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This is going to be one of those days, where you look back and think “When I heard Michael Jackson died, I was doing…”
Well, I had just hurriedly rushed out of the C train at Penn, and was making my way to the LIRR track. I checked my Blackberry quickly, and happened to go to Twitterberry, when I saw the string of Michael Jackson-related tweets. My first instinct was to dismiss it as a hoax, though I could feel a lump slowly rising in my throat. This was Michael Jackson they were talking about, had they no shame? How could you suggest such a thing? Yet I decided to confirm it with the New York Times, hoping that it wasn’t true. When I saw that the first article was “Michael Jackson dead at 50″ I wanted to cry. I guess perhaps it’s an odd response to the death of someone who wasn’t exactly close to me. However, he defined my understanding of pop music from the first day I even knew anything about pop music.
Being raised in an Indian household meant there was Indian music most of the time. Michael Jackson represented my first glimpse of Western music. Yet my reaction was more of fear, since the first thing I heard by him was “Thriller” and happened to be watching the music video (keep in mind, I was maybe five or six). Fear, though, gave way quickly to admiration. He was the pinnacle of pop music, and no one has even come close to his skill and success (and no one ever will).
Perhaps I’m more sad because a few friends and I danced to “Thriller” for our senior dance at our Diwali program two years ago. It was a fantastic bonding experience for us, and a great learning experience (Michael’s moves are not easy, unsurprisingly). Michael Jackson is inextricably tied with that experience, and maybe that’s why his death elicited such an emotional response in me.
May he rest in peace, he was the best thing to ever grace the world of pop music. I hope the media is kind to his children, and to his memory.
For those of you somehow associated with neuroscience, you probably have run into those two letters sometime during the course of your studies. Oddly enough, I didn’t know what H.M.’s name really was, until the day he died. H.M. didn’t know much beyond his own name and a few memories up until 1953. It was then that he underwent an operation to remove part of his brain that was deemed responsible for his seizures. As a result, he lost the ability to create new memories.
Every person he met from then on was new, every place he visited was unfamiliar, no matter how many times he came into contact with them. I can’t imagine living a life like that, but his life allowed us to understand more about how our minds worked.
Thank you H.M. Maybe you will finally find some familiarity in the hereafter. Rest in peace.
Somehow, killing just doesn’t seem to equate into any sort of act of retribution. I don’t see how taking a life, or taking several lives, justifies any valid philosophy. Since when does storming a crowded place, taking out your rifle, machine gun, or pistol and firing bullet after bullet into people achieve any sort of good? What good does it do to target people and take hostages, and watch as they bleed and sweat fear for their lives and shame for being somehow, culpable for some vague and uncertain deed in the eyes of their captors.
Who are we to judge who is worthy of life and worthy of death?
This is the credo of terrorist organizations today, or so it seems, that in taking life and striking fear, something good is achieved. Most recently, several gunmen opened fire in coordinated attacks across several of Mumbai, India’s hotels, restaurants, and hospitals. It was clear that these gunmen were targeting foreign nationals. In most of the terrorist attacks in recent years, the sites tended to be those frequented by foreigners. Why?
I am not even going to try to interpret their actions, it’s not my place. I am not going to talk about God, and I’m not going to talk about religion. They have been unfairly dragged through the mud and I am not going to continue with it.
So where does one start to dissect a mind, a mind of a person so caught up in their own mission that the mind is indistinguishable from the mission? Have you ever tried to convince someone they are wrong about something they strongly believe in? It’s about as effective as talking to a wall, except the wall is sticking their fingers in their ears and trying to talk over you.
No one ever goes out wanting to do something “evil.” Everyone is convinced that they are the good guys. Can doing good be so relative? How can one begin to standardized “good deeds” and “evil deeds?” Won’t terrorists see that they have inflicted unbelievable pain on their fellow man, won’t that (in theory) make them realize that their view of supposed “goodness” is fundamentally flawed, when death and suffering are imperative to achieve any “good?”
Then again, maybe they won’t. Goodness and evil at this point in time are still (unbelievably) relative. One can only hope that this changes.
I pray for the people who were lost today in Mumbai, as well as for the people who have been lost and will continue to be lost if good and evil remain concepts that are open to interpretation. May their souls rest in peace.
EDIT: For up to date pictures/information about what’s going on in/around the Taj Hotel, please refer to my friend Arun’s blog: http://arunshanbhag.com/2008/11/26/mumbai-blasts-taj-is-burning/
I am going to be working on cancer-related research (gliomas for those of you who are extra curious) starting next semester, in the clinical realm. So I met today with the head of neuro-oncology in the hospital where I will be working. Since most of the work being done was at the clinical cancer center, I went there to meet with him. Turns out he’s pretty busy (go figure), so I ended up waiting in the waiting room for a while.
It was interesting to see how many pleasant faces there were given that, I think, most of the patients there were suffering from brain cancers. I especially enjoyed observing one patient, an elderly man, who was doing nothing but cracking jokes as he waited. He had, in fact, been waiting there for three hours and had traveled from Long Island to the city to meet with his doctor. At one point, he turned to one of the other patients who had been waiting there for a while herself, and asked with near deadpan-delivery, “Do you think that if they make us wait through the night, they’ll give us turkey?” This was an elderly man who couldn’t have been younger than eighty with both a personal nurse and a walker at his side, waiting in a cancer waiting room, asking gleefully about turkey. I loved his attitude, and it made my wait all the more pleasant.
I hope it doesn’t take a death sentence for me to realize that, sometimes, we shouldn’t sweat the small stuff and that we need to understand that there are better things to worry about (like for example, turkey). Sometimes you can find beauty in the madness, and maybe, that’s really all that life’s about.


