Life moves on, and when it does, you have to move too. By moving I don’t mean the physical act of moving – that’s always there for the muscles and body fluids (pardon the reference!) to handle. I’m talking about moving from one mental plane to another, of acclimatizing to new conditions and situations even when you’re not physically moving. I’m talking about moving from one phase of life to another.
In my case, I’m talking about moving from being a student to being a professional.
In itself, I’d made this move long ago. The day I began content writing, I was no longer just a student. I was someone peddling my skills for money in an international workplace. A bidder soliciting clients and hoping to earn enough money by the hour. Yes, the snooty middle class might not like this definition of work, but that’s what all self-employed professionals are.
Content writing provided me with a lot – still does. But at some point, I moved on again. To Rani Birla, where I began teaching as a Guest Lecturer. I remained a content writer, and for most, I remained a content writer only. I also remained a student and so, in a way, not much changed.
Yet I moved on again, again. Another college, another set of colleagues, another set of students. There were a number of differences with Rani Birla, but I negotiated these, moved in and settled in. Eventually though, I came across a certain situation where the meaning of moving in changed dramatically.
You see, I’d always gone to official dinners as a kid, someone who went there by virtue of being my father’ son. The son of a professional who was part of a fraternity of co-workers. I lived in the glow of my father’s identity. I was comfortable and happy with that. I was happy smiling at all, being complemented for my height and not so much for my girth (I’m fat!). I was used to calling everyone aunty/uncle, finding the right companions amongst kids my age and enjoying the good food.
The food was good in this case, but everything else had changed. You see, I’d been invited by a colleague of mine to her home as part of a social gathering. This colleague was my senior and in many ways, one of the most respected in the college. Along with me were a number of senior colleagues and some junior ones of my own age. All professionals who were employed by the college. It was a professional fraternity meeting in a non-professional setting.
I knew how to behave with my colleagues and I knew how to handle professional environments. This was not so different, but was strangely different. For one, there were children. Children of senior colleagues, children who seemed to approach my own age. I was suddenly taken back to the time when I myself was the oldest kid amongst many kids. Then I realized that I was no longer a kid who was there by virtue of my parent’s position. I was there by virtue of my own position – I was the professional. I controlled myself, exchanged obligatory smiles and settled down to talk with my colleagues.
We sat across a carpet, on the floor, on chairs and divans. It was different as it was not a staff room. The host’s daughter brought us cold drinks. Normally, this would be no big deal – I’d done as much when my father’s colleagues visited. But again, I wondered, should I offer to help? I wasn’t the only one having such thoughts – one of my colleagues wondered the same aloud. It was a strange setting, and we were just getting accustomed to it.
Talk flowed with drink (cold drinks, strictly) and I allowed my muscles to relax. Normally, such relaxation would not be becoming of a professional workplace. There I sat alert, ready to take on my responsibilities. Here, there were none. What there were seemed to be vague and new. Instead of documents and answer scripts, there were drinks and plates going around. What should I do? How much should I relax and participate in the discussion? My body was relaxing gradually but my mind was stiff.
Eventually, the time came for some rituals. Rituals that I had no inkling would be performed and which I had no idea were performed at all. Apparently it was a sort of blessing system for people who would be getting married in the near future. Remaining on the periphery, I saw how professionals took on traditional roles, fulfilling social rituals that had no space in the workplace. I was surreal to see such multiple avatars in individuals. I’d seen older ladies perform the shonk-blowing and other similar ritual requirements in my family, but these were professionals. Would I too be required to take on ritual roles as part of my professional duties? Or would I want to, given that all professionals are part of the society they live in? It is a strange question but one that becomes very pertinent as I move on from being a student to being an academic professional.
Rituals over, drink was superseded by food. Here again, the dichotomy resurfaced. Eating is a gendered activity – the women serve, the men eat. Why? This is not discussed nor usually contemplated. But when your professors are giving out food (“serve” is something I cannot quite bring myself to write in this context), the hierarchies of the workplace become entangled in the traditional gendered roles and one is no longer so sure of what to do. Should I insist that I’ll take the food myself, or allow myself to be given the food by my host? Should I help in serving myself? I followed the lead of other men (and young women) who allowed themselves to be given food. I punctuated each act with a generous “thank you ma’m” – a strange incantation in a setting such as this. But what could I do? The boundaries of the personal and the professional were becoming vague and I chose to remain professional – it was safer, always.
Eventually, the young professionals and the children moved to the roof. What for ? Nothing apparently, just some late afternoon sight-seeing. I farted a couple of times on my way up so I didn’t have to fart before others. I found people engaging in the rather mundane act of selfie-clicking. I posed as per requirement, wondering how the hierarchies structured themselves now. Where was I ? Older brother to the children, younger colleague to the older (but still comparatively younger) colleagures ? Was this a formal space or an informal one? These were people around my age, but not people I’d have known had I not been a professional. How should I act?
We didn’t stay long after that. I left, the same woody and overtly polite person who had come with a packet of sweets a few hours before. If the event is remembered, it will not be for me. It will be remembered for the ceremonies, the good food, for the excellent décor. But I shall remember it as a lesson in the complexities of our social life. A social life that puts us into roles that conflict with each other, turning us into heterogeneous entities with limited ideas of our duties and the way we should behave.
A week from that moment, I was back in an informal setting – the engagement of my cousin. This time, there was no moving in involved. Again, I had no role to play. But here, I was there because I was a family member. This was different from the professional parties I’d attended as my father’s son. But not quite so different because, here again I was being treated as an elder child. I’d grown up, I was becoming fat, so on and so forth. I could talk to people in ways I’d learnt to over the past two decades. I was back in my familiar role as a child and student (and marginally, a professional – no one seemed particularly interested in that).
Looking back, I wonder what the past is and what the future would be. Perhaps the child is in the past, rapidly giving up his childish privileges to become a professional. The future is perhaps the semi-formal gathering at the professor’s house. I’ve moving on from a student to an employee and unlike content writing, there’s a social aspect to being an employee. What the exact nature of such social requirements would be, only time will elucidate. In the meantime, I must learn how to start moving in based on what I saw that day at the professor’s house.
It’s generally not my intention to interfere in the lives and works of others. I say “others” because I don’t have the rare privilege of studying in a Central University. My own university does, but the rules are different and the ongoing #OccupyUGC movement means nothing for me. So in a way you could say that I feel discriminated against – a movement by protesters involves something that does not pertain to me. So should I demand extension of the fellowship to other universities? Nope, I want them all scrapped and replaced by something based on meritocracy.
Why? To answer why, let’s demolish the arguments put forth by those encroaching upon and defacing the UGC premises.
Research is a Right – Yeah right, and so perhaps, is MBA. Both are higher degrees, pursued by people for career goals. Both are not included in the minimum qualifications for the lowest tier of employment. Both are undertaken in so-called Grad Schools. But then MBA is not a right. Anyone who claims that the government should be paying people to do MBA instead of working their arses off in their job will be laughed out of the park. Then why research?
Research is not part of one’s fundamental education. Let’s face it, fundamental education ends in Class XII, higher education ends when one passes out of one’s MA/MTech. No job requires a higher qualification than this, ergo, these are the limit to which the definition of “required” education can be extended. The welfare state is expected to provide people with such required education, not every degree you could possibly hope to achieve in order to go from one rank to another. Sorry, the welfare state is not your cash-rich father. So if you must pursue research, it must be taken as a form of education that is limited to you and will benefit you and you alone. It is a privilege, and the welfare state has no need to finance privileges.At least, not privileges of all who want to enjoy that privilege.
2. Research enhances our knowledge – True, if it is fields and on topics which improve human life. Not every research topic deserves the same respect, simply because some are so esoteric that they would never be of any use whatsoever except to the handful who are interested in it for the sake of interest. For the vast remainder, such research will yield no dividends at all. The taxes they paid to finance such research will not produce anything they can use or even understand. In a way, it is the transfer of public money from the public arena to a privileged arena where journals are so priced as to be inaccessible, JSTOR access is limited to a few and seminars become fiefs of intellectuals who theorize everything to the point where nothing is relatable to reality.
3. Research is a productive social activity – NOT! BY virtue of producing some pieces of text that no one will read or find useful, research cannot claim to provide itself justification as a productive social activity. For instance, if you wrote a piece of text and published it in some journal. Less than 10% of the readership of the journal will read it. On the other hand, if you are a teacher, you would be disseminating basic facts to at least 50 students per year. At that rate, your contribution is far higher than anything a researcher can achieve.
Problems are exacerbated by the fact that may who are engaged in research are fundamentally unemployable in the education sector or are disinclined to take up productive employment. You can teach 3 days a week as a Guest Lecturer and get the money paid by the non-NET fellowship to MPhil students. I myself have done just that and am so much the better for it because of the experience and the sense of self-respect it generates. People cooped up in libraries will never gain the experience and the widening of their mindsets that comes from teaching. Hence, in every seminar on teaching history (my subject), you find these researchers saying that we need to make the syllabus more “sophisticated” and provide a more theoretical basis for students to understand topics. Try doing these in a college where the majority of students have little access to your costly publications and still less to the seminars where your high-flying opinions are voiced. Try getting them to pass their exams – the basic graduation exams – based on your Foucault and Derrida. Let’s see where your arrogance resides then.
4. What teachers “teach” is based on research – Absolutely! If no research takes place, the discipline will fossilize and die out. In fact, what we need is more research in more diverse streams to keep the subject relevant. The problem is that a lot of research seems to handle subjects that do not fall into this criteria – they rehash the same arguments again and again and/or work on topics so theoretical that even someone with a MA degree (me!) has trouble understanding them.
So while Sumit Sarkar’s work on Swadeshi is a great piece of research, some of the post-modern works coming out today are utter trash. In fact, as I understand Sumit Sarkar thinks them to be trash too. There’s just no point funding everyone who says he/she is doing research because, let’s face it, all research is not equal and not relevant.
5. Fellowships help underprivileged communities and women – Uh yeah, but so does employment. If you can employ yourself, you can be financially independent and at the same time, enjoy the privilege of research in your spare time. This applies to all – men, women, underprivileged, overprivileged, etc. So why must you pursue fellowships? Because you don’t want to work. And if you don’t want to work, you are not a productive member of society. Pressure will increase on you to do something productive – get a different job, get married, etc. That’s only logical isn’t it? Ending these fellowships, seen from this perspective, will help rationalize our workforce by pruning those who wish to get money without working.
So my solution ?
Expand the number of NET fellowships so larger number of people can avail these. If needed, create two tiers of fellowships, one for those clearing JRF and another for those getting LS only. NET is a national exam and it pits all – regardless of whether you’re working on history of caterpillar procreation or the Partition – against others to test their mettle. It is deeply flawed, that cannot be denied. But fixing the exam is better than doing away with meritocracy altogether.
Beyond NET, there could be situations where those who clear various state SET are given a certain fellowship as well by the UGC. This would substantially broaden the scope of fellowships but keep them linked to a verifiable criterion. Of course, those clearing both NET and SET would be allowed to get only one.
Finally, there could be a limited number of fellowships for those who don’t have any of these. A merit panel would decide who gets these. In fact, I believe the UGC is going in for just such a move. In itself though, it may not be enough and would need to be coupled with the points mentioned above.
Final Thoughts
Research is a privilege, not a right. The extent of its social productivity is a direct function of its applicability to society and its ability to broaden society’s understanding of various topics relevant to it. There should be secular criteria to decide which fits these and which does not. NET/ SET is one criterion, expert panel is another. Those deemed unworthy by both these criteria can pursue their privilege, but at their own cost. Alternatively, they can take up employment and pay their way through research the way many MBA students do. In the light of these, UGC’s moves are to be welcomed by civil society at large, even if they are unpalatable to some who wish to hide behind piles of books instead of doing something productive in society.
I have no workspace – and I still have one. What do I mean? In my formal job, as a teacher, I sit along with all others along a table. The space in front of my chair, in front of me, is my space. But it is shared space, created and broken almost with the monotony of duties and classes (when I have to leave the table for whatever reason and my space is taken over, only to be reclaimed when I return).
This isn’t a workspace because for me, a workspace is a personal space. Not a private space, because people are constantly coming in, checking out the space and its contents, communicating with me and leaving. But a personal space nonetheless. One where I can set up things as I like them to be and know that unless I let someone do something in there, it will remain set up in that specific manner.
The space I get in college isn’t a workspace. My workspace lies elsewhere – at home, on the desk, in front and around my computer. The workspace of a content writer.
Until recently it was composed of a laptop that never moved from its place on the table, a set of wireless keyboard and mouse and the peripherals. Now it consists of a desktop PC, the same set of wireless keyboard and mouse and a lot more peripherals and wires.
But a set of machines does not equate to a workspace – a workspace has to be lived in, the gadgets have to be used and assimilated through human touch until they become part of the imagination and the usage of the workspace. Again, this is where my content writing comes in.
You see, I’m a nocturnal creature as far as my content writing is concerned. The sound of the CPU fan running or the clickety-clack of the keyboard is not something you’ll find during the day. But come nightfall, the workspace comes to life, becoming a domain unto itself, spanning the entire space between the outside world and the bed that sits just beside it. I must go through it if I am to supplement the pathetic excuse of a salary I receive as a teacher. I must go through it if I am to validate myself as a contributor in the vast space that is the internet. I must go through it to prove to myself that I am socially useful beyond the sphere of dry academics. I must go through it, I just must.
Once I settle down to work, it is a race between my fingers, my mind, the workload and the time. It always is and is supposed to be so. In fact, I am supposed to work with the clockwork precision of an office-goer, sans the faux social life of the workplace. Because if you work in the dead of the night, you have – and cannot have – a social life to speak of. I’m fine with that – this is a world of my own after all!
But that doesn’t make me a machine, even when I’m supposed to be one. If the real machine – the computer – could speak, he or she would tell you that I am extremely erratic, typing in quick short bursts followed by moments of inertia. Inertia during which I take a break, browse meaningless sites and generally “waste time”. The use and wastage of time, however, tells more about me than my work efficiency – it reflects my character and my feelings.
As I settle down before the computer, I know what I must type and what I must do. I’ve done it a thousand times – literally – before I start hammering away at an article. There’s a tired grace to the way I hit the words “inb” and see my mail URL turn up. The “enter” key is pressed with a sort of vehemence – disgust at having to work again, yet pride, often concealed, that I know exactly what I must do. It is like a veteran nightwatchman hitting his stick on the ground – again and again – and knowing just what the result would be.
I scan my email, going through the day’s correspondence with clients. Sometimes I get sidetracked to other mails. Eventually, I get the mail I wish to work on, and open it. The link appears. The Amazon page appears. I start reading.
Then I reach for the bottle of water. Sometimes it is in front of my printer; at other times, it is on the table across the room. I must lift myself and get it. When I have had water, I survey the page on the screen from across the room. That is where I must go, but must I return so soon ?
Yes! The clock is nearing 1AM and I have hardly started work! I return and finish reading. Maybe I need to read something more – something else. While doing so, I take another pointless break, stretching myself, rotating my head to beat off the tiredness in a body that has been running around, taking classes, handling the rigmarole of academics since the morning. Then I resume work.
Finally it is 1:30 and I must start typing. There is an Office 2013 (now 2016) shortcut in the taskbar. I open I and wait as Word loads. Once it has, I open a blank document.
Blank documents are beautiful. They represent a new opportunity – and also a new challenge. Sometimes, I know just what I need to write, and I begin writing within moments. At other times, I must pause, think and read again, and wonder how I must shape my work. Sometimes I write and delete, write and delete like the proverbial poet (of the modern age) until I’m satisfied. Sometimes I begin writing only to realize I’ve already written this for something else. I must be different – or I must plagiarize myself. Plagiarism, even self-plagiarism, is never an option. I must be original.
Finally, one way or the other, I start typing. The clickety-clack begins, and my thoughts begin to flow out. With spelling errors. One some days, I’m on top of my game, hitting the keys without error and without losing my flow. On other days, I know I’m not hitting the keys correctly. Errors crop up and I must hit the backspace constantly to maintain a decent typing speed. On other days still, I don’t realize that I’m actively typing – the content absorbs me and I realize that I’m typing only when I make a mistake. The latter type of days are rare indeed.
But whatever I type, no matter how I type, there is a beautiful familiarity about the keyboard. I have a Logitech MK270R – a birthday gift I gave myself on my 23rd. It has been a year since and the main keyboard alphabet keys shine with the oil and the toil of a thousand million keystrokes. Some made in vain to be sure, some made while playing one or the other game, but a good amount made to make money. Yes, my keystrokes make money for me. The more I type, the more money I make. It’s as simple as that.
But what about the different ways I hit keys? Am I feeling the same when I’m hitting keys with force, or when I’m missing keys and making mistakes. Am I feeling the same when I am sure of my key-spacing, or when I’m hitting the keys at their edges and must make errors sooner than later ?
The answer is surely no. Typing, like playing the guitar or engaging in a katha in Karate (both of which I’ve done at different points of my life) is an art. An art that requires the combination of skill, experience and presence of mind. And yes, confidence. Unlike beginners who pause with every keystroke, people who have been typing for years develop a rhythm. This rhythm expresses your personality and the state of your mind.
If you feel confident, you will type confidently, regardless of the meaning of the content you’re typing. If you are not feeling confident or something is gnawing at the back of your mind, you will type more erratically. The funny thing is, such confidence or lack thereof may have nothing to do with the matter you’re typing. You may be totally sure of what you wish to type but the keystrokes come out chaotically. Or you may be confused but whatever you type, you type without mistakes.
Many a times, I only realize what the state of my mind is when I begin typing. Fears that have been lurking at the back of my mind may come forth as the foremind is busy processing all manner of information for me to type. Yet the back of the mind decides how the rhythm should be – how I would express myself. This is because while the presence of mind and skill are in the foremind, the experience and emotions are in the back of the mind.
To break away from a bad typing session, I sometimes take a break. Sometimes survey my surroundings – the workspace – and sometimes simply type more slowly (or quickly!) All the while, the sound of my CPU fan, the gentle whirring of the overhead fan and the tears streaming down my eyes from exhaustion punctuate and define my existence. These are somewhat constant – they root me to my existence as a content writer working in the dead of the night, pulling my tired body and fresh computer to do the tasks that give me money.
It is now 2:40AM and I have finished my first article of the night. I must do another before I sleep, and do this fast so I can get at least 5 hours of sleep in the night. The laziness is cast aside, the tears are wiped off and my mind becomes keenly aware of the time deadlines I must set for my body to get adequate rest. The workspace eggs me on, tells me of the achievements of the past that decorate my bank balance. It also tells me of my needs, the bills I have piling up, the aspirations I have and the balance I must maintain. All of this drags me on, and so I must focus to a far greater degree than I have heretofore.
3:40AM – the work is finally done and I am free for the night. I finish off the remaining work, send off the emails and shut down the computer. There is something rapid about this – the closing of windows, the saving of files, the shutting down. It is as if I want to prove that I’ve finished in the shortest possible time. Often, I do want to. Why? To justify the money I’m being paid against the hours I’m working? To justify that I’m not wrecking my health by working after work? There is no simple answer, but I still shut everything down with a vengeance.
Then I raise myself from the dark workspace – no whirring CPU fan, no lights, no clickety-clack. The day’s work is done. The computer has gone off to sleep. I must sleep too, until 22 hours pass and I am back before the computer with another batch of work. Work which only my computer is witness to and perhaps, in a small way, sympathises with. Work that is the lot of the nocturnal content writer.
It is often argued that socialism has something called dogma. What’s dogma? A set of rules and ideas that you HAVE to believe in. Just ask anyone in 1934 USSR, or 1953 PRC or today’s PRK (People’s Republic of Korea). Those who argue this argue correctly – blood has been spilt over it, much more blood than should have been over what Buddha would have called needless hair-splitting. Just ask anyone in modern Russia, China or South Korea (you wouldn’t have access to those in the North unfortunately).
There are – and were – various aspects of this dogma. It is not my intention to fill my blog with a study of socialism – there are a good number of studies on that, none of which I can recall right now because it has been such a long time since I studied that topic in detail. Anyways….
What I wish to talk about today is a certain aspect of this dogma that defined what man should be. You could not be just anyone in USSR. If you were, you could be branded a capitalist, a kulak, a petty trader or randomly anyone who was against the revolution. So how do you avoid being called any of these derogatory and dangerous names? You try and pretend – or indeed become – someone whom the Party believes is the “ideal” man.
And how do you define the ideal man ? An ideal man does this, doesn’t do that, looks like this and above all, thinks this. What’s this ? “This” varies in space and time but because we’re speaking of socialists, it generally means something that has been eulogized as ideal to socialist doctrine. So if you’re living in any of these countries, you behave in a certain manner, buy certain goods and do certain things, spend your free time in a certain manner, send your children to certain schools and heck, perhaps even have sex with your wife (socialist regimes typically didn’t tolerate live-ins for some strange reason!) in a certain position. Okay, maybe you had the freedom to have sex any which way you liked as long as the children born of such acts grew up to be ideal citizens who, again, believed in whatever was haute in the ideology books of the time.
(Did you notice I’ve used three words – doctrine, dogma and ideology? What’s the difference between them mate? Tell me?)
To sum up, you became a living breathing mannequin of the party’s ideals.
And if you didn’t want to be that way ? You could protest and be shot (or sent to a gulag) or escape to the West. What did you get in the West ? Freedom to think, freedom to do as you like and freedom, above all, to pursue your ambitions and become, as Mirandola had said, whatever you want to be.
If you did, you were probably soon convinced that you were right. There was no state to tell you what you should do in the minutest detail, inspection squads did not look for minute details and it was fine to protest about anything and everything in the world. Including your dear old country.
But what of the capitalism that you’ve embraced? Does it not create its own dogma? Let’s look at the question in very practical terms.
Say you go to a shop. You’re immediately bombarded with ideas of what you should buy and why you should buy them. Why? Because all the media you’ve been consuming over the past year has told you that to have social status and “be” the person people admire and look up to, you must have a certain set of products. The advertisements and the salespersons only reinforce it.
But haven’t you escaped from a society where such things were enforced? Here it can’t be enforced so you willingly, self-consciously and deliberately reject this idea. You refuse to buy what you are told you should buy. Take that socialism!
Okay, so you come out of the store. Now you’re in the street and you see people wearing and doing just what has been advertised all along. But you have rejected this path right ? Very good, so you are different. But are you? You must get new clothes as the old ones wear off, new food as the older stocks run out and new implements with which to do whatever you wish to do. SO you must buy. And you must buy in a manner that sustains your individuality and your rebellion against coerced or persuaded homogeneity.
You go to a store. It’s not the one that has been advertised the most and it isn’t the one that has what you said you wouldn’t buy. What does it have? Clothes, food, implements. Yes, all that you need. You buy happily, ignoring the calls of the salespersons to check out this or that product that is currently selling like hot cakes (or supposedly selling like hot cakes).
You come out of the store. You come out and realize that what you’ve bought is indeed different, because
It is made by smaller brands who may sometimes produce inferior goods.
It is part of last year’s stock (not food though, here you don’t have so much leeway).
You get the distinct feeling that whatever you’re using is of poorer quality or worse, outdated. Mind you, we don’t mean that it’s out of fashion. We mean that you feel that it is not as advanced as the products you could have bought.
Now say you go to your workplace. You’re immediately made aware of the fact that what you’re wearing or using is outdated and out of fashion. Does it suggest that you’re in hard financial straits ? Back in the socialist economy, there was no such problem. Everybody earned the same (supposedly) for the same work and got the same tools because the state produced only one or two variants.
SO now you’re acutely aware that what you use not only expresses your taste, but also your status. And in capitalistic society, because you can rise as high as you can (supposedly), status means a lot. It defines where you are on the ladder, how far you have to go, how fast are you moving? And when you come home, your wife, who’s been going around to the homes of all the other wives, reinforces this idea.
But wait, there’s more. Aren’t you that guy who came from that socialist country? Are you trying to tinker with the cherished ideals of the nation, trying to corrupt them? Why else would you want to do what you just did – something nobody else did (apparently). In defence, you fall back on the first justification – you’re probably poor. But you know, inside, that you aren’t. You need to get out of this poor or traitor problem, and fast!
Now you’re in a dilemma. You’ve spent the money you had allocated for the goods and find yourself stuck with stuff that nobody appreciates. What do you do? You do aspire for social respect right? Would you like to live out a whole year or even longer in such a socially depressed status ? Nope. Would your wife be happy if you took money meant for something else just so you could get the “right” stuff ? Nope.
You look for a cheap deal. Something that you can bring home and say – “Honey, I got it at 80% off so I didn’t need to withdraw any money from the bank”. The good news is, there is always a deal.
Not just one, many in fact. They’re advertised in stores, in TV shows, everywhere. In fact, you’d probably found a deal when you decided not to buy what everybody else was buying. Now you need a deal that’s even better than those deals.
Problem is, the deal that’s better than those deals has two pitfalls –
It sells goods that are defective or are “Refurbished” ie essentially second-hand
It sells goods of only a particular size and type.
You’d think that the second category would include products that are of rare or unusual types and so if you have a larger shoe size, a bigger waistline or something similar, you could avail yourself of it.
The bad news is, though the sale may deal with products that are a little less than popular (in terms of size, design, etc.) they still fall within a median that eliminates the other sizes and designs as outlier points. Why ? Because the manufacturer probably knew that those special types wouldn’t sell well and didn’t produce them in the first place.
What do you do? Simple – you adjust your body and your tastes to fit that median. A median, probably, that is narrower than the median which you were initially offered when you rejected those very goods because you’re now looking for a better price. You have little choice now – you buy the goods, adjust yourself and become the mean of the median of society. The conformist….
….you’d sworn you wouldn’t be.
So you see, capitalism has its own way of creating the “perfect” man, one who fits into everything and in doing so, can save the maximum amount of money. The farther away you are from this median, the more you spend and the more you stick out in society. And when you stick out, you appear to be falling behind in the race to achieve the perfect status and position in society.
In other words, what socialism makes you do through state fiat, capitalism forces you to do by manipulating your ambitions and dreams.
The word alternative means that there is something that’s “mainstream”, something that’s expected and anticipated. Something that’s assumed to be there by default. Something that has the stamp of history.
I use the word history with caution, having chosen to enter the field of professional past-analysers whose task is to tell you who you are at this instant, just as the weatherman tells you what the utility of your umbrella is today.
But have you asked yourself, who you are? What is your history? A history that is not defined and codified like so much programming by a set of professionals? What is the history that is truly yours?
You do have a history, and this history is composed of things no one else could have known, seen, felt, experienced or remembered in a way you have. It’s a history that moves out of the general and into the particular, into your own personal space – the space of your own heart and its emotions. It is an emotional history.
But where did the emotions come from? Facts, events, circumstances? What were those events? Why did you feel the way you did about them? And what could you have felt instead? What could have happened instead? Happening and feeling combined, what would have been your alternative emotional history? And what sort of person would it have made of you?
And would that different person, with that different history, be writing at this time on this topic at all?
These thoughts, like every other stream of thoughts, have context. You see, a few months ago I was an offer holder for the PhD course in History at SOAS. The application process had been a long one, but I’d found some very understanding and friendly people along the way. People who were willing to forego the frostiness of intellectual snobbery and name-dropping to truly look into my topic. People who were willing to provide me the intellectual support I needed for applying to my first university abroad.
Such people live in the UK you see. In India, there are narrow minded people. People who believe they know a lot when they’ve only read a few books. And heard of a few others. I met such people at my Felix interview and three days later, I was, de facto, out of contention for a seat at SOAS.
Move forward three months, yes, just three. I receive an email from a certain Mr. Ross. It’s a welcome letter for those joining SOAS this year. It talks about welcome programs and orientation and various formalities. Formalities I was supposed to go through.
Formalities I’m supervising, sort of! You see I’d joined the BESC as a lecturer and had gradually taken up the responsibilities of a teacher. Part of this included taking the new students to a tour of the library, asking them to head to various orientation programs and being in the front row on the Teacher’s Day.
All this made me a teacher. I am leading a teacher’s life and am likely to do so in the near future as well. But what if I’d been selected for Felix? I’d never have applied for BESC, never would have thought of joining another class as a teacher so soon (again!) and…I’d have been flying to the UK – as a student.
That’s the point isn’t it ? I’d have been a student, and my eyes would probably have been filled with the same wonder I saw in the eyes of undergrad students – my students – whom I led through the college. I’d be making new friends, forming new bonds in a new environment. Did I not ? Of course I did, but as a teacher. There, I’d have been a student. Just like the students who now attend my lectures.
But there’d be one clear difference. My students attend college with their parents’ money. I’d have been attending SOAS off the funds of some donor who must not be named (hell, I don’t even know his name). These kids are close to their homes, to the families who pay and pray for them. I’d be far away from my family and living off the purse of someone whom I didn’t even know.
So how would I have felt as a student of SOAS ? Happy ? Of course. A bit scared, wondering if my manners were up to scratch, if my clothing was proper, if my academic records were in order and above all, wondering if I’d fit in. My students probably thought the same. Eventually they fit in. I’d have fitted into SOAS too.
What if, under such circumstances, I’d received Mr. Ross’ letter ? It’d have been one of many letters coming from various people regarding various affairs. I remember being offered a place to stay by Sanctuary Students. They’d have some correspondence. I remember discussing the future studies in UK with my supervisor. There’d be mails from her. Perhaps from my course coordinator, from the finances office, the Immigration office of the UK….the list could be endless.
The information given inside would be a sneak peek, wouldn’t it ? Building on what I already knew about SOAS and telling me what to do and what I should search for. Actionable intelligence.
But actionable intelligence it is not. Not for me. When I received this email, I was in the staff room, discussing a range of trivial matters with other teachers. Teachers who are today my friends and mentors, who count me as one of them.
So I read it with bemusement, a slight smile playing on my lips that no one noticed. Good thing, because it is never easy to explain these emotions unless it’s past midnight on a Friday (and you’re in front of a monitor instead of at the proverbial party).
So I read it with a slight tinge of pain. It felt as if you had a broken leg and someone passed you racing skates. A mistake no doubt, even suggested (as a self-effacing measure) in the first line of the text. But no amount of mistake could deprive me of the realization that I could have….and then, what could I have done ?
But I would never have thought of a “could have” with bemusement I I had been in the UK. I’d have been filled with dread, excitement and wonderment. I’m not, that history is not mine, that emotional history is not mine : that is not me.
Instead of being in the student’s shoes, I am in those of a person guiding them. Instead of marvelling at the presentations and orientations, I’m in staff rooms discussing the nitty gritty. Instead of being the audience, I’m the operator.
I could have been a student, I am a teacher.
So teacher I am, and that is my history. My existence is defined by what followed through, what fructified and provided me with a place to rest my head and raise it in pride. I did not raise it with pride when leaving the Biotechnology Centre of JNU where the interview was held. I did when I became a full-time faculty and BESC. And when direction removes stagnation, happiness supersedes pain, victory supersedes defeat and the wave of life drowns the islands of what-never-happened, history is written in my heart and mind, I am given identity.
But identities do not destroy memory, bitter or sweet. I can never forget what I went through to get to SOAS, and how its doors were closed to me. I would not forget this mail which rubbed the wounds raw. I will not forget.
But neither will I be able to live in these. They do not define me you see, they aren’t what I am or what I would be. They will become discordant memories, and in this way, shall remain till something brings them to the fore again! Discordant with the joy of my lectureship, discordant with the challenges of teaching and discordant with the identity that I now have – as a teacher.
So my history of SOAS and the letter would become a discordant history, unable to be my identity but too precious to be let go of. I think we all live with such discordant histories – histories created with facts and emotion in equal measure – that challenge our notions of our path in life by telling us that which we never can be.
All our lives we’ve been taught to tone down our exuberance and our anguish so everything seems normal. So everyone else can pretend everything is as it was before, that nothing has changed and that nothing perhaps will change.
But change is a way of life eh ? Poetic analogies of metamorphosis aside, there’s no denying that life constantly throws up new stuff for those on the lookout (and even for those who aren’t!). As a fresh post-grad, I’m always on the lookout. For change ? For opportunities for change ? Yeah, that sounds good, something I can include in my CV.
But change also creates memories. Memories that teach, that haunt and that make us celebrate and regret our decisions in life. But memories also tell us who we were. Before teaching or haunting us, they give us an identity. And thinking of these memories later articulates this identity the way milk becomes curd (or cheese if you like).
But for all this, memories have to become memories. Lest we forget……
Forget what ? Mostly the mundane that leaves little trace on our overall existence beyond the coffee stains and the grimy collars…..but also those that happen really fast. Yep, when life grabs you by the collar and swings you like a mighty Hulk to new shores. Not literally, not yet, not in my case – yet. But allegories make life interesting don’t they ?
Five paragraphs down, let’s cut to the chase. I’m speaking of a particular phase of life, a month, 30 days – days where everything seemed to speed up. And when it did, I had to make split second decisions that decided where I ended up. Where I am now.
The wheel began turning in late June, when a certain college (check my profile for the name, if you haven’t you don’t deserve to know!) advertised positions. With my Guest Lecturership in abeyance due to the holidays, I decided to take a shot.
Then I got a call. Le’ts call her a friend of mine. A workshop was coming up. Good institute, great speakers. Add it to the CV, she said, you won’t regret it. Perhaps workshops are meant for this one purpose only – but I’m a fresh post-grad right, who am I to know ?
Anyhow, I applied. Ran to the University to get the signatures. Got them and ran to the institute again. Submitted. The college ? Oh yeah, I submitted my CV there too!
So July dawned and I was calmly contemplating an interview along the lines of my first job interview (aka the Guest Lecturership). Then on 3 July, I was found that I hadn’t been selected for one of the two workshops I’d applied for. Oh, I didn’t tell you there were two ? My bad!
I was disappointed, quite disappointed, since I had expected the SOP for this one to be stronger than that of the second one. It felt as if you had to know about the subject to be selected to study the subject. Twisted logic eh ?
Then came 7 July.
First I had the interview. I’d prepared a presentation and gave a short demo class. Then answered questions. Then left. I was quite happy with myself for an interview decently done.
Then came the email. Turned out I’d been selected for the workshop where I thought I had less chance.
Then I checked a site to see if I’d been shortlisted for a certain PhD interview. I had been.
Finally, I checked a certain website to see if I’d been shortlisted for a certain interview I’d applied months earlier. I had been.
Have you ever felt the need to shift from first to fourth gear ? Like pull the gear lever forward, sideways and then forward again ? Not likely – you’d have to go through gears 2 and 3 for that. Life isn’t like that. I had a PhD interview and a job interview coming up. On successive days – 13 and 14 July.
One of the common fallacies among intellectuals is that they know something of everything. Put them before an interview board and their something turns out to be little more than nothing. I consider myself an intellectual. I had an idea about the whole of human history. To be on the safe side, I buried myself in Sekhar Bandhopadhyay.
13 dawned and I turned up late to the venue. After verification of documents and a VERY long wait (for someone giving the first such interview) the interview began a little before 2PM. Turns out my knowledge of modern history wouldn’t be tested, not for the most part. I gave a demo on medieval history, then answered questions on medieval history and then moved to other questions. Why had I tumbled through the venerable Plassey to Partition ? I don’t know.
14 dawned in quite a different style. I was already familiar with the institution so navigation took place sans Google Maps. A friend of mine had also been shortlisted. I was called first and realized there’d be no one to guide me there. My friend had a similar experience. Ah well.
For two days I had peace. Almost. Dad left for Chandigarh – he’d been transferred. A routine transfer, but in the midst of this maelstrom ? When it rains, it pours right ?
Then I was called to the college. I’d been selected. Whole-time work in an AC environment and a choice of designations (though they all meant the same, within broad limits of ambiguity) to choose from. How could I refuse? I joined.
I’d have loved to sing off here. But as the reader remembers, I had gotten through to a workshop. Paid for it as well. So I attended it. Turned out the methods weren’t for me at all – I was in the wrong workshop. I sat through long math and stats classes. Instructors asked me why they had spent their whole lives staring at numbers – they missed being able to stare at the sky. Very funny. Ha ha ha.
But in a haze of coffee, clouded skies, complex greek alphabets and STATA, it was over. I got the certificate, treated myself to KFC and moved on.
Then I got a call from my old college, where I taught as a GL. When could I join ? I couldn’t join. When could I resign? Does one have to resign when shifting jobs ? Common sense says yeah, definitely. Yet it never occurred to me anytime before that I’d be submitting a resignation in 2015. Much less to a college that had pretty much taught me everything I knew about teaching. My departmental colleagues were the ones who’d helped me become a teacher, and think of myself as one. In my last class in May I’d told the first years I’d continue in July. Or August maybe.
Hardly able to believe myself, I drafted the letter and took it with me. With a letter certifying my new position in the new college. I was leaving for greener pastures, yet I could hardly believe myself. I sat in the same chair where I’d given my interview and was wished good luck for the future. Would I get an experience letter ? Of course! Then I had exited the college – without meeting the students whom I’d promised to teach again in July.
July was over.
I settled down to my new role in the college, resumed my horribly interrupted MPhil classes and learned that I hadn’t gotten through to the PhD. The other interview’s result is awaited. Chances are slim and it’s not on my mind to be very honest. Life is moving on.
But before I end this narrative, let me add one last thing – rain. July is a month of rain, heavy rain. Rain that pauses traffic, slows you down, seeps into your sandals and makes you slip and slide, makes you slosh in muddy puddles and generally, makes you realize you are sitting in Charnock’s swamp.
But when life isn’t mundane, the mundane rain becomes beautiful. It gives you a strange rhythm when many certainties are being questioned. It accompanies you as you run between Sadan and Sarobar, College Street and Camac Street. As the axes of your pursuits change and the vertices of your life enter new dimensions, it somehow seems familiar.
And then, when you’re weary and tired and returning home after a long day of work….You’re in College Street, the same place where you’ve studied 3 years and spent so much time you pretty much know every nook and cranny. But then, it’s the evening. It has been raining. The streets are wet, reflecting the lights of cars too busy to realize the patterns they are creating. Patterns of liquid, patterns of light. All on the wet street. It was beautiful.
But where was my Presidency ? I don’t know, I never looked. It was – dark. Life lay elsewhere.
And then life moved on again. Details are coming up and melting away. Facts, figures, etc etc. Life is settling down, touchwood. The vertices are becoming stable, the lines are becoming rigid, the mundane is dominant again.
And the rain ? They say it has been raining on and off, like it does in July and August every year. July AND August ? I beg to differ……
It takes an idiot to play Far Cry 2 after Far Cry 3. It takes a special type of idiot to play Far Cry 2 after Far Cry 4, and then to write a review of the former! But here I am – sitting and writing on a (thankfully) cloudy June afternoon while installing Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter. But let’s not deviate – the point is that I’m writing a review of Far Cry 2 after having finished it after a good day’s worth of play. Yep, a WHOLE DAY’s worth of play aka 24 hours! So what did I learn from the African jungles and the jamming guns ? Here’s the lowdown –
Graphics
Playing Far Cry 2 after a highly polished and totally awesome title like Far Cry 4 can bring back that “
oh no not again” sort of feeling. But blaming Far Cry 2 for not having graphics as good as the successor of its successor is like asking Einstein why he didn’t build the Hadron Collider. This so especially since Far Cry 2 was considered a visual masterpiece of its time, a time which in gaming terms is already in the distant past.
But at the end of the day it all boils down to how the gamer feels, and this gamer aka arrian91 aka Aritra the Gamer (woo hoo!) feels the graphics are quite good. Unlike Far Cry 4, which is set in a somewhat familiar environment, I have really no idea what Africa looks like. Or more specifically, what war-torn failed African countries look like. But from what I’ve read and what I’ve seen on TV, Far Cry 2 does a pretty good job.
So what does the good job constitute ? To begin with, the game contains oodles and oodles of tropical rainforest, topped off with decent amounts of savanna grasslands and at the very edges of the maps, deserts. While this may seem somewhat monotonous if you’re stuck in one part of the map, most missions require you to travel great distances (Coming to that) and for this reason, you’ll actually enjoy the scenery. In fact, some of the most beautiful parts of the game are ones where there are no human habitations. This, in my humble opinion, is at the core of the Far Cry experience, and again in my opinion, makes FC2 a true predecessor to the later games.
Of course, it isn’t entirely a FC3 or 4 experience. For one thing, there is no hunting involved. Animals are there – wild buffaloes, deer, zebras and so on – but all are herbivores and none actually attack you. The only AI they have forces them to constantly run away and that too, not very effectively. You could shoot them down or run them down with your car, but there are no rewards for that. In the end, I ended up avoiding most of the animals altogether.
Lack of hunting directly translates into lack of suspense when travelling in the wild. While a kilometre in FC3 or 4 would involve at least one predator attack, here you can walk for miles and miles and face none at all. This makes travelling on foot quite monotonous for those who have played the later games. Yet it’s perhaps not right to blame FC2 for this – games like Fallout 3 and New Vegas have similarly barren stretches with little to interest the gamer, and they too are considered cult classics.
Despite such monotony however, the game has its moments of sheer beauty, even when you have become accustomed to the scenery and no longer admire the trees, cliffs and of course, the dirt roads. Once I was driving to one end of the map to kill some folks at some place called Segolo (I think). The game was about 75-80% complete and I was thoroughly accustomed to the southern part of the map. Yet when I broke through the foliage and moved into the grasslands – I was treated to a breathtaking site of the sun rising above the barren lands and few treetops. Again, when I was boating along the rivers, the rugged cliffs around me gave a sense of adventure that had nothing to do with my mission or the overall logic of the game.
In contrast, the human settlements are downright drab and sad. Okay, so there is a war going on. Okay so it is Africa and a very impoverished country at that. And fine, the war and the poverty do come out starkly through the quality of the settlements. But all said, endless broken rusty cars, rusting tin sheds, tires for roadblocks and buildings bemoaning their former glory do not make for an experience that is visually breathtaking. Whether it is Pala or a Leboa-Seko or Segolo or any other settlement, ceasefire or no ceasefire, the place feels like it desperately needs a makeover.
At first, the entire setting brings home the sense of collapse and despondence associated with entering a country that is tearing itself apart for no good reason. It even makes you feel a little angry at the person called Jackal – “the bastard that armed both sides”, as the protagonist puts it. But after a while, the sheer monotony of the buildings –some clearly colonial, others poor post-colonial ones, make one feel that there is little joy to be had in exploring the inhabited areas.
Not that there’s much to explore. Apart from a few diamonds here and there, the cluster of buildings can be broken down into –
UFLL/APR headquarters
closed off buildings
Church
some random shanty like areas
an occasional ruined hotel or graveyard
You could probably explore the entire town – be it any town – in less than five minutes. And I’m talking about the ceasefire ones – the others (like Shantytown or one of the villages) are even smaller and make you feel like you’re wading through a pile of wood, tin and miscellaneous metal.
Talking of villages, these at least have some novelty. The houses are made of brick and their insides are honestly rendered. You have interesting hay ladders and low top floors – all of which add to the safari experience that is so central to any game that deals with sub-Saharan Africa.
All in all, the ambience is enjoyable at first but gradually loses steam. While you’re genuinely interested in exploring the various nooks and crannies of the map early on, the later stages really make you feel like going through the main missions as fast as possible. Matters are not helped by the fact that some areas – like the waterfalls and the fishing village – have been rendered with essentially the same strokes as the rest of the greenery – something outstanding here would have made some of the missions (like the mission to kill the UFLL chief of the north) much more interesting. Still, the game holds well, and if you manage to mix up things, you can at least get through the main missions without dreading the monotony of the FC2 world.
Navigation
A good part of what makes matters monotonous is the relentless need to travel. The initial missions take you literally to the edges of the map, and while the later ones are much more spread out in terms of the destinations, they still require substantial travel. There are no fast travel options aside from the bus stops. These bus stops are at the very edges of the maps and oftentimes require a good deal of driving from virtually any point (except the central one) to reach. Matters are not helped by the lack of anything – literally anything – near the bus stops, which makes travelling to bus stops a micro-mission in itself.
Now to begin with the basics, travelling can be done in three ways – car, boat and animal power. Animal power ? Yes, the power of your two legs. Sadly, you’ll have to use the latter more than the other two combined. Why ?
Some areas are located so far from roads that you’ll be bumping through sand dunes and over cliffs if you’re in a car. Better to walk.
Enemies will destroy your car even if they can’t put a bullet in you. Cars being the weakest of the movable objects in the game, you’ll often find your jeep or car or boat destroyed. You can jump onto the enemy’s boat but sometimes that blows up as well. Result – walk/swim.
Cars are far fewer than in the later games and unless you’re lucky enough to find an enemy driving at you (and not running you over), you’ll have to set off on foot from the towns quite often.
The maps are so convoluted that often a seemingly motorable road turns out to be so narrow or ridden with obstacles that you have to disembark and walk.
A good number of checkpoints and outposts will have at least one drum and tyre construct to stop you from driving through. Stop there and your car is trash. Often you’ll have to walk from there if there is no vehicle in the area.
Boats will get stuck on reefs and in marshes and no amount of pushing will help. Swim on, friend!
Now you’d think that at least the roads would be simple to navigate. They aren’t. Most of them are twisting snakes of gravel that will throw you off cliffs, take you to dead ends and to random areas with no utility whatsoever before you get to your destination. You do figure out the most important ones eventually, but you have to do a good amount of planning if you don’t want to end up at the other end of the country.
Road signs are there – but the only ones useful are the ones denoting a fork. In some junctions you can discover a long list of places and arrows directing you towards them. Sadly, the names in the game are so convoluted that you might be headed for Senkharanese and you might end up in Segolo.
The only thing that happens during a typical journey is endless encounter with enemies. They either come at you at guard posts or more often, in cars. Moments after they start shooting, your engine will start belching white smoke. You disembark, shoot them down, take their car, reverse and change direction and drive. And drive. And repeat. And drive. And repeat. And repeat.
I drove about 100km in the game and walked 130. Need I say more ?
Combat
Far Cry relies primarily on combat, and thankfully, FC2 doesn’t disappoint – almost. The guns are fine, the mechanics are cool and the enemies aren’t hard to kill (at least on the lower difficulties). Reload times are tolerable and indeed realistic. The guns look great and for once, they got the rust and dirt right so an old gun looks quite old and rusty, and not in a bad way.
Another thing is their attention to the build of the guns. Each gun is meticulously designed and you can make out the exact design when reloading. Coupled with the realistic reloading and dirt/rust graphics, these make the guns true beauties that befit the environs.
But that’s about all that clicks. What doesn’t click – well there’ s quite a lot of that. Firstly, the realism is taken too far. The two most realistic mechanics are also the most annoying.
First, there is the recoil. Guns like ASR and PKM recoil so much that you’re essentially starting from the enemy’s feet and firing up to the heat, hoping that you get in enough bullets before you’re aiming at the heavens. The second and the most pathetic, yes THE most pathetic mechanic is jamming. This is the only game in which jamming has been given so much primacy that virtually every gun jams. And when it jams, you’re left to either switch weapons, which is surprisingly slow in such a situation, or to hit the reload key till the gun works again.
Some people find the jamming mechanic amusing eg. the top shield of the PKM flies open and has to be stuffed back. In the midst of combat though, it is plain irritating and can cause you to lose significant amounts of health.
Initially I thought it was the problem with some specific guns – better ones would have less problems. So I went and bought more guns from the irritatingly distant gun shops. Since there are no bell towers or outposts, you have to do special missions to unlock the guns (coming up). Now I did get better guns, but they STILL JAMMED. Hell yes, they jammed and jammed and then….then they heated up and had to be thrown away! Yes, this is the only game where you actually have to throw away guns, leaving you without your primary weapon in the middle of a fight.
Now the reason I say primary weapons is because there are 4 classes of weapons – knife (constant), primary, secondary and special. The division is rather arbitrary since sniper rifles fall into both primary and special categories. Most of the time though, the primary gun would be an assault rifle, the secondary an Uzi or Makarov and the special an LMG, sniper rifle or RPG.
Now the funny thing is that you get these guns from your enemies before you buy them – they drop the guns. However, guns from enemies are rusted and burn out faster, not to say jam like they are….arrrgghhhhhhh…..
Sorry my gun jammed again. Anyway, once you buy them you can buy accuracy upgrades to deal with recoil and reliability upgrades to handle jamming. Sadly, while this works for guns like AK47 and PKM and MP5, the ASR and the Uzi seem to have no pristine editions. They would jam no matter how many diamonds you’ve spilled on them.
Speaking of diamonds, the game rewards you with diamonds from briefcases located in every nook and cranny possible and of course, from missions. Unlike most games, payment is made before you actually begin the mission so you can pick up guns you want before actually undertaking the mission – theoretically. Practically, the gun shops are so far away that you’re simply left with whatever you have.
Despite all this, combat is simple and quite easy. Stealth sucks, and sucks big time because the moment you fire anything (except the single-shot dart rifle), everybody becomes alert and you’re left in a messy gunfight. Since you come across an outpost every few miles while travelling, you become so used to gunfights that the actual mission ones often seem quite easy.
The health system too is quite generous. You have five health bars from the start, and get 5 health syrettes to begin with. You can upgrade your health pack to raise the number to 7 eventually. Except early on, you will hardly ever run out of syrettes because health packs and stations are located in almost every habitation. You can’t draw syrettes from the same location in quick succession (Even when the station is still glowing) but that doesn’t really matter because barring mortars and the occasional sniper shot or RPG, you’ll never be seriously injured. Not even by LMGS.
Storyline
If you thought combat had hiccups, wait till I tell you about the storyline. You start off as a mercenary sent to kill the mysterious Jackal, an arms dealer that armed both sides and caused the civil war between APR (Alliance for Popular Resistance) and UFLL (United Federation for Liberty and Labour) to escalate. You are sent to kill the Jackal and the game’s load screen notes (similar to the ones by Artyom in the Metro series, but only these are static and change erratically between missions) do a lot to make you dislike the guy,
As it turns out, the Jackal is hard to dislike, because he’s not there. He’s not there in the towns, in the villages, in the missions, in the side missions, he’s nowhere. You will meet him at the start and then you will meet him next when you’re halfway through the game, lying injured. In fact, the Jackal comes out of nowhere and saves your ass when you’ve been thrown in the middle of the desert by your friend turned foes the APR (or UFLL perhaps if you play differently).
Next he will appear when you’ve to go get some stones from the APR chief. This time he’s a true villain, finishing the cut scene by stomping on your face and setting you up for the APR chief’s death. Next when you meet him, he’s again the good guy trying to get the refugees across by bribing the border guards and stopping the factions following them. So is the Jackal good or bad ? Doesn’t matter, because he comes so few times and for such short durations that it is meaningless.
Worse, the notes suggest that the protagonist is looking for the Jackal. Yet not one of the NPCs mention the Jackal directly to him. How does he find out ? He doesn’t. The Jackal comes when he wants to, and leaves when he wants to. The protagonist is left to become just another mercenary without purpose.
That’s what 90% of the game’s missions are – unrelated to the Jackal. You can hook up with either faction and influence the war. But there’s no solution because you end up killing everybody. In the end, once everybody is dead, you work with the Jackal and save the refugees. The end.
Does this make you feel sad ? Hell no, because the NPCs are so soulless that you are left wondering whether the APR chief is the UFLL chief is the doctor is whatever…..
The side missions are no better. The gun dealer missions require you to take down a convoy which conveniently goes around in circles! You position yourself on a gun in the middle of the road and start firing when they turn up. Then take down the big truck that is supposed to have the guns but is actually empty and you’re done. You unlock some guns in the process though, so for the first few times the missions are worth the trouble and ennui.
The other missions are the bell tower ones. Kill this guy in this location. Done ? Done.
Then there are the underground missions. These are basically courier missions involving a small gunfight at the end as you take down the loafers roaming around the underground locations. Then you deliver the passports (travel papers) and take the medicine. Done ? Done.
Then there are…oh wait, there aren’t any other missions. Ah well.
Characters
The worst though, are the characters. The protagonist (I took Quarbani Singh, it doesn’t matter who you take) is a person sent into the country to kill the Jackal. The first thing that happens to him ? Attack ? Backstabbing ? Desertion ? Nope, malaria. Yes, you have the only protagonist ever to go on fighting while having malaria. The result is that you are overcome with fever ever so often and have to pop a pill if you don’t want to pass out. Now imagine being in the thick of battle with a mortar guy, five gunmen and a sniper taking shots at you and the screen clouds up, a weird spooky track starts to play and the medicine icon appears. Take the malaria pill! You take it and everybody resume shooting at you. And where do you get the malaria pills ? From refugees of course. I mean why do only refugees have pills ? Ask Ubisoft!
Apart from his meaningless notes about tracing the Jackal and his malaria, the protagonist is soulless. There are no choices to make in the game and most NPCs behave as if you are just another mercenary. No warmth or coldness associated with what you do or don’t do. Out of nowhere they would accuse you of working for the other side but then give you a mission as before. Bleh!
Talking of NPCs, there are too many. There are the leaders and doctors, who have short conversations before giving you missions. There’s the priest in the Church. There are some mercenaries who would keep talking as you pass them by. The only one of these NPCs to have any life is a reporter called Reuben who is recording his own version of events. He seems to have a genuine desire to help people in his country even when his own life is at stake.
Finally, buddies. These are supposed to be your friends. They do two things – rescue you when you’re dying and give you alternative ways to finish missions. The first is awesome. The rescue is highly cinematized and you feel as if you’re in a Call of Duty cutscene where your comrade is dragging you to safety as he clears the path of soldiers.
But the second is meaningless. Most of the time the buddy will ask you to meet him somewhere else. Then ask you to go somewhere and do something. Finally, you go and complete the real mission – solo as originally intended. Then you go somewhere and help out your buddy who is cornered for some reason. What good does this all do ? I have no idea. In fact, if your buddy gets shot and blue smoke starts billowing from the spot, you would be in a spot trying to save your buddy on one hand and shooting the bad guys on the other. I once had to be rescued by my “best buddy” saviour while trying to rescue the mission buddy. Imagine.
Lastly, women don’t have an honourable mention in the game. Why ? Because they don’t get any mention. Period.
Conclusion
One cannot help but be harsh on a predecessor when one has played sequels and the sequels are as great as FC 3 or 4. Yet there are serious flaws in the game, and one realizes how Ubisoft went about fixing them. For one, the game mechanics aren’t 100% okay. People will shoot through tin walls and people will protrude out of rocks (this happens in FC4 too, does Ubisoft enjoy this mechanic ?). The ambience is decent, the combat is realistic but tad irritating, the storyline and characters are nothing to write home about. But at the end of the day, the game did hold me enough to make me spend 24 hours in it, and I won’t say I regret much. While I can’t recommend the game to those who are looking for a truly well made game, this is a must for true Far Cry lovers.
“You know the definition of insanity ? It’s playing the same game again and again expecting the numbers to make a difference”.
So spake Vaasu as he looked deeply, almost philosophically, at the four colourful boxes on the table. Yes, he seemed philosophical, an uncannily apologetic air about him as his eyes followed the lights shining on Vaas’ face, on the Ubisoft logo, on Pagan’s forehead.
Yet I smelt a fox lurking within that serene visage. A slight sigh, almost like a whiff of stale pantry air, strengthened my convictions. Brushing aside all veneration, I looked him right in the face – in the eyes. And there, I saw jealousy being unmasked.
Err okay so it didn’t quite go this way. More like –
“Dude you bought the first part last, and that too by paying MORE than what you did for Far Cry 2 ? Are you insane ?”
“I’m sure Far Cry would be awesome too. Look at the comparison with Halo in the reviewer comments”
“Yeah maybe, but I still think you wasted some money there mate. Aren’t you saving up for GTAV ?”
“Yeah of course I am, and waiting for that damn price to fall below 3K. But this was-”
“Whatever, when you’re done come on FC4 multiplayer, we’ll do a foursome”
Didn’t know if he noticed the irony of his words – FC4 was the successor of Far Cry 1 after all.
And why am I waxing eloquent on the franchise ? Because I finally got Far Cry. Let me explain (without fancy dialogues) –
FC4 was the first of my purchases, but I’d played FC3 earlier. FC4 was every bit as exciting as FC3 and so I went ahead and bought FC3. Why ? For one, I hoped that some multiplayer action would still be alive -and I was disappointed. Two, I just wanted to play the game in its full glory (there were problems with the version I’d played). Three, I just wanted the producers to know what an awesome job they’d done.
It should have ended there – I had no plans of playing FC2 or FC for that matter – they were too old. Now as it happened, Amazon (INdia) got the bright idea to lower the prices of a lot of classic games to Rs. 99 each. Net result was that I ended up ordering a number of games, including FC2, Red Faction Armageddon and three Prince of Persia titles.
So I got FC2 and found it to be every bit as exciting as FC3 or 4. Okay, so jammed guns aren’t the best way to celebrate gunfight realism, and the driving sequences are too long considering how damage-prone the cars and car-ries (those strange small contraptions with rear engines, term mine), tend to be.
I’m currently still playing FC2, primarily because getting malaria medicine every few missions is NOT FUN. But I was impressed enough to wonder if Far Cry would be great too. Only one way to know – buying it. Why buy ? It would probably a very small download, and if I wanted to play legit, I could get hold of one of my friends. Yet I wanted to do it the right way because, for one, it was the last game in the series. Two, I was sure I would find the game really cheap somewhere.
Two proved impossible. Most stores simply didn’t keep it. But I decided to wait in Pala (FC2). My wait turned out to be a long one.
Finally….finally, I found an old game – Serious Sam First Encounter HD – selling for a low Rs. 76, and decided to get it. This classic (my first FPS, Wolf 3D aside) made me search for FC too. Luckily, a not-so-well known seller was offering it at Rs. 299! This was wayy too much for such an old game. Yet I’m coming to the wisdom that there is an elliptic curve between time and game price. They start off costly but with awesome availability. Then availability declines and price falls a little. Then new copies are made and price falls rapidly. Finally, prices fall to a bare minimum as stocks are cleared. Beyond that availability stays low and prices climb to a low but not very low level.
I got –
Far Cry 4 – Phase I (Anomaly)
Far Cry 3 – Phase III
Far Cry 2 – Phase II
Far Cry – Phase III
Why the anomaly for FC4 ?: Well, the game was priced at Rs. 564 when I bought it because for some reason, Amazon decided to clear up stocks. At other outlets, the game was selling for Rs. 1,300+ I got it obviously, only to find Flipkart trying to outdo Amazon by selling it marginally cheaper. I’m sure this rivalry made the day for a number of gamers like me. I still call it an anomaly because I’ve never seen such a drastic price fall so early and secondly, it has not been repeated since.
I got all my Far Cry games from Amazon ? Yes, this is how it has turned out to be, and I do hope they keep up the good work (hint hint).
And so it happens that my collection is finally complete. What will I do to celebrate (apart from this lengthy post) ? Write a FC2 or FC review probably.
One of the best features of the social media revolution is our ability to share and forget. Take Israel, take ISIS, take net neutrality – we can always share, feel dignified, vindicated or whatever-ed and then forget about it. Of course, we aren’t illiterates, we read up an approximate of five lines of bold and beautiful text that starts with “You won’t believe…” and ends with “make you go wow” before we hit share. That is all fine and asinine, except that that’s not going to change the world. Or the internet. Or your telecom operator’s policies.
So is this a call to action against the proposed violation of net neutrality by telcos in India ? Nope, that’s for the barking dogs. I’m here to discuss quite the opposite.
Net Neutrality – What the hell is it ?
First off, what is net neutrality ? A certain comedian group turned crusading circus would have you believe that net neutrality means all content on the internet should be treated equally, regardless of where it is going, what it is for and who is holding the trampoline. They’re right in the first part, somewhat right in the second and damn wrong in the last.
Now let’s break it down to edible morsels shall we ? Net neutrality is about treating all data in a “tube” the same. Take a pipe of water for instance – you can install valves, but they would filter all water the same way. You can’t filter water from different sources (even if one is a leaking sewage pipe) differently. The reason you can’t filter it, despite owning the piping, paying for the water and the faucets is that it is not possible (pardon my French).
The internet is different. Here deep packet inspection and other tech allow the owners of the piping to figure out where data is going and what it is for. Contrary to what the dogs would have you believe, nothing and no one in the world can prevent telecom operators from learning what you are sending or receiving, as long as it is not encrypted. Why ? Because they own the pipes and just like you’d like to find out where your tenant is getting all that water from and what she is using it for (such that it comes out all muddy and soapy), telcos have the right to find out if you’re watching porn or selfies of your beautiful female friends (poor contrast, I know).
Now I mentioned that the crusading circus was right about net neutrality allowing all data to flow freely regardless of the source. I stand by this statement. In fact, while the operator may find out what you are browsing, it cannot prevent you from browsing it until and unless the said content, site or resource is banned by the government (in which case it has an obligation to block it).
Coming to the second point – what it is for – matters turn a little grey. You see, beyond a point it is not possible to tell what a packet of data is for. We can say packet 001343535649839 is going from a Facebook server to a user’s computer as part of an image of a girl in a bikini. Trouble is, we have no way of finding out what the user would do with that image. He may show it to his parents or open up photoshop and….never mind.
The point is that the motives of the user cannot be learned. If this cannot be learned, it is difficult to discriminate between packets of data in the first place. For instance, Comcast has been known to slow down P2P traffic (torrents) thinking it is used to share pirated media. However, it is also true that some legit brands and companies make their content available by torrent. How is the company to know if the matter is legit or illegit ? If it does know that the content is illegit, it has to get that verified by the government (or act on a government order). In such case, it must block the content, and not simply slow it down. Slowing is a competitive practice, blocking a prohibitive one.
At the end of the day, the operator may claim moral high ground to block some traffic and cite uncertainty to slow down others. Users may challenge such actions as violative of their right to freedom and freedom of expression. Matters would go to court and stay there for a very long time.
Let’s come down to the third point – users should be treated equally regardless of whose network they are on. There may be some vague legal backing for this, but let’s face it – once we’re on some network, it’s damn hard to move out of it. If we don’t, we have to abide by their rules, which in all fairness, are extremely varied. Companies can and do charge arbitrarily and raise and throttle data speeds whimsically. They can take different approaches to the same site and channel traffic accordingly. They can do all this because they are not bound by any laws except the broad TRAI framework to behave in a certain manner.
Perhaps the barking dogs don’t know all this, but at this point we’ve left them sniffing at the fence and pissing on it. Now that the what of net neutrality is out of the way, let’s turn to the Indian scene (ie go back to their territory so they can “show us the way”). The dogs have left a certain pungent smell in the environs, but nevertheless…..
The Indian “Net Neutrality” Debate. Oh Really ?
Indian net neutrality hounds have two specific problems. One is called a TRAI paper, the other is called Airtel Zero or Reliance’s Internet.org. Let’s begin with the TRAI paper. The paper basically says that telecom operators do not realize any benefits from OTT (over the top) services ie those that freeride on the existing data streams created and maintained by the operators. For instance, services like WhatsApp or Skype, both of which use operator data to provide services and make money without the operator getting a dime for the service itself. This when the OTT services compete directly with the other services provided by the operator.
Let’s put this in layman terms. You have a room in a house that you want to rent out. You rent it out for a certain amount of money assuming that the water, electricity and other bills would be paid separately by the tenant. A tenant moves in and starts paying the rent along with the other bills. A few months later, he/she stops paying the electricity bill. You check you metre reading and realize that he/she has stopped drawing electricity from your line. On inquiry, you find that he/she has installed a generator in the premises.
You : “You didn’t tell me you installed a generator…”
Tenant : “Why should I ? I pay you rent and can do whatever I like with the premises I rent”
You : “ I never gave you permission to use a generator, it can cause problems for me.”
Tenant : “So ? Didn’t I say that I RENT YOUR PREMISES ? I CAN DO WHATEVER I LIKE WITH IT.”
You : “No you can’t. Nowhere did I agree that you would use a generator! If you have to use one, you’ve to pay an additional amount.”
Tenant : “Nowhere did you disagree either. I’ll pay for the rooms and nothing more. Do what you like!”
Normally you’d evict the tenant rather than stand such an attitude. The problem with telcos is that –
they operate in a dirt poor market where people spend measly amounts of money to upload their selfies (or masturbate to them).
use of OTT services like the generator are widespread and cannot be stopped by evicting users because of competition.
the original services offered by the landlord – the electricity line – is a vital source of revenue for the telcos because they constitute voice minutes, SMS and so on. In fact, such has been the success of WhatsApp and its multimedia sharing options that the once infamous MMS has now all but disappeared.
In such circumstances, use of generators can cause serious financial loss since
telcos’ own services are falling out of favour, thereby causing losses.
they are not earning enough selling data to recuperate the losses.
The only answer to this conundrum is to charge people for using OTT services, or to charge those selling them. The problem with charging those selling them is that these are California-based groups that have some serious PR connect with the average Joe or Jane. Hence, while Facebook’s Internet.org gets battered, nobody questions Facebook’s right to piggyback on operator data and make lucrative profits even when the telcos have been crying hoarse over it.
In fact, a certain gang of jokers would go so far as to say that because telcos didn’t develop the apps or services, they have no right to the revenue earned. Tell the Indian government to stop charging road taxes because it didn’t build the vehicles. Good luck!
The solution is to charge the consumers, those world-saving do-gooders whose sharing and caring of frivolous and artificial posts is making the world go round the wrong way. The problem with this approach is that
NOBODY WANTS TO PAY UP
Rather, they would spam TRAI for putting out a consultation paper, create ludicrous websites like savetheinternet.in and of course, make idiotic videos.
Of course, telecom operators aren’t complete idiots, and being run by the who’s who of the corporate world, have better IQ than the average denizen of Facebook. While lobbying with TRAI, they try to make some money by offering these supposedly cash-strapped trolls cheap packs dedicated to using a specific service. Use a generator and pay us for using a generator. You don’t have to pay for water and you won’t get water. Makes sense ?
The consumers cry – No, it is against our blithery blah blah rights. Plan scrapped.
In fact, they drag entirely unrelated plans into the net neutrality debate. Take Reliance’s Internet.org system, by which a certain group of companies (the same that otherwise cannot be made to part with their revenues by the telcos) willingly pay for providing their services to customers using an operator’s network. Operator still doesn’t get paid anything extra for OTT services, but just for the user’s data usage. Such payment helps spread the services, but is largely a philanthropic move by some of the large service providers through the operators to bring these services to areas where people can’t even afford to pay for data.
As always though, Indians need a government stamp to realize something is truly non-partisan and actually meant to help the poor. Middle class mud-mouths complain that providing certain sites and services for free discriminates against others. For instance, Reliance’s Internet.org system provides only Bing as the search engine. These partisans rise up in defence of Google, without the company itself having to raise a finger. I did say these companies have good PR connect, didn’t I ?
Secondly, there is the concept of Airtel Zero. Here too, companies pay Airtel for the usage of customers. This is less of a philanthropic venture, and more of an attempt to create a platform whereby a 1-800 system of “toll free” services are created. Again, the same arguments of discrimination turn up.
Problem is, no one can point out just how the discrimination takes place. If you pay for a taxi (or your organization does) of course you’re entitled to a taxi. This doesn’t mean the bus will be slowed down to allow the taxi to go through. Neither does it mean that the taxi will be given green lights at all traffic signals to the disadvantage of other traffic. These services are meant to provide shift the onus of payment, not to create fast lanes. Further, not one instance of actual negative discrimination by Indian telcos has been found or reported. All complaints are hypothetical, and they’re helping some aforesaid Cali companies.
To sum it up then, the question of net neutrality is a valid one, but in India in the present context, an invalid one simply because violation is nowhere to be found. Telcos are trying to find ways to get users to pay for generators they’re installing at the cost of the telcos’ own services, on the network created by the telcos. This is unrelated to the attempts to offer free lanes (and not fast lanes!) and must not be mixed up with net neutrality because – as mentioned above – it is a fallacy to think that all operators will treat all sites the same way.
What this debate boils down to then is the perennial desire of the Indian social network butterfly to pay next to nothing for premium services he/she uses. Since service providers and apps like Facebook, WhatsApp and others can freeride on the backs of the operators’ networks and data, they can provide the basic services to Indians for free while raking in profits through ads, etc. Operators cannot do so, simply because they have to pay for creating and keeping the network in good shape. The California companies win out in the price war, and net (oh the pun!) result is that Indians gravitate towards the OTT providers by looking at their wallets.
Nothing wrong with that, I say. Your money, you do as you like, you spend it as you like. Just stop sugaring your plain economic desires in the garb of something that is completely different from what your true interests are. Stop dragging net neutrality through the mud so you can save two pennies, my dear Indians.
Yessirree, I hereby certify that I’ve spent about 42 real life hours in the game, making Far Cry 4 one of the longest games I’ve played. Is the story worth nearly two days’ worth of gaming ? Nope. Did I masturbate to the main female characters ? Um welll…..nope, since there’s no Citra in here and all three female characters have been wasted.
Credit : Wcctech.com
So why did I spend so much time playing the game, and am spending a good Monday evening typing out this review ? We’ll never know for sure – was it the beautiful and extremely familiar scenery, the Hindi (and Bengali!) music, the profusion of options to take down an enemy or the sheer number of side-quests you could embark on ? Or was it Shangri-La ?
Speaking of Shangri-La (and Shangri Lager), let me mention one similarity between my review and that elusive place in distant mythology – they’re (almost) unique. I’m sick of reviewers giving a graphics-storyline-multiplayer review structure, and then pretending as if they’ve discovered the blood diamonds of Longinus (more on this later). Nope, my review will focus on Storyline (has to), characters ambience and realiasm – in short, the quality of immersion offered by the game.
So let’s begin….
Storyline
Far Cry 4 is quintessential Far Cry ordinary guy becomes superhero type of story, sans the survivalism of its predecessor. Honestly, for me at least, the fact that Jason had to run pell mell out of Vaas’ camp and then went back to eventually take him out on his island (saving his friends along the way), added a sense of vindication that made following the story uniquely fulfilling. With Ajay Ghale, a Nepali…sorry, Kyrati……who was taken by his mother to the US when he was a kid, and has returned to scatter her ashes at “Lakshmana” in picturesque Kyrat, this sense of revenge and urgency are not present. And as Ezio Auditore da Firenze will tell you, revenge is a great dish, whether served hot or cold.
Credit : reaxxion.com
The other problem of the story is the villain. Unlike Vaas and Hoyt, it is rather hard to feel that sort of visceral anger at Pagan Min, a Hong Kong born-drug peddler turned political adventurer who overthrew the Kyrati dynasty and became ruler. Yes, he turned the country into a drug farm and ruthlessly suppressed people and their religion. Yes, he allows men like Paul de Pleur Harmon to torture people and Noore Najjar to run a man vs animal vs man show at the cost of numerous human lives. Yes, his army is inflicting numerous abuses on the people of Kyrat.
Credit : 24x7gamer.com
BUT…at the end of the day, Ajay is in a weird way, insulated from all this. Right from the time he’s caught with the Golden Path rebels but is instead taken to a fine lunch at Harmon’s fortress, right down to when Min “gifts” Kyrat to him at the end (if the player doesn’t kill Min), one gets a sense that Ajay is the “chosen one”, both for the rebels and the royals. I kept expecting a twist in the tale that would actually make me want to kill Min right till the moment when he closed the door behind me at Lakshmana, but it never came. Indeed, except for a brief period during the Durgesh Prison mission, you never feel that Min has done you any harm whatsoever. Why go on and kill him, then, if not to take over Kyrat for yourself ?
It’s all yours Ajay! Credit : gamepressure.com
The Golden Path, the rebels fighting Min’s royal army, are a staple part of Far Cry lore (remember the rebels in Far Cry 3 howling “this is all me!” when you’ve done the hard work for them ?) and are neither better nor worse than their predecessors in the Pacific Islands. Sabal and Amita are less mysterious and more business like than that tatau-monger, but all in all the rebels are sufficiently tepid for them to form an intrinsic but not very interesting part of the game.
They start off bickering, they end up bickering. Credit : ign.com
Coming to the pace of the storyline, I’d say it is mediocre. Granted that I played story missions at long intervals, but even then, the story takes meaningless twists and turns. For instance, out of nowhere are we asked to take down Noore. Surprises are few and far between, the only two notable exceptions being the first Yogi and Reggie mission, which lands you in Shanath Arena (and introduces us to the beautiful Noore) and the Yuma mission, which we learn was actually masterminded by Min himself.
Kalinag, or Yuma ? Credit : gamepressure.com
The quality of the story is decent, and at some places, actually makes you pause and wonder about the results of your decisions in a Bioshock Infinite-esque style. For instance, the mission in which we’ve to dispose/spare either Sabal or Amita (for me it was Amita) is a simple but heart-wrenchingly painful mission. It becomes even more so because you’ve to take down four Golden Path rebel guards, each of whom take away 50 Karma Points from you in turn (more on this later). It’d have been even more heart-wrenching if Ubisoft had put something better than “You’re sparing me, but you’re killing Kyrat” in Amita’s mouth at the end of the cut-scene (again when you spare Amita’s life – hell, I spared everyone, angel ain’t I ?)
Credit : illgaming.in
To spruce things up even more, there is a separate, unrelated set of quests situated in Shangri-La. You’re introduced to them when you inquire about the thangka (a painting) at Yogi and Reggie’s (really your own ancestral home). Long story short, a warrior called Kalinag was sent by an unnamed king to find the land of Shangri-La, but instead of coming back like a obedient explorer, he went ahead and deffeated the evil Rakshasa that was wreaking havoc in the idyllic place. With the aid of the time-slowing bow, the elephant (penultimate mission only) and the tiger, you are asked to take down different types of rakshasas who frankly resemble the Royal Army units a bit too much once you’ve seen past their colorful attire. There’s not much story here (despite Kalinag providing a shuddh Hindi-only narrative at the start of the missions), but it is entertaining nevertheless, and makes the acrobatics required to reach the later thangkas (in modern Kyrat) sufficiently remunerative.
These aside, there is hardly any storyline to the other missions, so we’ll discuss them in the gameplay section.
Gameplay
Gameplay is, and always will be, the strong point of Far Cry 4. Ubisoft realized that the demi-god-like powers of the player are what made Far Cry 3 such a hit, and they stayed true to their roots. As expected, you get a holster of four weapons, unlocking slots by skinning and crafting through the Crafting menu (now accessible through the M button shortcut). Crafting also lets you obtain larger ammo pouches, explosive belts, heavy ammo carriers and so on. An interesting addition is the bait bag, which lets you throw bait (pieces of flesh from previously killed animals) to attract predators. The predator generated is truly random, ranging from a massively hard to kill bear to a dhole (wild dog).
Credit : farcry.wikia.com
This randomness is vital, because the type of animal generated decides how effective the baiting will be. “Baiting” in this case means to attract predators to enemy clusters and cause confusion, allowing you to slip out, attack or simply watch the chaos unfold. To UBi’s credit, the system is made intentionally imperfect – if there is a guard dog in the cluster, it will consume the bait, while if there is a “Hunter” in the cluster, it can control any animal that is generated, and send it against you. Lastly, sometimes “No animals seem interested in the bait”. Why, because the government is giving out too much free man-meat to the animals ?
Apart from baiting, there are the standard distraction methods – break open animal cages, cause random explosions, throw rocks or simply position dead bodies in open spaces after you’ve disposed of the soldiers. These variations make assassination, eye for an eye and outpost missions endlessly enjoyable, and just in case you succeeded in a helter-skelter style, you can always replay it using the outpost master game mode (though assassinations and eye for an eye quests come only once0.
Speaking of game modes, there are a good number of them. Outpost capture is essentially unchanged. Supply drops now require you to collect supplies from many areas and only in the last section, where the delivery has to be made, does the timer start ticking. Eye for an eye quests are similar to FC 3’s quests, requiring you to take down a commander with a chosen weapon choice. Hunting missions are now part of the Kyrati Fashion Week series, requiring you to take down Golu with a Ripper. Sorry, I meant deadly honey badgers capable of killing yaks and bears with the best LMG in the game. Sorry again, I actually meant to say that rare animals had to be taken out with a specific weapon class. Golu, we will miss you, always.
These aside, there is an advanced difficulty outpost capture option called fortress capture. Sadly, in easy mode, all but one (Rajgad Gulag) are easy as hell. All you have to do is climb up to a nearby overlook or rocky outcrop, use a silenced sniper rifle and some mines to wipe out the lot. Considering how the game marks these fortresses (walled outposts really) as hard, it’s pleasantly and then worryingly easy to take one fortress after another. And oh yes, take them even when their owners are still alive and kicking.
Exception, as I’ve said, is the Rajgad Gulag, Min’s fortress. For starters, there is no outlook I could find, the entry instead being through a rocky underground tunnel, the lead up to which is mined. The moment I was in, I was discovered and what followed were the 20 most difficult minutes of fighting as the royal army threw no less than a dozen heavies, a range of snipers and 4 helicopters at me. The reward ? Ripper of course.
Credit : farcry.wikia.com
These aside, there are a number of short quests involving capturing various stuff/killing Yuma’s lieutenants in the Himalayas for either CIA agent Willis or Longinus, a gun dealer. The earliest missions, with their use of oxygen masks, gives a Metro 2033 feel to the game, which sadly is missing in the later missions. Longinus’ own later missions make you feel like an undercover cop chasing and taking down blood diamond dealers and retrieving the diamonds.
Lastly, there are two series of quests – Hurk’s quests and Noore’s quests. Hurk’s quests are interesting, but not exactly novel. Noore’s are far more poignant, and one wishes they’d lasted longer. Essentially they ask you to find the whereabouts of Noore’s family, whom de Pleur is holding hostage.
To finish off this section, let’s talk about enemies. There is the standard foot-soldier who can be taken down in a coupled of knife attacks (or a takedown, obviously), the heavies, who are flamethrowers or LMG-carriers, the Molotov and knife throwers and of course, snipers. An interesting addition are hunters, who are hard to spot, impossible to permanently mark on the camera and capable of controlling animals. While they are extremely vulnerable to gunfire and themselves fire arrows instead of bullets, their stealthy nature makes it insanely pleasurable to perform stealth takedowns on them.
Talking of takedowns, apart from the standard “Death from above”, “death from below”, knife, grenade, gun and chain takedowns, you now have cover takedown. Sadly, it is impossible to tell when a takedown from a corner will give you a normal takedown or a cover takedown.
Ambience
“Namaste”
Yep, Kyrat is as Hindi as it gets, though you do catch strands of actual Nepali at Shanath and other areas. The game was developed after extensive research into Nepal’s culture by the developers, and this shows. Everything from “Bhaar me ja…” in the opening cutscene to the music blaring from Rabbi Ray Rana’s radio (he has his own quests too, but never mind) give off an Indian feel.
Credit ; farcry.wikia.com
Nepal/Kyrat or not, the game provides an unique ambience that anyone who has travelled in Uttarakhand, Himachal Pradesh or Arunachal Pradesh in India would be familiar with. Amidst the varied vegetation, you have a landscape full of lofty mountains, ravines, beautiful valleys and picturesque roads, all seemingly coming out of a Ruskin Bond book. There is also the quintessential Sherpa, who acts as a moving trading post, and can be extremely useful when you realize that you’ve chosen the wrong set of weapons for a mission and need to change them quickly without aborting the mission.
Credit : godisaageek.com
Along with this, Kyrat accurately reproduces the architecture of the region and of northern India at large. Where Indian architecture really blooms, however, is in Shangri-La, where entire temples – fully navigable if you have the desire to do so – have been designed with mind-numbing detail. Statues of yakshis bending on one knee, providing offerings, huge statues of deities carved into stone and of course, the magnificent metallic statue of Kyra (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Tara, an actual Tantric goddess worshiped in Tibet, Bengal and Nepal) are marvelous in the level of detail they offer. In an era when games only too often portray post-apocalyptic or collapsing worlds full of rubble and debris, the carefully designed temples, complete with rose petals to add a serene ambiance, have to be admired.
Credit : farcry.wkia.com
If the endless sojourns on the hilly roads and the temple darshans in Shangri-La weren’t enough, the game provides a number of Hindi and one Bengali song (Raat Gyarah 59) by Indian band Bombay Royale. These add a lovely retro-Indian feel to the missions, and make the Maruti 800/Alto cars, the large trucks and autos – yes autorickshaws – seem so much more like what is actually found in these parts of the world.
Far Cry 4 truly is, Tomb Raider and Call of Duty’s Indian missions aside, the first game with a truly subcontinental ambiance, and it creates this in such a way that you’d probably want to skip that trip to Darjeeling in favour of playing this game.
Characters
As much as the developers tried to create an Indian ambiance, they took it away by giving all the major characters (save perhaps Noore) an English accent that is completely removed from the feel of the game. From Min’s “Aaa-jeh” to the weird mix of Indian and Western accents in Sabal and Amita’s speech, one is often left wondering just why the huge budget of the game could not afford some decent Indian voice actors. The only ones who truly come across as authentic are Hurk, Willis and Longinus, the latter’s accent being quite close to his dark looks and the weird torn canvas shirt that he wears at all times.
Beyond speech, the main “heroes” lack depth. Ajay has more depth than Jason, it is true, and occasionally blurts out lines like “I guess I’m the gunman around here”, or “I’ll decide what happens to Noore”. While it is harder to relate to Ajay’s privileged position under all circumstances (compared to Jason’s hardship) one does agree that Ajay has some character.
Credit : doublejump.co
The other heroes, Sabal and Amita, are well fleshed- out but after a point, become increasingly predictable. Sabal harps on about the ideals of Mohan Ghale, while Amita tries to win you over with a “it’s not easy being a female fighter” and “this was what Ishwari actually wanted” banter. After the first couple of times, this virtually precludes the possibility of the player actually being swayed by either character’s talk during the Balance of Power missions.
Enemies, as in all Far Cry episodes, are extremely well produced. Min himself is beautifully made, with his pink coat, his blond hair and his body language producing a stark yet lovely contrast with the poverty stricken country he rules. Instead of taking his anger out on you (unlike Vaas), he is almost always beating, killing or maiming one of his own soldiers, which actually makes him a more interesting character than Hoyt and in some aspects, more interesting than Vaas. As mentioned above though, such interest is almost totally devoid of dislike or hatred of the character, given that Min almost seems to be apologetically clearing the path for you to become the ruler (even getting you to remove Yuma).
Paul de Pleur Harmon is the epitome of the double-life ruthless but civilized character. He spends half his time in the US with his family, composed of a nondescript wife and a sinister daughter with a knack for producing literature dripping with false empathy. The remainder of his time is spent in Kyrat, torturing dissidents of the regime using all kinds of tools and animals. The player only interacts with him when he is safely locked in the cargo hold of the player’s car and is being transported to Golden Path holdout for interrogation, and he shows himself to be the mastermind behind keeping Noore tied to Shanath. A typical bad guy, and not much more.
Credit : farcry.wikia.com
Noore Najjar is a totally different person. When she is not throwing men and animals into deadly combat against each other in the 18th Century Shanath arena, she is desperately seeking to release her family from Pleur’s clutches. After throwing Ajay into the arena (and providing you helpfully with a knife to start the slaughter), she shows herself to be a woman desperate and ready to go to any lengths (including running a heroin production ring on the side) to ensure her family’s safety.
Noore, ah Noore!
Interactions with Noore are completely through cut-scenes, but reveal her to be another well fleshed out character. Fleshed out did we say again ? Yep, wide hips, a lovely waist, heavy breasts, flowing hair and a fair, Indian face make Noore a truly well-fleshed out character. In fact, while Yuma shows more skin (coming up!) it is Noore who sports a truly attractive body, albeit one that is always covered.
Despite these omens, the fact that her assistants are topless AK-47 wielding beauties, did arouse (ah, I can’t seem to escape these double meaning words) hope that she would participate in at least some physical action (wink wink). Sadly, we’re suddenly asked to get rid of Noore. We spare her a bullet to the back of that lovely, long-haired head, but what do we get ? She curses the crowd for its blood-thirstiness, slits her own hand and jumps into the arena to become bear/tiger food. Such a lovely face on an exquisite body, and animal food ? Seriously, Ubisoft ?
Credit : farcry.wikia.com
Our second female villain is Yuma, and honestly, she was the only one I disliked right from the start. After the “mindfucking” in Durgesh prison, we meet her again as she tries to take you on a psychedelic ride, explaining the ulterior motives of Amita (I’d chosen Amita at that point),. As you persevere using a bow and arrow (in modern Kyrat), you are eventually asked to take down Kalinag. Kalinag, of course, is Yuma herself and she only shifts to her female form after we’ve thoroughly perforated Kalinag’s manly chest. A female character being put into combat as a guy for the player to kill. No, I did not expect and did not want a sex scene with Yuma, but for Banashur’s sake, whoever turns female characters into males in the only actual interaction the player has with her ? SERIOUSLY, UBISOFT ?
The most interesting of the male ensemble are Yogi and Reggie, two drug-addicts who are occupying Ghale home and introduce Ajay to the arena, to Shangri-La and their own drug testing missions. The riot of colours involved in the latter two make Y missions worth it, even though the duo are as insufferable as a persistent honey badger.
Finally, there are some minor male characters – Longinus, Hurk, Rabbi Ray Rana, Mumu Chiffon and a single female character, the owner of Kyrati films. Apart from the latter, who appears in stockings and then asks you to risk your life and reputation in wild races, the rest are interesting, but only in fits and starts. Longinus is on a personal quest for redemption, and will give you a truck load of Bible quotes as he sends you on his kill and capture missions. RRR (as I call him) isn’t a very interesting character either, while Hurk is just good ol’ Hurk. They’re good enough, but only as side characters.
To wrap it up
Far Cry 4 is a great game, and not because of the story or the characters. It builds on Far Cry 3’s legacy and does so admirably. Gameplay is more varied, and the ambiance – waah, Kyrat! With enough side quests, a good choice of customizations and battle tactics and some interesting side-stories (Shangri-La for instance) this visually stunning game easily puts other open world first person shooters to shame.
Namaste, indeed, to a whole new gaming experience!
