Fairly Foriegn?

Sitting on this rather hard chair, I'm attracting several stares, some curious, some questioning, all unceasing. I can almost see what that crabby old lady at the door is thinking while she impatiently waits for her turn. Her red lipstick annoys me. So does her propreitorial expression as she catches my eye and continues to stare unabashedly, giving me a highly undeserved appraising expression. I know shes thinking darkly about 'my generation'..how badly brought up we are..or where we learnt to eyeball our elders the way I'm eyeballing her right now. I dont care, though. I sit tight, even though the chair is a pain in the ass, quite literally. The air in the small room is heavy with the smell of nail paint, soap, astringent and shampoo, and for a person with a nose my size, it isn't hard to detect traces of sweat and coffee as well in the local brand of atmosphere. I'm the only woman not treating myself to a pedicure here. Although how much of a treat it actually is is a moot point, I think, staring at the twenty odd women cooped up uncomfortably on chairs similar to mine in a room that was probably built to accomodate a maximum of 7 people. The only thing I can say with conviction about the pedicures they're getting (apart from the fact that they will probably cause the women to die of some foot disease or the other soon..the equipment is visibly dirty..) is that they're vigorous. The staff seems to be trying to compensate for lack of skill or hygiene by displaying an undeterred enthusiasm, as though all their dreams come true everytime they scrub a (usually middle aged) matter-of-factly, housewifey foot that is attached to an equally matter-of-factly, houswifey, not even remotely sexy calf. Which, by the way, is 99% of the time. But today is different. Today falls in the remaining 1% of the time. Today, much to the awkward stiffness and visible displeasure of the regular clientele, two unlikely customers, both American women, have walked in in their typically American working class boisterous manner, creating a small sensation in the otherwise mundane world of the beautician population.The easy, natural superiority complex of the former complements the servility of the latter, making for an afternoon of healthy entertainment that I settle down to enjoy.
"Madam, thoda adjust kariye please", an agitated young manicurist (is that what they're called?) requests my nemesis, the crabby old lady, who is blocking the doorway. She shuffles aside, managing to look as though shes doing the americans a favour as they trail into the room behind the owner of the parlour who, in his demeanour and inclination to excited conversation, resembles a tour guide. Four women, midway through their beauty treatment, are displaced from their chairs to make space for the fair and lovely customers, who are then seated with all the ceremony of a coronation as 7 out of the 10 staffers in the room flock respectfully around them, trying to decipher their accented drawl to figure out what they want. Once that is settled with the accompaniment of several determined, 'born to serve' expressions on the faces of the beauticians, the two women sit back to enjoy pedicures and manicures, the likes of which no customer has ever experienced here. Both have one person tending to each hand, and one each for both feet. Other, lesser mortals, who have gotten only one beautician for all four limbs sit gruffly in the background, pretending not to notice the contrast in treatment.
I look on, bemused. Have things changed at all? Is this the effect of centuries of slavery? Or is this an attempt to forge ahead in the hospitality industry? I dont know..

Bite Size

"Being powerful is like being a lady. If you're trying to prove you are, you're not."
- Margaret Thatcher

Laughter, Challenge?

"अमिताभ बच्चन साहब ने कहा है की जिसकी बीवी मोटी उसका भी बड़ा नाम है। लेकिन अब मैं कहता हूँ की पति भी तोह कईं तरह के आते हैं। मोटे, लंबे, पतले, काले, गोरे। अब पतले पति के साथ बीवी नहीं सो सकती, क्यूंकि उनके बीच में दूसरे औरत के लिए जगह है! और मोटे पति के साथ सोने में यही डर रहता है की कहीं करवट में पतनी न दब जाए! इसलिए, पतनी किसी भी किस्म की हो सकती है, लेकिन पति न ज्यादा पतला, न ज्यादा मोटा होना चाहिए, नहीं तो उसकी पतनी उसके साथ सोएगी ही नहीं!"

Funny.

When the Indian aspiring intelligentsia demanded a repreive from the much criticised (but much watched, nonetheless) 'k serial syndrome', they should probably have suggested alternative replacements. Because what we're now stuck with as a substitute for the melodramatic exemplars of bad plot, abysmal dialogue and even worse acting that had usurped small screen prime time, is a compulsive series of shows that 'guarantee to make you laugh'. "अलग किस्म के पति", I ask you. The only thing worse than the relentless sessions of one crass 'comic' after another is Navjot Siddhu's exaggerated appreciation of each pathetic effort. It is almost tragic to watch his apparently genuine delight that is inexplicably compounded with each successive 'joke' about women in general, neighbour's wives in particular and the occassional quip about Siddhu or his fellow judge on one particular show, Mandira Bedi, who is comparatively more reticent, (which is not saying much) but nevertheless attempts to sometimes transmute her painful smile to a forced laugh. There seems to be an absolute glut of aspiring comedians who are clearly under the unfortunate impression that contorting their features into what I suppose they think are exaggerated emotive expressions, or making outrageous noises that at best can be described as symptomatic of a borderline personality disorder or possibly therimorphism, or cracking sexually suggestive ..ahem.. 'jokes', (for want of a better word), is funny. And whats worse, they're obviously not the only ones who think so, judging from their frighteningly escalating numbers evident in the increased frequency with which they are putting in an appearance on almost every local television channel from 6 to 10 on weekday evenings, inducing even the most commited couch potatoes to determinedly swear off the idiot box until this nonsense ceases

I quote a song from the advertisement of one of the shows in question -

"Mango ke pedh mein papita - possible! Ghar mein paltu cheetah - possible! Ramu ki dasvi Sholay - possible! Koi hasna bhoole? Impossible!!"

huh? i mean..Is this some kind of joke?

Oh, wait..it is.

Washed Out Women

The rain pelted relentlessly against the rattling window panes and slithered its slimy path across their dusty glass. Thunder rumbled overhead and the skeletal fingers of lightning streaked across the sky, both eerily out of place in the (admittedly cloudy) daylight of 8:30 am. I lifted my head off the pillow and squinted groggily at my mother, bent over with her back to me, furiously mopping up the floor. I wondered vaguely at her energetic form of 45, simultaneously groping for that watch I remembered I'd tossed somewhere last night before I flopped into bed. She turned, and realising I was up, grabbed a handy book from my study table and flung it at me, which, narrowly missing my head, hit the wall behind me. "Get out of bed and help me clean up!" she snarled. "Whats up with you?" I enquired acidly, sidling out of bed a lot faster than I would have normally. "Water is seeping into every room. Hurry up." she said shortly. Fighting the urge to throw myself back into bed, I dragged my feet to the closest balcony and took in what was making my mother characteristically irritable. The balconies dont have a decent drainage system,the pipes being too narrow to allow a quick passage of rain water, so the water rapidly filling them was flowing into the house through the gaps under the doors, instead of through the pipes that were supposed to facilitate drainage for just such an occasion.
On closer scrutiny, I realised my mother was soaking wet and thoroughly bedraggled. She had hoisted the curtains at every window onto tables or chairs to prevent their lower edges from getting wet, and was currently using a broom to sweep the influx of water back out to where it came from near the balcony in my room. She'd either left the other rooms for later, or would have to do them again anyway, I realised, as I watched the water seep under the doors in the living room. And suddenly, unexpectedly, a flash of understanding filled me with remorse.
She'd sweep the water out and mop up the floor, and it would seep back in in no time. She cleared up the entire house everyday- put books back on appropriate shelves; clothes back in cupboards, or in the washing machine, or folded up in a pile to get ironed; papers in drawers or in the dustbin (even though that went badly wrong sometimes); shoes in the shoe rack; laying out the bedsheets and then the bedcovers on the beds- wheezing her asthamatic lungs out in the process, and by the same evening, it'd all be messy again- books strewn on the wrinkled bed covers that we were too lazy to take off and fold at night, papers sluggishly lying about the tables, clothes flung over beds, or chairs, or both, shoes waiting to trip people up bang centre of the corridor or even an odd shoe on the bed (in my brother's room, duh).
She asked us me to help her dust the house, I remembered guiltily. I hadn't done it. I was hardly listening when she was talking to me. And after a few days, the house was miraculously dust free one day when I'd come home. And I hadn't questioned that. It happened three or four times every week, and it never hit me as it did then, watching her battle the rain.
Is this an inseparable part of being a married woman? That one will have a family who really doesn't give a shit? Oh, they love you of course. No question about that. Yes. But they dont give a damn, I know, because I'm them, at least for now. My mother works all day, cooking, cleaning and then going to work - shes an attorney - and then comes back to an evening of tired argument about who will watch what on tv, because her 'stupid' serial, the only thing she watches, is unfortunately aired at the same time as the first half hour of the IPL, or the Manchester vs Chelsea final, or Roadies. So she misses it, because that 'mindless crap' is less important than what her children want to watch, and promises to herself that she will watch the rerun of her show tomorrow afternoon. But she is working tomorrow afternoon, trying to read through a case file while jotting down a list of items to order from the general store.
Is every Indian mother a washed out woman?

A Product of Mental Trauma

Im sitting in XY's lecture,
which necessarily is maddeningly dull.
Her opinion on metaphysic poetry
is doggedly resisted by my skull.

Its not just her soporific voice,
which alone can induce quite a coma,
its also Apurva's open lunch box,
and it's mind numbing, stomach clenching aroma.

It doesn't help that said food is two benches away,
annoyingly out of my reach..
that i can smell but not eat it,
makes me want to pull out my hair, and screech..

Meanwhile XY ploughs on,
inciting insanity with innocent ease,
while I struggle to remain coherent, I wonder,
doesn't she KNOW shes causing mass brain freeze?

I survey my classmates' faces,
eyes betraying desperate hope for release,
a maniacal, unspoken call for help-
get XY to stop talking, PLEASE.

Grafitti on my desk negates relinquishment,
supressing hope of any such thing,
its an ode to all those students who died,
waiting for the bell to ring.

At this juncture I'm compelled to admit,
there is certainly a great possibility,
that this mental disembowelling process,
will soon be confirmed by a casualty..

As the overwhelming fingers of unconsciousness,
tighten their grip on my brain,
I succumb to the peace of swooning..
I just cant stand the strain..

Revelation

I shudder as the camera pans the severely congested room, full to bursting with aggressive, irritable and visibly sweaty reporters with their accompanying camera men, all jostling for a decent position for when the much awaited IG of the Noida police arrives on the scene, to give us, the discerning, questioning, enthusiastic public, an update on the investigations of the murder of fourteen year old Arushi Talwar. "उनके पिताजी, डॉ राजेश तलवार को पुलिस की हिरासत में लिया जा चुका है", we're told for the 7th time in 10 minutes, as the considerate news reader attempts to fill the awkward silence on air as we fidget through the viscous minutes before the IG makes his grand entry. He pauses dramatically, probably expecting the said officer to arrive as the camera zooms in on the open door of the Senior Comissioner's room in Noida, the venue of the sensational press conference. He doesn't come. Our news reader clears his throat back in the studio, and his face re-appears on screen. We're treated to a re-run of the video recording of Dr. Rajesh Talwar's arrest (that had occurred earlier that morning), as a faceless reporter squawks an excited speculative commentary, yet again, in the background. "हमें अब तक कुछ नहीं पता चल पा रहा है..लेकिन जैसे आप देख सकते हैं, डॉ राजेश तलवार को noida police arrest कर रही है। कहा जा रहा है की पहले हेमराज का कत्ल हुआ, जिसे बच्ची अरुशी ने देख लिया था, जिसके लिए उसे अपनी जान देनी पड़ी। डॉ तलवार के नाजायज़ रिश्ते थे, जिसकी जानकारी बच्ची अरुशी और उनके servant हेमराज को भी थी, और दोनों ने इस बात की चर्चा भी की थी। इससे डॉ राजेश तलवार काफ़ी खफा थे, और इसी बात को लेकर राजेश और उसकी बेटी के बीच भी अनबन थी।"
Music that sounds like its been lifted from a hindi horror show on zee tv plays while the headline "Kaatil Ma, Kaatil Baap", with the by line "Rishton ka khoon?" flashes dramatically across the television screen. Squawky isn't easily defeated, however. Despite the news reader's attempts to stem the flow, our heroic informant ploughs on valiantly, telling us for roughly the 15th time about Talwar's alleged extra marital affair, Arushi's disapproval of it and her subsequent death in murder of the first degree which was earlier construed as an honour killing, as speculations about the relationship she shared with their domestic help, Hemraj, had surfaced earlier in the week.
The connection breaks abruptly, and the scene in the SC's office in Noida reappears on screen. As the camera zooms in to capture the entry of the fashionably late Inspector General, the news reader sounds distinctly relieved as he states that we shall now be audience to the ground breaking press conference only on that particular news channel, although a quick surf through the other news channels proves him wrong, of course.
The man seats himself at the head of the rickety table that is currently groaning under the weight of the 70 odd reporters leaning heavily on it, mics thrust forth, pens poised above pads. He flashes a superior smile to all the cameras in general, waves his hand vaguely in an unspoken request for attention, and in the ensuing (comparitive) silence, begins to speak.
"सोलह तारिख को जो दो हत्याएं हुई थी, नेपाली नौकर हेमराज और चौदह वर्ष की बच्ची श्रुति की..."
"अरुशी!", the reporters yell, in unison. The Inspector looks confused, but regroups and begins once more - "सोलह तारिख को जो..." - only to be interrupted again - "We cant hear you!" Someone chants tauntingly from the back of the room. The conference takes on the form of a substitute teacher trying to quell a particularly notorious classroom full of students. A quick hustle for a mic, in vain. The Inspector clears his throat and states that he will attempt to be louder, and to many sniggers and successive corrections that he nevertheless ignores, talks blandly about the murders of Hemraj and 'Shruti', reading off a grubby piece of paper. Telling us everything we already know in a torturously slow stentorian, he also adds that there were questionable ties between Arushi and Hemraj, and being discovered in a compromising position by Dr. Talwar was what lead to both their deaths at his hand, although he was himself involved in an extra marital affair. The conference ends in his chaotic and rather hasty exuent, and Squawky takes over once more, speculating on the involvement of Arushi's mother in both killings, and promising earnestly that the viewers will be informed the moment the police reveals any more information.
He then proceeds to interview neighbours who have gathered around the scene of crime, who in turn shake their heads and expound upon the arrival of the kalyuga, elaborate seriously on how their own children have now lost faith in them and how they have lost faith in their domestic help.
The news of the tragic death of a young girl is lost among chaotic allegations and the melodramatic character assasination of a fourteen year old child who is not even alive to defend herself. The thirst for truth and punitive action is lost among interviews that ask nothing and recieve no answers, and rapidly escalating TRPs.
Welcome to civilization.

Look Back In Anger

He dimmed the lights and turned to face her. The shadows playing on his chiselled countenance temporarily morphed his attractive smile into a leer, which immediately transmuted back into his usual, wicked grin that always warmed her fluttering heart as he took a confident step closer. Random memories swam into her mind, a chaotic, bubbling whirlpool of excitement, nervousness, and anticipation.

"So..you guys going out to dinner?" Deepika had always been interested in their plans. Sometimes Saakshi thought it was flattering that her romantic inclinations aroused so much interest in her friends. They were very unlike her. Decisive, impressive, efficient, almost bohemian in their intellect. And mature. Very mature.

Sometimes she thought the fact that they expected straight answers from her about Rahul was invasive.

"I know I've made mistakes before. But everyone's been taken for a ride at some point of time in their lives, right?" She'd said to Faisal. "Why act like I'm not mature enough to take my own decisions? I'm your age, and I'm just as smart as any of you." "Dude. Yeah. Of course. Dude. I mean..." He looked worried, and glanced at Deepika for help, which was not forthcoming. "...We're not questioning you. Just generally interested..dont mind us.." It wasn't in the least convincing, even to Saakshi. He attempted to look like he believed what he was saying. "We trust you and your judgement. But its nice to know...you know...um..." His hesitating voice teetered into silence as Saakshi stood up and walked away. She stopped at the door, though. "Thanks for all the concern, Faisal bhai. But I can take care of myself. So maybe its about time you two stopped mollycoddling me." She turned and slammed the door, shutting in two concerned faces.

"Um, have you shut the door?" She managed. "I think you ought to go." Her limbs were all suddenly unanimous. He said nothing, merely watching her, and then he took another step towards her. He was still smiling. Her tongue felt like lead and moved with difficulty,and her words were slightly slurred. Her legs felt like lead, too. She wasn't sure if they were still attached to her. Her arms were weighed down on either side of her, and she was reminded of the time in the gym, where they had first met, 6 months ago.

She'd tried to lift wieghts, and he stopped her. "They're too heavy for you, ma'am. Try these.", he'd said, handing her a smaller pair. He'd smiled that same magnetic smile and she returned it, feeling the familiar adrenalin rush that accompanied every hopeful initiative she'd ever taken towards a man she was attracted to.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and sat her down gently, but firmly, on the bed, and then continued to watch her. She wondered at how easily her legs gave way beneath her, vaguely contemplating on whether she'd had too much to drink. Then she realised she couldn't remember what it was she'd drunk. She racked her brains.

"Saaku, I know you dont appreciate advice from us." Deepika's voice quavered over the phone. "And I know we cant tell you what to do. But please,please be careful. You know you dont have a very good capacity for alcohol. You dont want to be sick halfway through your date,do you?"

"I do feel sick. Had I listened?" She wondered, strangely aloof. She couldn't remember. The way Rahul kept watching her was disconcerting. She stretched her lips in a feeble smile, which he did not reciprocate. "This is awkward!" She said, hoping to inject levity into the almost solid atmosphere. Then she realised she hadn't said it. She couldn't. She tried to suppress the panic clawing at her heart when it dawned on her that the only thing she could do was blink. She slumped back against the headboard of the bed, her mind ravaged with fear and apprehension. "Can Rahul see what is happening to me? Why isn't he calling an ambulance? Why is he smiling? Why is he -"

He pushed her back till she was completely horizontal, slowly, with an almost religious sanctity, divesting her of her clothing, one layer at a time. She was screaming inside her head, her desperate brain writhing, praying in agony as the horrifying truth engulfed her. In the clutches of utter defencelessness, her motor functions had given up for some indiscernable reason, and her limbs lay prone on the bed, as though they didn't belong to her at all, because her limbs ought to have been thrashing, pushing, scratching, hurting, getting her away. She wanted to scream herself hoarse,and instead, thought as loudly as she could, hoping with all the strength she could muster for the heroic arrival of miraculous help.

"Are you sure about this, Saakshi? Have you let him in before when noone else is at home?" Faisal seemed determined to thresh this out, even though his face betrayed hesitation. "Im certain, okay?" She wondered why she was being defensive. It was her life, after all. "Im certain. We'll just grab some coffee at my place, we're eating dinner out.Relax, Faisal bhai."

His tense face muscles relaxed as he became certain of the effect of the Rohypnol. His actions became more leisurely but just as purposive as before, and she thought she would faint from the pain as he caressed and fondled and bit and scratched her and pinned her to the bed, as though that was necessary, and effected a penetration. Then she wished she would faint, but didn't.

"um..you two haven't..you know..um.." The concern on Deepika's face seemed facetious. It annoyed her. "No, of course not, Im not ready yet." She'd said quickly. And truthfully.

"Is this truly happening?" The pain was distracting. Rahul's quick efficiency was terrifying, as though he'd done this before, or had been planning this for a long time. She'd known him for a long time.Maybe she should've agreed to this earlier. She shouldn't have been such a prude. Was this her fault? She'd trusted him. Her boyfriend? These things dont happ- but.. these things do happen. Desperation, panic, fear. The world slowly dissolved out of focus as the fingers of unconsciousness gripped her mind.

Though people tend to assume otherwise, rape by a stranger is the least common form of sexual assault, the most common being rape by an acquaintance or friend. Rapes by a steady dating partner occupy the highest position on UN survey rape charts, with a frequency of 21.6%, while rapes by a casual friend or an ex-boyfriend occur at the frequencies of 16.5% and 12.2% respectively. What these numbers mean is that every young woman is at risk, no matter who shes with. What they mean is that you can never be too careful. Date rape, or drug facilitated sexual assault, is the fastest growing means to rape in developing and developed countries alike.Quoting from The Hindu: "Date rape drugs, also known as "predatory drugs" or "club drugs", are particularly dangerous when combined with alcohol. (Every year, an estimated 70,000 college students, most of them women, are victims of alcohol-related rape or sexual assault.) Common date rape drugs include Rohypnol, Ketamine, and GHB, a central nervous system sedative also known as "Liquid Ecstasy"...Here's how it usually happens: A college student goes to a bar with some of her friends. While she visits the restroom, the guy she's been talking to unobtrusively slips a colourless, tasteless, odourless substance into her drink. Sipping her beverage, she has no idea that she will soon be impaired and defenceless. Her "date" invites her back to his place, where she slips into a drugged sleep from which she cannot rouse herself even as she is being raped. In the morning, she may or may not remember what happened."

Its a cruel world, especially for young women. Be aware, not only because you should, but mostly because today, you've got no choice.

Check out these sites for more info:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Date_rape

http://www.hinduonnet.com/mag/2003/02/02/stories/2003020200120400.htm

Seeing is Believing?

"There are, it has been said, two types of people in this world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: this glass is half full. And then there are those who say: this glass is half empty. The world, however, belongs to those who can look at the glass and say: Whats up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I dont think so. My glass was full. And it was a bigger glass."
- Terry Pratchett, The Truth.
These lines are an introduction to the character of William De Worde, the protagonist and accidental editor of his city's very first newspaper, The Times. The author proceeds to categorise William as "one of the glassless, who was at the back of the crowd and failed to catch the barman's eye." Aiding and abetting this rather unflattering description of the poor chap is the blurb behind the book, which tells us that William just wants to get at the truth, but unfortunately, everyone else just wants to get at William."
So what is it about fantasy in general and Pratchetts work in particular that makes it so bloody popular? Is it the humour? Is it the sneaky satire? Is it the parody, the subtle undercurrents of mockery against every authority we love to hate? Is it the consistent allusions to the pop culture we're shockingly surviving? Or is it the fact that his fantasy is a lot closer to reality than one would imagine? As Pratchett himself confessed in an interview with January magazine: "Sometimes a fantasy author has to point out the strangeness of reality." The most pressing trait of The Truth is the fact that the author is weighing the pros and cons of a journalistic career and more importantly, the effect of the printed word on the common man. The central characters of this very funny book are journalists who are grappling with a city police force which seems almost fascist, apart from facing the traditional perils of a journalists life, such as people who want them dead, a vampire with a suicidal fascination for flash photography and some more people who want them dead in a different way. Beyond all the witty repartee and the vampire's hilarious accent, however, is an interesting insight into contemporary journalism.
Ideally, what a good newspaper ought to aim for is the liberating truth, the truth that sets us free. But is the present day media really courageous enough to do that with integrity? Or are our trusted newspapers owned by massive organisations that want only to monopolise public culture, shape public opinion, take over the economy and outsell competitors? How else does one explain the fact that for all of April 2007, for instance, the public was bombarded solely with daily updates of the guest list, catering plans and celebration schedule of the marriage of Abhishek Bacchan and Aishwarya Rai? Did nothing more important, and more relevant to public and economic concerns happen all through the month? Why is whether or not Shah Rukh Khan was invited to the wedding, or whether Abhishek's childhood friend is actually Salman Khan in disguise, an epochal debate? I flip open a popular daily in the same week when thousands died in the China earthquakes and hundreds more passed away in the Jaipur blasts, and am confronted with a frightfully large photograph of Preity Zinta on the front page, accompanying a 4 column article on her plans to 'Party at Cannes'. Are you kidding me?
I quote from the book, the thoughts of William himself, "The truth is what we print. Honesty is just sometimes not the same thing. If its in the paper, its the news. And its the truth."
Not that we, as the public who buy the paper we criticise, are completely absolved from blame. Pratchetts work is also a very telling comment on the abysmal bone headedness of the consumers. We've got a virtual oligarchy here, where the government manipulates the media and the media manipulates us, and we sit pretty and pay them to do it. Pratchett describes the struggles of the slightly bashful but painfully honest staff of The Times against a larger newspaper, ironically called The Enquirer, which prints ghastly but grand (and mostly untrue) news, such as that of a woman giving birth to a snake, which in turn is defended by an indignant reader who says "It must be right, otherwise they wouldn't put it in!" Are we, the discerning, intelligent, democratic consumers who so recently vociferously supported the right to information stupid enough to believe anything, as long as its in print? क्या हम कुछ भी मानने के लिए तैयार हैं? The truth shall make ye free? I dont think so. More like, the truth shall make ye fret. Pratchett emphasizes, then, that the public reads what it wants to read, the public believes what it thinks ought to be true. Unfortunately enough, what is in public interest doesn't ever interest the public. "A lie can run around the world before the truth has got its boots on."
At the same time, however, Pratchett probably believes that there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon, a silver lining in the murky clouds of the media. His honest, stolid supporters of facts triumphantly score over theire morally weaker competitors at the end of the book. The truth finally gets its boots on, and starts kicking. The mysteries shrouding the politics of the city are successfully unravelled, and as a member of William's staff categorically states, "Some people are heroes. And some people take down notes. And sometimes, its the same thing."

Click the link for more info on Pratchett: http://www.lspace.org/books/analysis/index.html