I feel that a winner of the Nobel Peace Prize is always best understood in the context of the fire that was originally lit under them. No person or organization wins a Peace Prize unless they are driven to conquer forces that would cause most to throw their hands up and walk away out of sheer helplessness. In the case of this year’s winner, Muhammad Yunus, it was the famine of 1974 that snapped his world into focus:

There was a shortage of food in 1974 throughout the world. However, unlike some other countries that suffered from food scarcity, the situation in Bangladesh was rooted in the historic evolution of the society and others germinated from poor management of the food distribution system in the face of severe floods. After 1971, the majority of the Bangladesh population experienced a drastic drop in their standard of living mainly due to major disruptions in economy and society caused by the war of liberation. The damage caused by the war was colossal. According to the United Nations, the material damage amounted to about $1.2 billion, consisting of loss of fixed physical assets (particularly in the transportation system), damage to agricultural potential, and rehabilitation requirements. The task of rehabilitating returning refugees and other floating population was accomplished early but general economic activities could not be restored to a normal level even two years after independence. Consequently, economic activity lagged behind the levels achieved in prewar years. The downward spiral of real income and unemployment continued. The worst victims of this process were industrial workers, small peasants, agricultural labourers and low paid fixed-income earning groups. [Link]

It makes sense that many of the winners of this prize have had a Siddhartha Gautama-like moment when the veil was lifted from their normal view of a situation and they began to see the reality of what was always in front of them, subsequently finding it unacceptable to carry on any longer in the same manner:

When Yunus saw the disaster’s crippling effect during a university field trip, he felt that classroom economic theories were simply not doing enough to address the needs of those living in desperate poverty.

Soon after, Yunus handed out loans as small as $27 to a group of women in a village near the southern port city of Chittagong. His plan was simple: give the poorest of the poor money to begin income-generating projects that will help them support themselves. Yunus said he was convinced that people could take care of themselves, if they had just a little help. [Link]

OK. So it’s New York, right? And there’s all these posh bars and lounges where, if you survive the scrutiny of the enormous lunkheaded individuals guarding the door while self-important, bluetooth-earpieced publicists brandishing clipboards peer at you over designer eyewear, you are admitted to the privilege of purchasing diluted, undersized “premium” cocktails, sometimes served in plastic cups, for fifteen or twenty dollars a pop. I know, it sounds like a great time, right? Well, for one thing, there’s a lot of fast money floating around this town in the hands of people who don’t know what else to do than flash it. But more importantly, only suckers actually pay full price. (A rule that applies in many settings, by the way.) The real action is when media houses, PR firms, banks, and other capitalist swine upstanding corporate citizens rent out these establishments for parties where those fortunate enough to be on The List may eat and drink unlimited and gratis, and leave with at least a big goodie bag of schwag, or better, a couple of business leads and maybe someone to share some drunk sex with at night and figure out how to get rid of in the morning.

In this world, where if it didn’t happen in the Flatiron or Meatpacking districts it might as well not have happened at all, and you’re always just in from Los Angeles, just off to London, or more likely, working as a flak for the people who truly are, this world snarkily yet slavishly celebrated by outlets like Radar magazine and Gawker.com, there reside, as you might imagine, some less than savory characters. For let’s face it: Delusions of grandeur, fantasies of power and sophistication, lots of booze, hotties, free stuff — the scene is a hustler’s delight.

And so it came to pass that a hustler rose to great heights.

And that hustler was desi.

A kind soul posted a link to the story of Priyantha Silva on the news tab yesterday, but with a description so laconic that few of you may have been drawn to click it. Really it should have said: READ THIS! THIS SHIT IS RIDICULOUS, HILARIOUS, CLASSIC! Realizing this, a number of Sepia stalwarts have been emailing us demanding that we blog it. But really, it’s one of those stories that doesn’t warrant blogging. It stands alone. It speaks for itself. How could we improve on it? So without further ado, I direct you to the Ballad of Brother Priyantha, and await your wise commentary.

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