Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Shudra: Origins

This is a work of fiction, based on some accounts of historical facts that may or may not be true. Please criticize if you will, but do not lose your cojones over it or start badmouthing other religions/societies.

                                                        Shudra: Origins


For 200 years, till about the turn of 800 BC and the collapse of the Bronze Age, the Asian subcontinent was ruled by Hindu kings (of the lineage of Indo-Aryans). The glorious age of the Hindu dynasties were only beginning, which would lead to the invention of the zero and the complete subservience of over 15 mahajanapadas.

Some say the manifestation of the power and dominance of the Aryans was due to a system put in place by the Vedas – texts written by holy men (rishis), from a lineage of more than a dozen sages from epics held sacred by people even today. The Rig Veda, they said, was the oldest and most influential of them all.  

The Rajas had referenced the Rig Veda and used the scripture’s segmentation of society based on life traits and qualities on practicality. It kept the best people in the line of work that suited them most. Physical brutes were soldiers in the army, while the sharpest minds served as strategists and intellectuals in the kings’ own courts. The ironsmiths (as the Iron Age peaked in the valleys and plains of the Indian subcontinent) were skilled at creating weaponry and work tools – while the vaishyas were marked as those who could keep the rajkosha (the treasury) filled to the brim – through trade on the high seas and with the Chinese and nomads along what would later be christened the Silk Route.

An excerpt from the hymn shows how the scriptures showcased this segmentation, irrespective of hereditary factors that could force one’s hand at belonging to a certain varna.

“Rig Veda 9.112.3
—    I am a bard, my father is a physician, my mother's job is to grind the corn.”

All seemed well and the Hindu kings seemed likely to turn into oligarchs that would rule much of the world by the next half a century or so. It is then, when our story begins.


The little kingdom in the sun-burnt plains was idyllic. Wars were not a distant possibility, and the decade of good weather and a fertile soil had helped foment a people that were self sufficient and in peace.

But a good story is never in the happiness of being. Darkness builds the best stories. There was darkness here too, in the corners you let the cobwebs cover up for you.  

The king was old. He had been old forever. Like the hyenas that first nibble from the sides and then push off the lion off its prey, the warlords had siphoned off power from his hands. Sarsenapati Vajrapratap Rana (commander-in-chief of the kingdom’s small but well-trained army) led them. But he believed in staying behind the curtain and using the king like a puppet. The society would not like a coup. It would destroy the balance, his wise accomplices said.

But he wasn’t worried about that. Not today. The creases on his forehead bore the name of his son. His only hope of living in comfort looked dull. The social system that sorted out vocations was kind to him, but he knew it would not be so to Ashwatthama.

Before we could learn why, there was an intruder, with bloodied feet and dragging an axe.

Lost in thoughts, the sarsenapati did not see Matanga Bhil walk in. Unlike his namesake, the great sage of the Bhil tribe who went on to become a Brahmana, he was a beast. But he was no thug, which explained why he had rejected becoming a warrior and turned to the life of a woodcutter – a life of relative peace and tranquility in the outskirts of the forests by the hills. Upon finding the Sarsenapati so disturbed, he almost turned to walk away, but the magnitude of his reason to visit made him clear his throat instead.

Vajrapratap wheeled around, and stiffened.

“Oh Matanga! It is you! Did you walk here from your home? Your feet look sore!” 

“It is nothing, sire. I was compelled. A matter needs your attention, and I could only confide in you for I respect you the most, O valiant one!”, replied Matanga.

“Of course, of course. Nobody walks hundreds of miles for a free meal in the palace now, do they?” laughed Vajrapratap, and then with a wicked smile, added “or perhaps they do. You know better.”

Brushing his jibe aside, Matanga pressed on, “Sire, I know not what has fanned your anger. I do not have the audacity to ask you to calm down, but I do not have much time. I need your audience for a few moments only and then I will be gone.”

Matanga took a look at Vajrapratap, who seemed indifferent but attentive. He continued. “You must have heard of my son, Bhimbhadra. He has grown up to be a fine lad. And he has ambitions. I tremble at the enormity of them, but as a father it makes me proud too. You know that feeling sire, don’t you? You too are a father.”

A dark pall fell over the Sarsenapati’s face. The Bhil was mocking him. How dare he? But he also knew of what Matanga Bhil would say next. And he knew his worst fears were coming true.

“Sire, you may have heard, Bhimbhadra has become a legend in the Bhil lands already. He is a true warrior if there was one. And I have been helping him read every scripture and manuscript I could find on military science and war strategy - and he has been grasping on well. I came to you because only you can help him learn further, tricks of the trade rooted in realism. You are unrivaled, oh great one. Help my son become the senapati he wishes to be. The Bhils and the Shudras will be forever indebted to you.”     

Of course Vajrapratap had heard of Bhimbhadra. His articulation in the frontline battles as a mercenary were well known, and so were his ideation of new vyuhas (military formations) and ambush tactics. Matanga was right. Bhimbhadra, under the right mentor, could one day take his place.

But there was one little problem. Vajrapratap had envisioned this throne for his son, with reservations. Vajrapratap, as hard as he tried, had failed to train Ashwatthama in swordsmanship or archery, despite beatings and weeks of having him starved.

His son liked to dance, and had an ear for music. And liked flowers. He often roamed the plains with dozens of his female friends, giggling and gossiping. Many called him Krishna, but Vajrapratap knew that this was just a charade. He had heard his son play the flute, and had heard him recite poetry – and he knew his son was worthless in the fine arts too.   

Ashwatthama would soon be cast aside, like a deformed stone from a basket of gems. As much as he despised his son’s antics, Vajrapratap loved him. He knew he had to devise a way out.

In animated discussions with his ardhangini in the andarmahal every night, he had discussed this possibility. “You are out of your mind. He does not know how to hold a sword. He would attach an arrow to it and make a fool of himself, Kaushalya. How can he ever be the sarsenapati?” “Place him there rajan. The Sarsenapati can afford not going to the battlefield himself. And besides, there are no wars looming in a century so why bother? The king is worthless. He will not object.” Kaushalya was a sharp woman. And like all mothers, she had planned it to the very last grainy detail for her son. But Vajrapratap was not sure. Till now.

Matanga had turned the tide. But his face did not betray that emotion.

“Very well, Matanga! The Vedas state that one should be able to take control of their fate at will. Why not Bhimbhadra?! Send him to the garrison by sunset tomorrow, and his training shall begin!”

Matanga was beyond elation. The sarsenapati would train his son. His son! He thanked him profusely, waiting for the signal to leave so he could go share the news with his family and friends. His wife would be so happy. Two decades of dedication and sacrifice finally bearing fruit.

“Don’t forget the palace meal, Matanga”, Vajrapratap retorted one last time, bringing that crooked smile back on his face again, like magic, “Goodbye”. 

Matanga did not care anymore. He would not have cared even if the sarsenapati had kicked him and spat on him as long as he would take Bhimbhadra under his wings. He walked away.

As soon as Matanga left, Vajrapratap asked for his courtiers, his marshals and his accomplices, along with the minister. He also asked for his elite guards, the “Narpishachas”. He had a small task to assign before he rolled the stone of change.


It is said that only two things unite even the worst of enemies in men – greed was one of them. The other was opportunity. Vajrapratap knew he had to exploit the latter.

As the wide phalanx of men of significance, the priests, the warriors and the businessmen sat down to discuss and vet Vajrapratap’s plan, half a dozen men were already in pursuit of a Bhil trudging down the rugged path through the forests that separated the hills from the garrison city.

Matanga heard the riders before he saw them. He saw the army insignia and perhaps contemplated if they were coming for Bhimbhadra – perhaps the sarsenapati wanted him in the garrison earlier than he had declared. Oh how generous Vajrapratap truly was, he may have thought to himself. We know not for sure because arrows had already sewn him with his cotton overalls, and his bewildered gaze made permanent as the axe came down with a thud and severed head from his body.

Amused by Matanga’s last question that had not been able to escape his mouth, the leader unmasked himself and taunted, “We come from the one you foolishly sought to replace with your kin, Shudra!” Hundreds of birds flew out of the trees and into the wilderness, perhaps screaming to themselves about the horror they had just witnessed – but the sharpest of minds in the lands far and beyond had not deciphered the language of the wild.   

That night, the hut that Bhimbhadra and his mother slept in, accidentally caught fire. Some Bhils called it as fierce as the Jatugriha, for when they poured water, the fire only seemed to spread. Their favorite son, a man among men, was charred alive. 


The hills came alive at daybreak with the sound of drums. Message from the king, howled the men in royal colours. Curious folks crowded around them.

“Children of men will work and live and die doing what the fathers have been doing. The son of a kshatriya will learn swordsmanship. The son of a carpenter will master the hammer. The son of a sea trader will sail along with him. The children of a well cleaner will learn to love the mud. This is for a better society. And for a more prosperous future. If you have any questions, gather at the palace at daybreak tomorrow. Stay well.”

The murmuring would have risen to revolts in the Shudra ranks in villages far and wide but the elders that night thought it over.

“Why should we accept this? Some of our sons can be warriors and priests. Why must they toil in the sun like a mule?” a young man spoke up.

“You speak with much malice. The king and the priests must have discussed this already. We will be better off, didn’t they say so themselves?” – an elder advised.

“Yes. See, we know the best about working and cleaning and toiling. We will teach our sons right. We will prosper soon. There is no discrimination. We have nothing to lose.”

“If we try and make our sons warriors or priests they might turn out to be undertrained casual nincompoops like the sarsenapati’s son. Are we not better off here?” chirped another old bard.

“Shh. There are spies among us you fool. Do not speak ill like that. But yes you are right. And even if we do not agree with this ordinance, what will we fight it with? Pitchforks and shovels?” repeated the elder, the wisest among the lot.

The crowds nodded in agreement. They had nothing to fear. They hated the city. They were better off here.

But had they tiptoed around to the houses of the village elders that night, they would have been blinded by the gold shining by the lamplight – a sack for each. Greed united men, often against their own.


And thus the blueprint of the social structure that forced hierarchy to be the only factor in sorting vocations and skill sets for the people was formed. And it led to a lot of maladies, but the hands that could force change, were always filled with gold.

Avarice and opportunity. They don’t only unite men. They divide them too. Permanently.


Wednesday, May 8, 2013

12 Minutes of Mind Parkour

12 minutes. That is how much time I had left in the work day. I had 3 hours of free time only about 3 hours and 12 minutes back. I managed to drink a barrel of tea, read two longform essays and amused myself at reactions from fans upon Fergie retiring from Twitter football. Oh and spent at least one good hour of those three glancing at the clock. Incidentally we have two clocks over here - one that shows desi time and the other American. I keep comparing them, wishing that the American time was Indian and I had less than 3 hours and 12 minutes to wait out.

The abundance of time with nothing to do makes you a fine example of manic OCD. And I admit am a bit cracked upstairs, so... I think of myself being in solitary confinement, with my laptop a window of bleak sunlight . I look at the desk phone as if a lawyer from Costa Rica would call me up and say, "Hola amigo, come down to Mehhiko - you won 20 grande de hombres pal!" I know that doesn't make sense but what can a man with 3 hours and 12 minutes of free time on his hand do?

I swipe away at my phone, hold it to my ear, waiting for it to ring all of a sudden and embarrass me in public. Fucker is Manmohan Singh. I read about a team of daredevils attempting to mount Everest - from the  behind. I laugh at that joke. What can a man do other than laugh at a bad joke when he has 3 hours and 12 minutes of free time and with no Mount Everest to climb? From the behind? HahahahaOK FINE THIS IS NOT SANTABANTA.COM OK??

I switch between tabs and press refresh like Aladdin with a defunct lamp in the middle of an Iraqi street, wanting to be whisked away to Hawaii but the genie is busy working on Excel sheets in an IT firm in Guwahati. I glance at the unopened letters at the corner of my desk with the previous occupant's name on them, imagining them to be love letters from some girl in Libya who wanted to run away from Arab Spring and experience Bengali winter ("Dear, I hate Benghazi. A rocket just blew up my uncle and I think that $20 suicide vest is of no use now. Bloody hell. Why don't you send me my birthday check early sweetie?")

And suddenly just like that, those 12 minutes are up. The day is over. I tuck away my laptop with all its Excel sheets and white papers into the cabinet under my desk, ordering it under my breath into the bug-box and come clean on his friends for a plate of shwarma salad. And then I walk off, hoping that there would be a truckload of work tomorrow so that a man does not go on an insane parkour ride inside his mind!

Thursday, April 5, 2012

If The Army Really Staged A Coup….

With all the coochie-couping rumors and Chinese whispers in the press about the Army trying to stage a coup earlier this year, I thought it was a good time to wash my hands in the beheti Ganga of Blogger-giri with an opportunist post. What if these rumors were true? What if this General VK Singh blew the trumpet and made UPMA out of UPA? Well well well……

If the Army did really stage a successful coup then…

  1. Mamata Banerjee will instantly stand around a tank and demand a rollback, upon which the tank will rollback on her, thereby ending the insecurity of a whole nation over Didi
  2. You can finally stand up to the Missuj and say “Ae, there is no Sonia, Sheila or Mamata in power. Boss you shut up now ok?” {P.S.: The Army isn’t responsible for what happens after this}
  3. Manmohan ji will be made the head of all democratic alliances, thereby negating all hopes of anything being done or said against the coup. Ever.
  4. All stupid TV shows and docu specials featuring soldiers being forced to dance like retards in sync with horrendous singing by the omnipresent Aamir Khan will be banned.
  5. Bobby Deol’s glorious film, with patriotism dripping off like ghee from a Punjabi aunty’s parantha, ‘Soldier’, will be inducted into the hall of fame and the title song as national anthem. Thus will end an era of pathetic “Soldier Soldier, pant ki zip khol kar, **** uraa le gaya” jokes.
  6. Arnab Goswami will be sent to POW camps, where he will holler and cross question every enemy espionage element till either Arnab or the whole camp is finished. I am skeptical about the latter surviving.
  7. Suhel Seth will be asked to answer every question Arnab Goswami has ever asked his panelists on TV in his HT Brunch column style, ending in him self-combusting and ridding the world of excess baggage and white hair.  
  8. Twitter and Facebook experts ranting on how the huge defence budget is hurting the country’s economy will be sent to Siachen with a Swiss knife and a smartphone to carry on their noble effort.  
  9. Barkha Dutt will be sent to interview Hafiz Sayeed, where she will ask him inane questions like “How does it feel to have a $10 million bounty and US drones’ crosshairs on your head?” thereby ending in both screaming and then killing each other in a huge explosion. Win-Win for India and the Army.
  10. IPL 5 will be cancelled and instead, players will be competing in the ‘International Mine Stumping’ League. Where they compete against a hamming Sunil Shetty stumping out a Pakistani tank aka Gilchrist like he did in ‘Border’. Fun it will be, I swear.
  11. Bullets would be made currency, effectively ending all crimes. How? Example -- “Motherwanker, you would be dead by now if I had not been retiring with only two bullets in my account.” (inspired)
  12. All people harping on the Armed Forces being nothing better than killing machines will be sent to J&K beside the LoC. Yeah, now you can decide whether you want to shoot a Burkha in boots or take him to the maternity hospital. Yes ‘she’ is a him and will be shooting bullets from an AK-47 into your arse. But YOU are the human rights champion man. You know better than shooting an innocent civilian, of course!  
  13. Finally, Sachin will be asked to retire with a posthumous Param Vir Chakra, thus wiping out a country’s hysteria with cricket and turning everyone’s attention back to soccer.  
  14. Call of Duty and all other FPS-games will be FREE!

Alright, I respect our democracy. But when the state of democracy is the state we are currently in, you can’t really stop stray, weird thoughts from getting into your head, right?!

Core Commander of Useless Frontline Posts
Lt. Colonel DibDib

Sunday, November 13, 2011


I was disappointed. Very.

I had waited for ‘The Tree of Life’ to get a wide release here in Kolkata. After all, this was the ‘kaalcharaal capital’ of India. But it was never to be. My hopes did a Sergei Bubka when I heard that the Kolkata Film Festival was to screen the film. Okay, it was a weekday, but never mind. I was ready to sell my soul for this.

I headed to Nandan yesterday to get tickets. And in a massive #KLPD moment, I found out that the film had ‘Press Cards Only’ entry. Fantastic. So you decide to screen a long-awaited film, and instead of letting the public to try and grab a seat, you whore out to the press. I contacted friends who had Press Cards, but as was expected, they wanted to watch the film more than being philanthropic.


I headed to Howrah from there, angry at what fate thought was funny. She was to be back in town after a week-long office trip to Hyderabad.

To cut the story short, I picked her up from the New Terminal, which is as navigable as a JFK Airport in Manila. I think even Harry Potter would have landed on the train tracks had he used the Apparition spell meant to take him to a certain platform.

The only interesting thing that happened was when she informed me that the train had already docked into the station, and she was waiting for the coolie (ref. me). I panicked, because there was no train at the platform where I was waiting. I imagined all sorts of things in a timeframe of 5 seconds, including being sentenced to being the middle berth on Patna-Chennai trains to being subjected to a tirade that will stop only when Frooti plugs the flow. 5 seconds later, I saw the train chugging into the platform, and broke into a cold sweat. “Baal baal bach gaye”, I grinned and muttered to the Bihari coolie standing next to me, who was not Bihari after all and spat out the choicest of expletives at me. Apparently, baal is not a term of endearment here.

A warmestest of hugs later, we set off for a cab back home. By we, I mean me, two suitcases and a bag on me, and her. Well, of course.

After haggling with the cab drivers outside the station, who wear glasses that stick ‘ripe murgi for halaal’ stickers on to young couples coming out of the station, we set off. The plan was to drop her off and then back home in the same cab. So the usual tension and worry had taken a walk.

The usual talk of how the trip was, how she was missed, how a dream had caused her to call at 2:00 a.m. zipped past, quite like the formidable but beautifully lit up Howrah Bridge and the kebab-laden aroma of the biryani stalls at Park Circus. We fell silent after that. Not that awkward ‘soooo-what-else-is-up’ kind, but the cheesy but sugary ‘Words-are-not-important’ kind. The lights whizzed by. A coquettish smile, fingers intertwine and an endless, warm hug cheating out the coming of winter on the highway. Suddenly, four years seemed only like four hours back in time. 

When I dropped her off and headed back home, I finally said it out loud to the flyover pillars hurtling by in the darkness…..

Dear KLPD, KLPD kaisa laga?!


Sunday, August 21, 2011

At The Other End of Extremism

As the barren mountains of Tora Bora saw the dust settle from the rolling away of T-62 tanks of the Soviet army post the failed invasion of Afghanistan, the Peshawar Seven, comprised of seven Mujahideen warlords, capitalized on the vulnerable advantage that the new country presented. The men as well as the Afghan army resorted to killing, raping, looting and plundering whatever was left of the war-ravaged country.

The country needed a hero. A young preacher and ex-guerilla from the ranks of the Mujahideen in Quetta, Pakistan - Mullah Mohammed Omar, answered the call, and formed the ‘Taliban’. His lashkar (consisting of the youth, or the students of madrassahs from all over Af-Pak regions) had high ideals – they did not loot, did not kill the innocents and did not rape. And most important of all, they did not take money for what they did. They wanted to root out corruption that had slithered into the system of the country, and succeeded. Mostly.

That is, until, the lashkar grew, burgeoning well beyond thousands, and then started splitting into factions. Newer heads surfaced, the ones that were not incorruptible and did not even intend to be so. The ones who had forsaken ideals for the means and were well prepared to use the movement to serve their vested interests. And possibly, even the cause of the greater good, the good of the country.

And Omar himself, played right into the hands of whom he had tried to defeat when he had started his fight – hate, greed, avarice and corruption.

What was once respected and just, has now become the very symbol of savagery and prejudice – the Taliban.


Now take a moment and switch back to the Indian news channels you have been watching for the last couple of months.

How different is the situation of this Anna Hazare & Jan LokPal Bill movement from the Afghan scenario of 1994? How different an extremist hero is Anna Hazare himself from Mullah Mohammed Omar?!

Now before you get your knickers in a bunch screaming “CONGRESS STOOGE!!” I would like to remind you that extremism does not always require a gun. In fact, extremism, as Gandhi had showed through example, could be as little as sitting on a fast and never strike back – thus weakening the authority’s position every time they tried to force you into a compromise.

And how different is a man from an extremist when he imposes his views on an entire village, and flogs drunk men after tying them to temple pillars? Mind you, these men were simply drunk, and had committed no crime before the punishment was meted out. How different is a man from an extremist when he lets schools be vacated to join him on indefinite fasts?

And Mr. Hazare has been doing it with aplomb.     

As for the minions and the comparison with the Taliban, how many of the pople who are waving the flags on the streets and the people screaming “STOP Corruption” know of the weapon called Jan LokPal Bill that they are fighting with? Heck, let alone the people on the streets. I doubt even the leaders and gurus leading the pack know of the intricacies of the Bill and the long-term impact it may have on the democratic structure of the country – the very thing they are trying to cleanse! And as they grow, they will grow factions, one more orthodox and power-hungry than the other – just like the Taliban had!

It seems the whole country has been driven by blind propaganda and a general unwillingness to dig deeper than mass Email-forwards or sending missed calls to unknown numbers – for they do not wish to uncover an ugly truth beneath the carpet, that upsets the steamroller they have in their hands now – fellow Indians seething in misplaced anger with a mass misconception of having shifted the power of balance into their hands now.

Tell me, how are these men different from the thousands of young men being taught the wrong definition of Islam and Jihad and sent to die in no man’s land?! As I had pointed out, extremism needs no gun. All it needs are docile minds and blitzkrieg-like propaganda, made populist by a TRP-hungry media.

I was watching ‘The NewsHour’ and I was shocked at the lack of knowledge and reasonable answers to valid questions on the Bill, from someone who had been leading the protests in Mumbai from the front and egging bystanders to join the ‘Revolution’. What was also a letdown was the host’s inability (intentional or not remains open to debate) to call out the volunteers digressions from the topic and his rhetorical answers to simple questions like “Do you think the Lokpal drafted by the government is a failure?” 

Compounding the whole situation is the inability of the government to put their foot down and take a stand against such undemocratic conduct. Add to this hajaar idiotic spokespersons on behalf of the Congress making facepalmistry an art through their comments - including Manish Tiwari (He is corrupt too!), Mr. Alvi (there is a foreign hand/comspiracy) and the Hon. PM himself (well, he said nothing substantial. That’s the saddest comment right there!).  

As for the Jan LokPal bill drafted by the ‘jan-daradi’ Hazare & co., here are a few details of the bill you would love to do a reality-check against –

  • It is being suggested that The Jan LokPal will have a force of 20,000 officers, who will rush to any complainants’ rescue
How are you going to keep 20,000 men incorruptible and resistant to flirtations with money, when you can’t keep a municipality of 30 officers clean?!
  • It has been suggested that the Jan LokPal will have supreme powers – ones that can dismiss a case outright to blacklisting and penalizing a firm/individual – all on its discretion.
 How will you prevent such a totalitarian institution from becoming high-handed, or in the least-damaging scenario, corrupt?
  • The force of 20,000 Jan LokPal Bill inspectors, including the Chairperson, will be deemed ‘police officers’, with due authority and powers.
Why not do away with the Judiciary and the Police too then?! And coming back to the earlier point, what if the ‘police officer/LokPal members’ not be as corruptible as the police force of now, considering that they are being selected through the same social and ideological rungs that the IPS is chosen from?!
  • The totalitarian Jan LokPal will also have sway over the Judiciary and the PM (in its proposed version of the Bill)
Again, why will we want a new and cumbersome body to preside over issues like corruption and allied issues when we already have the Parliament, the investigative agencies and the Police?! Are these to be disposed off as the ‘third freedom struggle’?

And as a final nail in the coffin, Anna Hazare is 73. While I respect his ideals, I don’t respect his way of achieving them as well as his crony followers. When he steps down, which age will force him to do in some time, I would not want insane God-men dangling from the gates of a state penitentiary to take over the reins of an authoritative body that seeks absolute power. Am not sure the flag-whirling you would like it much either.

A more detailed and obviously much better argument against such unrealistic and autocratic pointers from the Bill has been laid out by the good Nitin Pai here. He is someone I have learnt a lot from. And as he so subtly points out, it is economical and institutional reform we need to root out corruption, not blind rage against a mythical enemy that the middle class is being tutored into.


And it is imperative for us to learn and act against this swathe of emotion. You want change from corruption and similar social evils? Be the change. Stop waving the tricolor and take action. Stop bribing. Stop turning a blind eye to issues closer to you and inside your homes – such as domestic abuse or child labor. Start being the idol you are trying to find in Mr. Hazare. And start it NOW.

As for me, I have already started it. And I hope you do so too.

For in the near future, I would not want these pseudo-Talibs to walk into a pub I am chilling in, with a beer bought with my own hard-earned money, tie me to a pillar and beat me to pulp. The police and the judiciary would be inaccessible, for these people will be THE police then, right?!

As I said, extremism isn’t always bursting out from the barrel of a gun.