that shifted addresses yet never got wiped out.

Hope, in short, was at a premium. Unfortunately, its purveyors were yet more so. The probable best bet had been tragically lost to a human bomb that summer. The multiple Janata Dal PMs-in-waiting were but wasted breath. Abki-baari-Atal-Behari was still waiting to happen. And the last election's messed-up messiah had taken his well-earned place in the dustbin of history, following his doomed premiership and ill-disguised social agenda, with eminently forgettable poetry and equally inadequate art.

As it turned out, partly aided by sympathy over Sriperumbudur, the mandate swung largely towards India's GOP. The leadership mantle fell on the unlikely shoulders of a vanprastha ashram-bound PV Narasimha Rao. The nation had her first Prime Minister from south of the Vindhyas (in fact the first not from the electorally crucial battle-state of Uttar Pradesh). What followed thereafter: politics of pout, a rapid rise in barter-system of social pressure groups and ostrich-like approach to national issues; but surprisingly significant, even if inevitable, economic reform; is a tale for another day!

Ides of May, Democracy and Hope

My first tryst with the ballot box, albeit vicarious, is one of my sharpest preteen memories. It followed from two formidable influences. The first was not really a choice: an accident of birth in India's most politically conscious state indelibly imprints one's social DNA (it also bred a marked proclivity to opinion-dissemination as my later day acquaintances would vouch)! Second, my skewed reading habits accentuated such leanings: newspapers had displaced ACK and assorted comics as lunchtime accessory, helped no doubt by having a national daily in HT set up shop in my hometown (their first venture out of Delhi).

Whatever be the fount of my hyperactive appetite for things political, fact is that the 1984 election was epochal. Its preceding event had been notoriously described by a key protagonist as "when a giant tree falls, the earth below shakes". Consequent sympathy, combined with Obamaesque 'change' appeal and youthful vitality, delivered a verdict that shattered all records. It remains possibly the strongest mandate India would hand any of her progeny. My inclinations too were firmly in line with the national pulse.

Unfortunately for me and India, this virginal promise was belied. What followed is most tellingly described by the incomparable Nani Palkhivala in his seminal We the Nation, adapting Malcolm Muggeridge to write: "never was any generation of men intent upon the pursuit of well-being more advantageously placed to attain it, who yet, with seeming deliberation, took the opposite course - towards chaos instead of order, towards breakdown instead of stability, towards destruction and darkness instead of life, creativity and light."

This is not to argue that no good came of the Rajiv years. Indeed, economic paradigm shifts that became more pronounced in the Nineties had green shoots in his regime's policy changes. Yet, the overwhelming mood in Elections 89 was one of frittered opportunities. It did not leave me untouched. Across India, the angst spilled on to the streets; with a new Mr Clean as its face. The sense of disenchantment and nascent anti-establishment spirit rang true personally too, but my feelings towards the new hero remained ambivalent. Instead, in this backdrop, my leanings had started to swing Right.

A notable reality of electoral life in those days was the scourge of booth capturing. Variously manifest in avatars like 'scientific booth management' a la Comrades in West Bengal, seething discontent of denied Dalit voice across the hinterland, or in-your-face Bahubali muscle-flexing in what became Laloo's Bihar; this malaise made a mockery of universal suffrage. Doordarshan would later run an exposé on it, a true shot in the arm for the maturing of Indian democracy (it made Nalini Singh a household name, inspiring a generation of budding journalists more than Tehelka's scandal-mongering or early-Barkha bravado that would follow). In 1989, though it ruled the roost. Despite it, that multiple close relatives of the then Bihar CM lost at the hustings, was an early lesson in the power of Demos for me.

As it transpired, the verdict was split, but writing was on the wall. VP Singh, erstwhile Congressi and Sanjay acolyte, took helm in Delhi, with forces from opposite ends of the political spectrum 'supporting the government from outside'. Beset by internal quibbling from day 1, it took but a few months for the tenuous JD sarkar to crumble, though not before the Raja of Manda contributed his pernicious bit towards social re-engineering (euphemism for vote bank creation). The forces unleashed through Mandal, little understood by that misdirected messiah, would dramatically alter the country's political landscape.

The dispensation that followed VP made PM of an old Young Turk: one who had challenged Mrs G in the 70s; and whose supporters had fought a pitched battle on camera with Shri Ram Jethmalani (trying Gandhian tactics with the warrior of Ballia over JD leadership) just months ago. As a government it was meant to bide time, which it did; and not disturb historians much, which it did not. Of course there were non-trifles like our sovereign Republic needing to pledge gold to honour debt servicing commitments, but that happenstance was too big for blame to be placed on Chandra Shekhar's footnote-in-history regime.

Elections were announced in the summer of 1991, with disillusionment over the non-Congress experiment on the rise and Mandal-Mandir working overtime to cement their respective positions in our polity. With a heart pulled strongly Right, my vote had one only other potential legatee: the original Harbinger of Hope, wizened by the decline and fall of his 411/542 government. One felt Rajiv's battle-hardened second coming, with political instinct more sharply honed, could be more potent and present.

It may have been a great combination but, for a second time, it was not to be. An erstwhile misadventure returned to haunt RG fatally, an evening eighteen years ago to the day, while on the campaign trail in a dusty town on Chennai's outskirts. In classical sub-continent political drama mould, the conspiracy behind the assassination at Sripreumbudur has never entirely untangled, at least in the public domain, except affirming that an LTTE suicide squad was its instrument. Perhaps far greater than the facts, repressed or otherwise, was the tale of a tragically extinguished promise: avowed goals, provided means but missed opportunities in 1984; lessons learnt, force revitalized but a life cut short seven years later. Too soon.

PS: The principal architect of the May misfortune was killed by the bullet that he had lived much of his life by, just this past week. Not too soon.

The Father, Some and the Holy Spirit

My quasi-holiday mood made for a leisurely read of the newspaper today. It resulted in musings of a wide-latitude, random wandering kind. In that frame, the journalistic chatter over Elections 2009, or brouhaha over IPL venues, seemed idle or puerile. Instead, what struck me most was a comedy of vanities over an overhyped 'legacy' of our dear departed Father of the Nation.

In short, the melodramatic medley of emotions and rhetoric over an auction of some of Gandhiji's historically insignificant items, appeared soap opera more than national pride. Hero's mantle for the episode fell on the unlikely shoulders of Shri Vijay Mallya, liquor baron and prominent glitterati specimen. A few of his beer-begot millions and the Mahatma's mundane belongings got added to a collection that boasts of (among other things) racing horses, vintage cars, a plodding airline and two under-performing sports teams. In tune with the self-righteous debate on the auction's immorality and overarching desi claims to items on offer, Mallya ji too made suitable noises on the acquisition being spurred by patriotic fervour, national duty etc. In any case, given that he pays taxes and has somewhat recognized means of earning his bread (unlike some of his peers in the Upper House), we may steer clear of excessively flagellating his spending habits or extant motive.

Our effete government has no such escape hatches though. Paying lip service to the Mahatma being a practice perfected by Congressmen over decades, perhaps their aggressive posturing in days and weeks preceding the auction was only to be expected. Some of us recall a similar episode a couple of years ago when government intervention (taxpayer expense) had 'saved' Gandhiji's heritage from being irretrievably lost. Yet, going so far as to bestow agent status (post facto) on a protesting VJM was surely taking things too far. Ambika ji, who gives the extraordinary Yechury-garu a run for the money in the foot-in-the-mouth Hall of Fame, dramatically proclaimed that Mallya was a front for the government as if no less 007-esque manouevre was needed in a staightforward auction. Minister for Tourism and Culture, anyone?

On cue, this spurred into action the irrepressible Amar Singh who, in true Goebbelsian genius, summoned the press corps to proclaim how he would have been the saviour of the 'legacy' but for his health (a temporary indisposition, since miraculously cured). He has his hands full, in any case, in saving Gandhigiri with the inspired Samajwadi choice for the Lucknow Lok Sabha seat (that counts, amongst others, Smt Sheila Kaul, Smt Vijay Lakshmi Pandit, and a certain AB Vajpayee, as its erstwhile tenants).

Perhaps all this chicanery only epitomizes what has become of Gandhiji's legacy. After all, it 'cost the nation a fortune to keep him in poverty' in his lifetime, as an otherwise loyal Sarojini Naidu pithily observed once. There is also a school of thought that traces our personality dominated polity and marriages of convenience (in guise of highfalutin principles), to some of Bapu's actions in the later years of our independence struggle. Likewise, some of his ideas on education, public health, poverty alleviation etc deserve more critical scrutiny. Regardless, today is not about calling into question any of those facets or inconsistencies in the principles by which he led life. It is about not letting the very mention of his name elevate the object under discussion to demi-god status, beyond rational debate. Failing this, such ammunition of opprobrium and purported sacrilege shall continue to be used by opportunists to hijack our framework for partisan agenda or personal gain.

Even beyond these fault-lines of reverence there is much to introspect in the 'crisis' and our collective national response. For instance, investigate how the items left the family's possession to wind up under the hammer. Another pertinent aspect is whether current policy restrictions on private participation in trade of historical objects are counter-productive (artificially bolstered price attracts the mercenary-minded). Further, what constitutes national heritage needs better delineation (should resources be focused on, say, preservation of national monuments, cleansing holy rivers, or greening our forests). Finally, consider if the government can freely squander taxpayer money dubious concerns. Any or all of these have sharper linkages with culture, or impact on tourism, in a fashion that Ambika ji shall likely never understand.

Plumbing Yet Deeper

It was with more than a slight spring in the step and twinkle in the eye that we scooted up the ladder to the little bird soon to soar in the sky. A half-hearted greeting at the door made for no pause in our upbeat mood and it was a benign eye that inspected our transport's relatively modest confines. Indeed, a token Club Class row (we were in the next) elicited but a friendly chuckle from W as we belted up. My throat was being a tad rebellious though and cabin crew intervention had to be requested. A stewardess appeared soon enough in response to the call button, promptly noting the request for a glass of warm water. Almost on cue, the pilot initiated runway formalities and, moments later, we were airborne.

Debating whether to attend to the companion paperback or grab a shuteye, my reminder for that glass of water to the in-flight hospitality team commencing snack service, was affable, to say the least. Be that as it may, the glass remained elusive as we devoted ourselves to contents of the breakfast tray. My demurral of surprise to W at not being asked for choice of cuisine was but a murmur (my partiality to meat not being a shared inclination in any case). Yet, despite her vote for things vegetarian, she could not suppress a crinkling of the nose at the quality of food on offer. She did educate me though as to why my lofty morning-omelette ambitions were thwarted, pointing to piece of misdirected evangelism from the airline's promoter-chairman in a tacky seat-pocket brochure. Seemingly, Mr Goenka was doing his zealous duty to spread satvik vibes in airspace by denying minor gastronomic pleasures to us lesser mortals.

Vexing as this presumption of choice may be, but my poise was severely tested by the sustained refusal for that fugitive glass of water to materialize. At this tug of the bell, the first crew-member made a repeat appearance, only to inform me on this occasion that no provision for warm water existed in flight (perhaps some satvik postulate was violated), turning nonchalantly away before one could ask as to why the last two requests had met assent promising future fulfillment. Bias for sustained civility forbore me from pursuing matters, though it was beyond my fuddled mind to fathom what was perverse about such beverage being in service. Indeed, likely things could get worse, given all that had transpired since the morning.

It did not take long for that piece of rhetoric to meet its answer. The indifferent fare on offer needed a strong garnishing in any case. The airline's choice of dessert dressing was dead mosquitoes, two in number, as revealed by a cursory inspection of what W had in front of her. Perhaps a mosquito or two was par for the course in screens for vegetarian staple per Mr Goenka's specifications. The cabin crew next summoned did certainly indicate that the proceedings were of routine nature: her blasé shrug of disinterest had an aura of finality, utterly dismissing any hint of corrective action.

A soul far braver may have persisted, not me. The airline had spared no effort in staging these intricate manouevers and consecutive nadirs in service benchmarks (Chhoo Lo Aasman, ha): an eminently reasonable explanation for the ticket price tag. Thus grounded, we slept. No more happened: much could have. Or perhaps they ran out of ideas. Or budget.

Plumbing Depths

This one goes back a few weeks. The first-born of a new generation in our family was planning to tie the knot, and the Missus decided (uncharacteristically late; perhaps my eminently avoidable influence) that we ought to make the trip to Ranchi to add to the congregation assembled in Jharkhand's capital city for the occasion. Post the usual motions that accompany such marital confusion-making (sorry, decision-making), the argument was settled in the customary fashion (after all W is for Winning) and the vanquished assigned the menial task of booking flight tickets. Skipping any remonstrations vis-a-vis our misconceived munificence, well deserved as they may be, let me get to the chase.

My favourite fare search engine revealed the penury of choices in connectivity between the national capital and the pride of Soren-land (this predates the ignominy of Tamar where Guruji achieved a near impossible first: loss for a sitting Chief Minister of an Indian state in a by-election to sanctify governing rights). The alternatives were limited to three, of which our much-maligned national carrier and the reincarnation of no frills-pioneer Air Deccan, were known offenders on service and timeliness counts. In fact, the third option with its early morning departure fitted us to a t; arriving JIT for the inviting festivities of a Big Fat Indian Wedding. Mention must be made too of this transport provider's alluring tagline: a promise to touch sky-high (standards of excellence, presumably)! Hence, setting aside any Shylockian considerations, a new personal high in domestic one-way transport purchase damages was scaled in a few clicks.

Come the anointed day and we rose at day-break, a chore that typically guarantees to dampen the spirit among us weak-fleshed. But, as foretold, the prospects of a delightful family reunion and concomitant abundance of good cheer (and food) beckoned. Meru deposited us uneventfully at the airport and we found ourselves at the relatively nondescript check-in counter in no time. Service was quick, although, as the resident critic noted with a mild chuckle, one could discern the incongruity in the ground-staff's commercial finery, namely the colour palette and, yet more so, grooming (or absence thereof). Regardless, in a state of partial sleep deprivation, one was more than relieved for a quick scoot through Security. Indeed, such was the jubilation at the extra moments of rest thus afforded, that a repeat appearance of the check-in staff at the terminal exit door was met with benign appreciation, forgetting momentarily that costs cut thus had not found their way to the fare calculator.

Such economic considerations were promptly thrown out the window a few minutes later: after all, one can withstand only so many jolts when expecting a quick dash to the aircraft, and presented a cross-country drag race ride instead. Seconds turned to interminable minutes, and minutes to many aching more, as our joy-ride lasted the entire length of the runway, across the breadth of the domestic terminal, and then halfway again through the runway at the opposite end. Not just once during the twists and turns in the morning chill, there being no air-con (more cost saving perhaps?) on the rickety bus, did one get the feeling we had taken a road trip and not a flight to Ranchi.

All good things come to an end one supposes though, and a few years later we found ourselves in terra incognita, a secret nook of the certainly-not-so-large-as-to-be-uncharted Delhi airport. Two dusty aircraft in hues of aluminum silver and occasional blue greeted us but, in a mocking wave of destiny, we were told we could not begin boarding, or disembark the rickety safari ride, for ostensible 'security' reasons. The lorryload of co-passengers soon gave ample voice to their frustrations though, and we managed to convince the driver to open the door. Acceding to our entreaties, he relented for its use but only as an inlet for fresh air and not a passage to the aircraft. Blessed be these small mercies.

Moving with the script, after a wait of another few minutes, a Sumo driven at quasi-breakneck speed made its appearance, revealing what seemed to be the ground staff. Notable of them was their supervisor: quite the Italian job: hair gelled back, day four stubble and toothpick dangling from mouth corner completing the Cobra Crime-is-a-Disease-I-am-the-Cure look. His malevolent glare dissipated in a jiffy our desires to alight the diesel contraption we had rode in, yet failed to work its magic on the rest of his platoon who soldiered somnolently to remove stoppers under the aircraft wheels and assorted other motions to ready the plane. Yet more time gone and not a sign for us to start to board, the aircraft door to open, or, for that matter, of the cabin crew. In all, a veritable mockery of my hitherto flying experience.

It was at this juncture that an entirely new set of actors decided to enter the plot - the erstwhile Sumo's twin, at equally breakneck speed, and a few more passengers ferried therein - but sorry, no cabin crew yet. My Out-of-Africa parody was complete when Cobra announced (if that be the appropriate verb to describe those unwilling oral motions accompanied by rapid flicks of tooth-pick from one end of mouth to the other, producing unintelligible sounds wholly unaccompanied by any hint of apology) that there was a 'technical snag' and they would have to check for an alternate airplane.

By this time, frankly, one was at a stage where mere acknowledgment of existence of a back-up aircraft in this hillbilly service was like a manna from heaven; and my cuppa joy was definitely overflowing, having sighted too the elusive reclusive cabin staff at a distance. God was certainly in his element and all right with the Wodehousian world, as the replacement carriage was serendipitously discovered to be the one parked next door, saving one the blushes of another jungle safari. In any case, we were all confessedly beyond a state to speculate on the existence of a third bird in the fleet!

Flesh and spirit were more than willing, hence, as one gave the W a nudge and bounded up the few steps to the cabin - with thoughts a whirl of relief amidst sleeplessness and fatigue. In the blur too was hope, if one dare says it, for we were about to Chhoo Lo Aasman...

[To be continued!]

The Pros of HitchHiking

A rather wise colleague of mine, told of my virginal attempt at a blog, prophesied that the key question over time would be of sustenance. Frankly, my initial response was to summarily nix such doubt-mongering. A history of liberally dissembling opinion in conversation gave me confidence; abusing the constitutionally guaranteed Freedom of Expression being a habit. If some immodesty be allowed, my defence would also include a certain felicity with Words, notably in written form. Last but not least, innocence of intent could be an argument too: Echohum’s conception being as much inside-out as to seek other voices.

In short, one felt more than equal to the task of expanding blogspace. However, a few months on, the scorecard is meagre, including a couple of drafts lying abandoned, forgotten in the multitude of chores that define post quarter-life-crisis existence. It appears it is already time to reflect on where Echohum stands, the little path treaded, and where it may be headed.

An admission, at the outset: the effort of putting pen to paper (figuratively speaking) and click-of-button publication has been intensely gratifying. Although a blog barely three posts old may be early days to summarize thus, but there is something delicately uplifting in the movement of words from cerebral-and-fleeting to physical-and-enduring domain. The nature of this blogging exercise is semi-cathartic, almost humbling, on two counts: the Message and the Medium.

To talk in order, content née Message is foremost (measuring it only by reception may not be entirely accurate). There are intensely individual and hence highly variable reasons for which assorted bloggers likes yours truly reach for the keyboard. What emerges post (pun intended) is obviously disparate. Again, the rate at which more gets created would put even those warren-dwelling champions of the multiplication game, to shame. So what explains this urge, the furor loquendi?

Simply put, irrespective of raison, there is something uplifting in the Dasvidaniya moments when one decides 'if" or ‘what’ to write. Experience of the last few months tells me that mere process of this choice, even when not resulting in an actual post, broadens one's perspective on three counts. First, the quest for a topic leads to more extensive reflection on the days' happenstances. Next, there is an increased propensity to action since a broader canvas of experiences makes for more post-worthy possibilities. Third, the day-end rumination ups the revitalizing quotient of the day's highs (say, sun-sand-surf in Ile Maurice); while turning languid the lows (case: an abysmal tryst with MDLR Airlines)! So ye tentative traveler, a recourse to blogging may just enthuse you to spend your way out of the economic downturn at assorted desirable destinations!

Aside such macroeconomic considerations, we have the compulsive convenience of the Medium itself. While the ordeal-by-fire ‘iron foundry’ school of success may interest traditionalists, the blogger's way is seamless push-button publishing. That one lands transmission-ready for a million (ahem) eyeballs, minus motivation-sapping rejections via sundry unnamed editors, is likely a bigger imagination breakthrough than Printing Press's assault on forestry. Thus, barely a century from Edison-perspiration, you have a shot at Warholian fifteen seconds on Google, to list with Britney Spears, CERN's nuclear physics postulates, deluge of spam, and the latest slice of erotica. Eulogy or odium may follow (or, likely, apathetic neglect), but you are ‘out there’.

Blogging, therefore, is a fair epitome of today's age: if you have a thought, you have a medium. So, as the Obama inauguration focuses the world on Word: in China a debate on omission (Communism); the rest of the world on Justice Roberts’s placement (faithfully), here’s my contribution. Do you read?

Rock On!

A lazy July afternoon two years ago, in reconnoitering the Net to plan a trip to Shanghai, came the news that a certain Roger K Barrett was no more. "For those who knew him, and certainly some of us spent many an evening reveling in the joys of the company of Syd and his kinsmen..." was how one mourned his pioneering genius, in the poignant knowledge that the Madcap Laughs, but now in a different abode.

Nonetheless, hope lingered for the faithful: that the Floydian bell had not tolled its last yet. Indeed, it grew by virtue of a momentous reunion during Live 8 a few months ago. Mind you, any new note to add to the treasure trove that unfurled with Piper at the Gates of Dawn two score years ago, would be up against sky-high expectations. Their success had been staggering; time since last foray unbearably long.

Miracles were par for the course, however. Like the day when practising a new song for Wish You Were Here, before the evening party for Dave Gilmour's wedding, a fully shaved overweight man, looking aged beyond his years, had wandered in unrecognized in the studio. Amongst friends after a five year hiatus and amidst the strains of Shine On You Crazy Diamond (ostensibly dedicated to him) Syd had asked for a guitar, to find none, and walked away from them forever.

With the tragic demise of Rick Wright this week, alas, that hope is gone. There would be no more from the band that redefined music with experimentative sound, evocative lyric, and phantasmagoric rock opera constructs. Debates as to the order of greatness among the prodigal Barrett, meditative Waters or mellow Gilmour usually led me back to my first etched-in-rock principle. Serendipitously discovered during my baby steps in College, it went: there was Floyd, and then you had Music (or, more pithily, Floyd is God)!

Indeed, for a musical journey so rich in idiom, varied in vein, and haunting in memory, attempting an epitaph is surely ill-advised. Suffice it for me to exit today, then, with two tickets for Rock On in hand, by reaching into the divine anthology for a composition sans pareil, from the aforementioned 1975 album, and leave you to savour some of its nine-part gem:

Remember when you were young; you shone like the sun…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
You were caught on the cross fire of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze…
Come on you target for faraway laughter, come on you stranger,
You legend, you martyr, and shine!

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze…
Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter,
You piper, you prisoner, and shine!

Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Pile on many more layers and I'll be joining you there…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
And we'll bask in the shadow of yesterday's triumph,
And sail on the steel breeze…
Come on you boy child, you winner and loser,
Come on you miner for truth and delusion, and shine!