I am neither Manning nor
Snowden. And if you want me to be direct, let me warn you there are
consequences of apathy. You can’t choose to overlook the mundane for the
interesting. Facts are never interesting because none of the languages
will ever be able to qualify them.
Still, if all of you want to know, my name is not all. I am also one of those accused - stalkers, harassers & trespassers. Yes, an accuser beats a flong out of you. So you already recognize me. Both for my named and the accusations they carry. We are the names we are called. You don’t have to ask for my image. I am inside you in the repository of evolution. Everyone knows the language of archetypes. Well, trust your imagination to settle any doubts whatsoever.
I am writing to you because there is a conspiracy to stop us from imagining. You have to work awfully hard to earn that level of animosity for the conspiracy to reveal itself. I am a whistleblower in the wee hours of morning and a call centre worker by the night. I sleep in the day. This has been my routine for almost 2 years. Like I told you, there are consequences of apathy; you never come to know the truth. Fortunately, I kept working. I know them now, those in the power. There is a simple test to know the deep state, find out who you are not allowed to criticize.
Few weeks back, my twitter handle @kinkysinha was suspended permanently. The reasons given were violations of their terms and services related to ‘Targeted abuse or harassment’. Is that justified? When you censor someone, you are not proving him an abuser but you are only telling the world that you fear what he might say.
Imagination is nothing but remembering. Memories postulate into imagination. No rational society would fiddle with its memories. In fact rationality would protect every bit of information. But a sly state rules in the name of corrupted morals.
@kinkysinha was the story of a spinster. I was interested in them. They are vulnerable, especially the damaged spinsters. They give their stories easily. Also, vulnerability makes for great stories of pain and decadence. You get a lot of readers who are either shy of confessing their own pain or those for whom pleasure is inverted.
I used to know her. That honest writer was so poor that she survived on her subjects. Her subjects gifted her clothes. At night, she used to take ecstasy pills and call me up. She said that she was evil. She was tired of sharing confidences at private dinners, Urdu poetry sessions, and musical evenings and pass information in the interests of “neighbourly peace”. She hated her job and those international exchanges which lead to qawwalis and mushairas; fertile grounds for information harvesting. She was lonely in the middle of night. That’s when I found her. Lonely and damaged.
She often said that she was going to confess it all. But for those moments of qualm, she needed a priest. I heard her with the same intent. But there was some ambiguous fault in her. She always found herself to be a victim - the one who is forever morally right, neither responsible nor accountable, and forever entitled to sympathy.
I decided to put an end to this. It was necessary for her survival. I wanted to tell her that she is not a victim. This is how @kinkysinha started - in a rather benign fashion. It was just about her. She was both the heroine and the villain. But I didn’t realize the subtext of the story. And to be fair to myself, no writer can limit their subtext. Readers are their own writers. In this case fiction became too real for the readers because it was suffused with facts. For me the facts just rooted the story. For them facts made the story real. Like her picture of clandestinely wearing a political cap when she claimed to be a journalist was just a layer to the story. It was part of the fiction, for me the image was real not the story but her friends took it very seriously. This rattled the compromised establishment in Delhi which involves a nexus of civil society activists, journalists, administrators and public policy influencers for no reasons at all. Her terrorist boyfriend called me from Kashmir. More details about this will follow later. A story must come in parts. A Story must wait for its installments.
It is then I became scared. I reported this to police. So they had to find another way. A track 2 lobby became active. Twitter India’s political head – Raheel Khursheed took on the matter himself. They suspended my account for impersonation first and then suspended it permanently for abuse. So much for my hard work for an year!
But I want to tell you all that creativity flourishes in censorship. I have created an email list which can’t be banned by Twitter. Stories will travel independent of illicit pressure groups as always. Please share this where you can if like me, you feel Twitter has made a mistake on this occasion. All of you are also Politicians, Journalists, Scholars, Activists and Writers, if you find merit in my statement you can please get this published and show your support.
Meanwhile I will post every tweet from my twitter timeline to this blog, and this email thread, so that their attempt to suppress imagination is thwarted. This will both be a protest and an archive of resistance. I just want to tell you that indifference is also a crime. It is me today, tomorrow it can be you!
Thanks and regards,
OJB (Your poet at war)
P.S . They say that throughout the history anonymous was a woman. It is too much of a declaration. When I say that whistleblowers have always been men, it is a logical fact. I can’t recall any memorable image of women in the profession of whistling. Even in the school, Games madam never hung a whistle around her neck. Women whisper while the men whistle. It is the natural order of things. Men don’t complaint whispering. But why do some women have problems with whistling?
#ChinkiSinha #OpenMagazine #MenAccordingToProstitutes #Twitter #KinkySinha
Still, if all of you want to know, my name is not all. I am also one of those accused - stalkers, harassers & trespassers. Yes, an accuser beats a flong out of you. So you already recognize me. Both for my named and the accusations they carry. We are the names we are called. You don’t have to ask for my image. I am inside you in the repository of evolution. Everyone knows the language of archetypes. Well, trust your imagination to settle any doubts whatsoever.
I am writing to you because there is a conspiracy to stop us from imagining. You have to work awfully hard to earn that level of animosity for the conspiracy to reveal itself. I am a whistleblower in the wee hours of morning and a call centre worker by the night. I sleep in the day. This has been my routine for almost 2 years. Like I told you, there are consequences of apathy; you never come to know the truth. Fortunately, I kept working. I know them now, those in the power. There is a simple test to know the deep state, find out who you are not allowed to criticize.
Few weeks back, my twitter handle @kinkysinha was suspended permanently. The reasons given were violations of their terms and services related to ‘Targeted abuse or harassment’. Is that justified? When you censor someone, you are not proving him an abuser but you are only telling the world that you fear what he might say.
Imagination is nothing but remembering. Memories postulate into imagination. No rational society would fiddle with its memories. In fact rationality would protect every bit of information. But a sly state rules in the name of corrupted morals.
@kinkysinha was the story of a spinster. I was interested in them. They are vulnerable, especially the damaged spinsters. They give their stories easily. Also, vulnerability makes for great stories of pain and decadence. You get a lot of readers who are either shy of confessing their own pain or those for whom pleasure is inverted.
I used to know her. That honest writer was so poor that she survived on her subjects. Her subjects gifted her clothes. At night, she used to take ecstasy pills and call me up. She said that she was evil. She was tired of sharing confidences at private dinners, Urdu poetry sessions, and musical evenings and pass information in the interests of “neighbourly peace”. She hated her job and those international exchanges which lead to qawwalis and mushairas; fertile grounds for information harvesting. She was lonely in the middle of night. That’s when I found her. Lonely and damaged.
She often said that she was going to confess it all. But for those moments of qualm, she needed a priest. I heard her with the same intent. But there was some ambiguous fault in her. She always found herself to be a victim - the one who is forever morally right, neither responsible nor accountable, and forever entitled to sympathy.
I decided to put an end to this. It was necessary for her survival. I wanted to tell her that she is not a victim. This is how @kinkysinha started - in a rather benign fashion. It was just about her. She was both the heroine and the villain. But I didn’t realize the subtext of the story. And to be fair to myself, no writer can limit their subtext. Readers are their own writers. In this case fiction became too real for the readers because it was suffused with facts. For me the facts just rooted the story. For them facts made the story real. Like her picture of clandestinely wearing a political cap when she claimed to be a journalist was just a layer to the story. It was part of the fiction, for me the image was real not the story but her friends took it very seriously. This rattled the compromised establishment in Delhi which involves a nexus of civil society activists, journalists, administrators and public policy influencers for no reasons at all. Her terrorist boyfriend called me from Kashmir. More details about this will follow later. A story must come in parts. A Story must wait for its installments.
It is then I became scared. I reported this to police. So they had to find another way. A track 2 lobby became active. Twitter India’s political head – Raheel Khursheed took on the matter himself. They suspended my account for impersonation first and then suspended it permanently for abuse. So much for my hard work for an year!
But I want to tell you all that creativity flourishes in censorship. I have created an email list which can’t be banned by Twitter. Stories will travel independent of illicit pressure groups as always. Please share this where you can if like me, you feel Twitter has made a mistake on this occasion. All of you are also Politicians, Journalists, Scholars, Activists and Writers, if you find merit in my statement you can please get this published and show your support.
Meanwhile I will post every tweet from my twitter timeline to this blog, and this email thread, so that their attempt to suppress imagination is thwarted. This will both be a protest and an archive of resistance. I just want to tell you that indifference is also a crime. It is me today, tomorrow it can be you!
Thanks and regards,
OJB (Your poet at war)
P.S . They say that throughout the history anonymous was a woman. It is too much of a declaration. When I say that whistleblowers have always been men, it is a logical fact. I can’t recall any memorable image of women in the profession of whistling. Even in the school, Games madam never hung a whistle around her neck. Women whisper while the men whistle. It is the natural order of things. Men don’t complaint whispering. But why do some women have problems with whistling?
#ChinkiSinha #OpenMagazine #MenAccordingToProstitutes #Twitter #KinkySinha
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