Srihari writes

To be a tree

2011-04-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

Oh to be

a tree

is to be

so free

To sway with the wind

in effervescent dance

Oh to be

a tree

is to be

so free

To stay still in peace

and endless trance

Oh to be

a tree

is to be

so free

To return blows of the axe

with shade and fruit.

Oh to be

a tree

is to be

so free

To reach for the skies

and be true to the root.

Walk where the mind ends

2011-03-04T17:58:00.000-08:00

Happiness depends not

on the road that you walk on,

or in the sight you behold without,

but

in the mode that you walk in,

and the light you shine within.

Where the river ends, ocean begins,

Where the trail ends, discovery begins.

Where the fear ends, freedom begins.

Where the words end, knowledge begins.

Where the individuality ends, universality begins.

Where the mind ends, happiness begins.

Soul thirst

2011-01-13T16:43:00.000-08:00

The Soul thirsts for beauty -

looking out, searching and seeking

constantly

in life's interplay of light and shadow -

and finally finds Its own perfect beauty,

reflected in another.

Thakur tum sarnaayee aayaa

2010-08-29T17:19:00.000-07:00

Thakur tum sarnaayee aaaya

thakur tum sarnaayee aaaya

Utar gayo mere man ka sansaa

jab te darshan paayaa

Anbolat meri birthaa jaanee

apna naam japayaa aaa

Dukh naathey sukh sahaj samaaye

aanand aanand guna gaayaa

Baha pakad kadh leene aapuney

griha andh koop te maaya

Kaho nanak guru bandhan kaate

bicchurat aaan milaaya

Click here to watch a vintage clip of a brilliant rendition by the immortal M.S.Subbulakshmi of this passionately inspiring song composed by Guru Arjan Dev.

Kaahe re ban khojan jaaee

2010-08-04T20:06:00.000-07:00

Kaahe re ban khojan jaaee

Sarab nivaasi sadaa alepa

To hee sang samaaee

Puhap maddh jo baas basat hai

Mukur maahi jaise chhaaee

Taise hi Har basay nirantar

Ghat hee khojo bhaaee

Baahar bheetar eko jaanu

Ehu Guru gyaan bataaee

Jan Nanak bin aapa cheenay

Meetay na bhrama ki kaee

It's all a story

2010-06-11T15:40:00.001-07:00

Don't hate your past, if you want your future to be kind to you.

And why would one?

It's all a story. The only thing to care about is to immerse yourself in the moment - it's all we have, really.

If I died, that will be a story. If I cried, that will be a story too. If I won, that'll be a story; if I lose that'll be another.

Ultimately, our only choice is to live a life, not live a story. The story gets written anyway - one in your head, one in mine.

The present is the Truth of unfolding Reality. Everything else - everything else - is a story.

A piece of land and the word of God

2010-06-03T21:55:00.000-07:00

A piece of land

Cruel injustice

An army of guns

Never-ending hate

Power-addiction

Free-flowing rage

Profit of conflict

Business of war

Certainty of death

Futility of life

A world of fear

The word of God

The effort....

2010-04-30T21:18:00.001-07:00

....is the reward.

Truth and Peace

2010-04-04T14:41:00.000-07:00

the body sinks to the earth,

the spirit soars to the skies,

the mind is ensconced in the Truth,

the soul is then, one with peace.

The human condition

2010-01-27T23:19:00.000-08:00

Fighting the ghosts that aren't;
yet embracing the demons within
Forever mired in sands violent;
winning his only peace in the coffin.

The greatest trick

2009-12-16T19:18:00.000-08:00

The greatest trick of all-time, is Time itself.

Rama bhaja - Nanak jan kahe pukar

2009-12-15T20:03:00.000-08:00

Rama bhaja Rama bhaja

janama siraat hai

Kaho kaha baar baar

samajhat nahi kyon gawaar

bin sath nahi lage baar

ore sam gaat hai

sakal bhram daar de

govind ko naam de

anth baar sang tere

yehi ek jaat hai

bikhiya bikh jo bisaar

prabhu ko jas hiye dhaar

nanak jan kahe pukar

avsar abhi haath hai

Rama simara - Nanak jan kahat baat

2009-12-15T19:24:00.000-08:00

Rama simara Rama simara

yeh hai tero kaaj hai

Maya ko sang tyaaga,

Prabhu joo ki sarana laaga

Jagat sukh maana mithya

jhoot ho sab saaj hai

Supnay jo dhan pahchaan,

kaahe par karat maan

Baaroo ki bheet jaise

vasudha ko raaj hai

Nanak jan kahat baat

binasi jaehai tero gaat

Chhinn chhinn kar gae-ho kaal

taise jaat aaj hai

Self-esteem

2009-12-04T19:03:00.000-08:00

Every act of conscious learning requires the willingness to suffer an injury to one's self-esteem.

That is why young children, before they are aware of their own self-importance, learn so easily; and why older persons, especially if vain or important, cannot learn at all.

-Thomas Szasz, author, professor of psychiatry (1920- )

For sure

2009-11-02T19:51:00.000-08:00

That I neither exist or not, may neither be true or false.

Life

2009-09-23T16:58:00.000-07:00

Oh this life - so filled with

Days ever so long in seconds;

And much too short in years,

Yet always,when it ends

Certainty

2009-09-08T16:52:00.000-07:00

The irony of life is that it's only certainty is death.

Overwhelmed

2009-08-28T21:55:00.000-07:00

Sitting on my heels, legs bent at the knees.

Torso lunging forward, supported weakly by elbows parked on the floor.

Palms propping the jaws with fingers almost covering my expressionless face.

Blank eyes seeing through the gap between the index and ring fingers.

Neither looking nor not looking into the space in front.

Attending to a solemn, inert, heavy silence that pervades this moment.

With the whizzing orrery of thoughts in my mind snapping to a freeze, briefly.

Overwhelmed.

Who spoke these words?

2009-08-15T08:55:00.000-07:00

Who spoke these words

that have not yet

been heard?

Like the rays of light

that havent yet

reached the world.

Cosmic desert

2009-08-01T19:41:00.000-07:00

Under a sparkling summer night's sky,

the lonely soul walks the desert sand;

Reminiscing the fading evening shadows

and music of the caravan it left behind.

For it knows, the stars give company

to those who understand.

One thinks

2009-07-26T19:41:00.000-07:00

It's better to give someone the benefit of doubt and be proved wrong, than to be suspicious and proved right.

Another confused wanderer

2009-07-07T18:21:00.000-07:00

It's okay.

You are like me.

Another lost and confused wanderer roaming the streets of life.

On social acceptance, peer pressure and the human mind

2009-06-28T12:03:00.000-07:00

On social acceptance, peer pressure and the disquieting effects on the human mind:

In his book, "How real is real?", Paul Watzlawick talks briefly about experimental disinformation, which sheds light on the need for social acceptance. In particular, the reference to the Asch experiment is very insightful. The experiment, so named after a University of Pennsylvania professor goes like this (see Wikipedia link for more information here):

Groups of students were shown two cards with one card having a single straight line, and the second card with three lines of varying lengths. At each iteration of the experiment, all the students were asked to pick which line on the second card was of the same length as the line on the first card.

The experiment usually begins uneventfully, with all the students typically picking the same line on the second card. In the second or third iteration with a new set of cards, too, this is repeated. In subsequent iterations of the expriment, all except one of the students are tipped ahead of the experiment to provide incorrect answers. This lone student disagrees with the rest of the group for the first time, and is surprised or amused. As the experiment proceeds with the following iterations, the dissenting student is increasingly more hesitant, perplexed and worried in the face of unanimous responses from the rest of the group. What lies behind this is an apparent conflict in the mind of the dissenter, where in he faces the choice of directly contradicting the matter-of-fact opinion of the rest of the group and sticking by his senses, or alternately, become strangely confused and begin to agree with the errant majority while uncomfortably doubtful in the evidence of his senses.

The results of this experiment were staggering: In a control group, with no pressure to conform to an erroneous view, only 1 subject out of 35 ever gave an incorrect answer. However, when surrounded by individuals all voicing an incorrect answer, participants provided incorrect responses on a high proportion of the questions (36.8%). 75% of the participants gave an incorrect answer to at least one question. Further, by adding modifications to this experiment, Asch was able to show that the size of the errant opposition played a big role in the subject maintaining the independence of his judgment and senses. With only one person providing incorrect responses, the dissenter had no trouble sticking to his views. With two in the opposition, the submission rate jumped to 13%, while with three opposing and unanimous members in the group, the rate increased to 32%, and so on, further up to 36% where it generally stabilized.

As Watzlawick says, "this willingness to surrender one's independence, to barter the evidence of one's senses for the comfortable but reality-distorting satisfaction of feeling in harmony with a group, is, of course, the stuff on which demagogues and dictators thrive." In addition, this submission of independent judgment is the key to understanding a variety of social phenomena, including what we refer to as peer pressure, and the associated stigmas of not confirming to a society's accepted behaviors concerning social trends, sexual preferences, lifestyles, religious beliefs and practices and even political beliefs and affiliations.

People have such a need - whether natural or forced by the society - to identify with a group, and "belong" to it, that in many cases, individuals are ready to oppose everything that doesnt belong to that group, even if the opposing camp has some beliefs that may be similar to that individual's personal preferences. Wars, genocides, hate-crimes and modern party-based democractic systems have been consequences, in some way, shape or form, of this distortion-of-reality induced madness.

The irony is that, if the individual disagrees with the majority, he is considered "mad" in the eyes of the majority; yet, if he agrees with them, he adds to the "madness" of the group itself, even if that group may not consider themselves so.

Homo sapiens herbivorous

2009-06-11T17:48:00.000-07:00

Are humans natural meat eaters? Probably not, as this article notes. I tend to agree.

Life, demystified

2009-05-05T19:30:00.000-07:00

Oh! so then, one day, I cried

When I saw how I was blind

Stripped of all my pride

With no treasures yet to find

And no wealth left to hide

But just this time to bide

I'll leave my thanks behind

And Life demystified.

The Second Dart

2009-04-27T21:52:00.000-07:00

There is a piece of modern wisdom that talks about the difference between pain and suffering: pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.

This idea is intended to explain that pain and suffering need not have a cause and effect relationship. In particular, consider that these two feelings are not concomitant, and do not stem from the same source, whether an object or action or person.

To explain this, the Buddha said: "The untrained, unenlightened disciple has two darts that pierce him. The trained, enlightened disciple has one."

Life must necessarily involve the experience of pain. The nature and intensity of pain can be different in different people, particularly in contrast to their experiences of the opposite - pleasure. The Buddha equates this with the First Dart that strikes us. But too often, the pain recedes only to resurface as suffering, the Second Dart. This Second Dart causes disproportionately more harm to us than the First Dart of pain. The Second Dart is a result of the mind reacting to the first experience.

Pain can be seen as being the effect of a cause, namely the impact of the First Dart. But with suffering, it is not so much the effect of a cause, but a reaction to an effect. This suffering is a complex chain of recurring, interconnected thought streams that metamorphoses from exhorbitant mental agitation to senseless anger to deep grief to strong self-pity to flashes of hatred, all in all a terribly, pointless but exhausting exercise that drains out precious mental acuity, calmness and peace of mind.

But it can be avoided, or at least nipped in its bud, by constant practice of the idea of separation between pain and suffering. And once we see this work once, even in a small situation, we can learn to focus on the mind and body independently and over time, hope to overcome suffering.

Breathe

2009-03-24T20:59:00.000-07:00

I had a very interesting insight today. This is about one of the spiritual teachings I have been trying to understand lately: to live in the present.

At first sight, it seems rather trivial and obvious, and I was even slightly complacent and dismissive of the idea, because it sounded banal and not at all profound. After all, we can only do something in the present, not in the past or in the future. But on analyzing it further, I felt that both the ideas here are not trivial: "to live" and "present".

To live covers the sum total of our voluntary and involuntary experience that includes not just our actions, but thoughts, feelings and perhaps even consciousness.
The present might just be an infintesimal span of time, but it is all we have right now.

Most of us go wrong right here, where our actions are in the present, but our thoughts and feelings are firmly attached to either the past or the future.

This leads me to a related concept that I have been trying to understand: witnessing your thoughts without dwelling in them or getting attached to them. A simple test to see if you are getting attached to a thought is to see if your mind spends enough time on it to spin a story around it. I found it intriguing that apparently for many of us, a majority of our thoughts everyday are actual very repetitive. The same thoughts and patterns fixated about our fears, dreams, goals, anxieties, confusions rehashed and revisited endlessly. Its almost as if they were firmly anchored to our psyche, and while they might drift in and out of sight briefly , they dont go away very long but keep returning to us in waves. And every time they return, they continue to drain our mind's focus and energy away from more constructive uses that need attention in the present moment.

As Pascal said, all of human misery derives from man's inability to sit alone and quiet in a room. This is essentially because we have such little control on our thoughts. And in many cases, it is our thoughts that actually overcome and control us, to the extent that we have to remind ourselves that we are not our thoughts. We are more than that.

So, how do we calm the mind and release it from the clutches of this constant bombardment of thoughts?

Just breathe.

The "prana" or lifeforce that we inhale and exhale every moment is a fantastic self-healing medicine. All life is sustained by breath, so to live is to breathe. Of course, we cannot breathe in the past or the future, but only in the present. So, when we want to control our thoughts and bring our focus to the present, we can hardly do better than by paying attention to our breathing.

When we breathe, we inhale a lungful of air from the expanse outside, absorb some oxygen in to our body, and exhale rest of the air (carbon dioxide) out of our body. There is a great analogy here with time. In tandem with every inhale, a brief quantum of time from the expanse of the future becomes our present, and with each exhale it goes out in to the past. Just like the body only needs the oxygen, we must only be in the present. It is ironic we breathe so effortlessly, that it takes an effort to notice this effortlessness.

Our breath does not attach itself to the air that goes in and comes out - it cannot. If we try to close our nostrils and hold on to the air inside, it can only be for so long before we suffocate, and let go in one burst. Importantly, as we breathe, we can learn to observe the future unfolding into the present which in a moment becomes part of the past.

Likewise with our thoughts. Thoughts enter our mind from the vast expanse of imagination, and our awareness absorbs the positive thoughts and rejects negative thoughts out of our mind. But we dearly hold on to these negative thoughts, until we suffocate in our minds, and sadly, we keep doing this over and over again. If we were to combine the analogies, what we end up doing, in fact, is something like inhaling the same exhaled carbon dioxide that repeatedly causes the mind terrible anguish, without even allowing the freshness of the future in.

We have all we need to fight this disease. Just breathe. And now, in this way,with every breath in every moment, we can begin to watch the thought come in and go away, without getting attached to it.

Neti neti and Happiness

2009-03-04T22:46:00.000-08:00

I- like many others- have often thought about happiness, and what really makes people happy. The concept of happiness as a state of mind sounded right, in a superficial sense, and I've had the chance to catch glimpses of others and myself happy in many different situations. But I could only grope when it came to a deeper understanding of happiness.

But I found help along the way in these contemplations.

In the Upanishads (apparently especially in the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad), a process of negation and elimination ("neti neti", or "not this, not this") is effectively employed to define the Absolute Truth. Loosely speaking, in the words of Sherlock Holmes, "When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” It seems plausible that oversimplifying and adapting this method could be used to define and find happiness: by discovering and eliminating unhappiness in the process. Thus, when we remove any thought or feeling that gives us unhappiness, what remains eventually must be happiness. And because the range of human thoughts spans time, every thought must necessarily be about the past, present or the future. If we superimpose this temporal classification on the neti neti concept, we could simplify all unhappiness related to the past as a form of ungratefulness (because if you were truly grateful to your past, the memories from the past would not make us unhappy) and all unhappiness related to the future as a form of impatience (again, if you were truly patient, you would have no room for anxiety or impatience). The present is just a moment, a fulcrum about the past and present which only affords an awareness of now, and as such cannot be a source of much unhappiness.

So, what this means is that if we want to increase our happiness at will, we must decrease our ungratefulness for our past, and decrease the impatience for our future.

Its a choice.

We are never really happy or sad, but only at different levels of happiness, or unhappiness. An analogy may be heat and cold. In reality, there is nothing like heat or cold by itself, but only different levels of temperature.

These concepts of patience and gratitude are related to the twin ideas of gratitude and patience that are popular in Islam as "Sabr" and "Shukr". And they come together as contentment in the now.

I was told to give up attachment,
in pursuit of enlightenment,

but shouldnt I give up resentment
and not seek even contentment?

Rashomon

2009-02-24T21:09:00.000-08:00

Rashomon is a1950s award-winning movie made by Akira Kurosawa. At the simplest level, the movie explores the concept of truth from different points of view. But, it also interpolates human frailties such as selfishness, betrayal, guilt as sub-themes by presenting several incomplete and at times contradictory versions of the same event from the eyes of four different witnesses. In my view, the movie excels in prodiving great insights into the workings of human mind by shining just enough light in the gray area between right and wrong to expose the relativity in ethical issues.

A classic for any time and age.

2009-02-24T04:39:00.001-08:00

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more.

- William Wordsworth

What I needed most was to love and to be loved. I rushed headlong into love, eager to be caught. Happily I wrapped those painful bonds around me; and sure enough, I would be lashed with the red-hot pokers of jealousy, by suspicions and fear, by burts of anger and quarrels.

- St. Augustine

Hostility

2009-02-21T13:07:00.000-08:00

Hostility is a highly infectious, internal or external state of mind. It is the cause of anger, hatred and violence. The violence flaring up all around the world is an expression of the hostility in all our hearts. This is true whether it concerns domestic quarrels, political disputes or war between nations.

And there is but one way towards the conquest of violence. It is path of peace and love.

Patanjali said:
In the presence of a man or woman in whom all hostility has died, others cannot be hostile.

In the presence of a man or woman in whom all fear has died, others cannot be afraid.

No conflict or dispute in the world arises due to ideological differences or philosophical complexity. But only due to lack or respect or absence of love or both.

Give Love

2009-02-17T20:52:00.000-08:00

Dont waste a moment to love. Give love. Give lots. Give freely. Give without being asked for it. Give now. For it may be too late, some day.

But,now, you are gone.

2009-02-17T20:36:00.000-08:00

You were loved. Dearly.
You were special. To so many.
You meant the world to some.
I met you when you were a child.
Yes, I knew you. I talked about you.
And yes, I cried.
At eighteen, you were a bud waiting to bloom.
With so much promise, hidden, unseen.
But, now, you are gone.
A life, so young. So you.
No more.
May God bless your soul and give you peace.

- In memory of Badri

What matters ... when it matters

2009-02-17T18:48:00.000-08:00

I met a yoga instructor today who also happens to be a music therapist to terminally ill patients, many of whom are very close to dying. She shared what she believed was one of her most important observations from her interactions with these patients: the ones who die well are those that loved well. On further probing, she said that by dying well she meant those who die peacefully, and that tends to happen to people who dont have many regrets, or much unforgiveness within them. When you know you are so close to death, you think only about what truly matters in the end. When you are so conscious of your death - and reflecting on your life - your regrets are less likely to be about your career, or what dreams were unfulfilled, but more about whom you may have hurt, and whom you may have been unable to forgive, by clinging to anger and hate over all these years. And your joys are likely to be about those that you loved. Either way, then, those who loved more fully and more plentifully seem to have lived happier lives, and finally, in death also find a lasting peace.

"To love is to know Me, my innermost nature, the truth that I am."
- Bhagavad Gita 18.55

"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these is love."
- I Corinthians 13.13

"Let the beauty of what you love be what you do."
- Jalal-ud-din Rumi

On the hollowness of ideological hatred

2009-02-13T13:54:00.000-08:00

How even the best of philosophies can be subverted into ideological hatred by use of the simple, but hollow principle -

"I am right.

You are wrong."

Only Truth

2009-02-09T18:43:00.000-08:00

How Hard I Try.To Get Up.And.Stand.Tall.
To Look Up.Above.And.Beyond.This Wall.
But.Down Again.And Again.So Easily.I Fall.
My.Pride.And Anger.Only Make Me.Small.
Redeem Me.Lift My Mind.Out Of This.Pall.
TRUTH.Only You.Can Answer.My Lonely Call.
Give Me.Strength.Kindness.And Love.For All.

The normalization of evil?

2009-02-04T19:56:00.000-08:00

The father of the late WSJ journalist Daniel Pearl, who was brutally murdered in Pakistan seven years ago wrote a very emotional and moving piece in the WSJ today:

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123362422088941893.html

No one can imagine what it must be like for this father - to have lost a dear and valiant son in a ghastly, barbaric death. Though the article was written, I believe, as an appeal to not condone terrorism in any form, the article jumps to the raging dispute between Israel and Hamas, and ignores the problem for what it is: a religious, yes, but geopolitical conflict about a piece of land, and the history of oppression, occupation and "resistance".

"When we ask ourselves what it is about the American psyche that enables genocidal organizations like Hamas -- the charter of which would offend every neuron in our brains -- to become tolerated in public discourse, we should take a hard look at our universities and the way they are currently being manipulated by terrorist sympathizers."

If anything, the American psyche is now programmed to not only not tolerate genocide, but on the contrary, be extremely phobic and aware of terrorism and the threats that it represents. There can be no condoning the manic killings of either one or a hundred innocent people anywhere in the world, for any cause, no matter how noble.

And that's exactly the point. Evil isn't just them. It is also us.

Whether the aggressors are a group of guerilla suicide bombers or the mightiest military in the world does not matter. The sooner the United States realizes that as a self-declared champion of freedom in the world, it cannot automatically be allowed to attack targets inside Iraq or Afghanistan at will; nor can it stand and look the other way when Israel enters Gaza to attack the Hamas governed Palestine territory, when not six months ago, there was an uproar over the Russian incursions into Georgia after it attacked South Ossettia.

War begets war. The rise of radical Islamic terrorism has certainly been a direct consequence of the gigantic failures of the United States' foreign policy over several decades. If there has to be any chance of a lasting peace in the areas of conflict, particularly in the Middle-East, it has to come from diplomacy and an understanding into the causes and history of the conflict. And within that context, certainly universities have a central role to play as enablers of dialogue and discussion, setting up a thought framework that can address the issue from a fair, balanced and holistic perspective, and far from the battleground.

The bitter legacy of war

2009-02-03T21:08:00.000-08:00

As this photoessay shows, the terrible legacy of a war can live on long after the last gunshot is heard.

http://www.fiftycrows.org/photoessay/navarro/index.php

Manuel Navarro Forcada’s essay “Vietnam 21st century: On the track of Agent Orange” investigates the horrific persisting effects of the dioxin-contaminated herbicide used by the U.S. Air Force during the Vietnam War. Although Agent Orange was officially deployed to defoliate the tropical foliage of the region in order to render visible those beneath, dioxin exposure to humans has proven extremely harmful, if not lethal. By visiting hospitals, schools, and orphanages in Vietnam and documenting the many birth defects and malformations of children born in the thirty-year aftermath of the Vietnam War, Forcada’s photographs serve as solemn reminders of the atrocities of war. They are also a plea to rouse waning global interest in the war-torn legacy of Vietnam.

FiftyCrows is a social change photography venture that funds the work of emerging photojournalists. No matter who you are, and where you have been, these photos show you so many snapshots of life from around the world that you are bound to see the world in a different light afterwards.

The Golden Rule

2009-02-02T20:18:00.000-08:00

I discovered this nice graphic illustrating the unity of all faiths. In the simple words of the many versions of the Golden Rule, we can see how there is a common thread woven across all the religions, in their original, uncorrupted way of the truth.

If more people could embrace the fundamental unity of faiths, rather than argue over theological differences, the world would be such a better place. But many people do not seem to realize that the actual practice of religion is not as important as how we lead our lives. In fact, the true test of our religious practice is whether we lead our lives in agreement with our beliefs in love, compassion and forgiveness - the principle of loving kindness. When we extend this philosophy to nations, the ultimate judgment of nations is based on whether we feed the poor, clothe the naked and comfort the sick.

Image Credit: Scarboro Missions

Forgiveness

2009-01-27T20:26:00.001-08:00

Whoever approaches Me walking, I will come to him running; and he who meets Me with sins equivalent to the whole world, I will greet him with forgiveness equal to it.

- Mishkat Al-Masabih

The right way to forgive is in humility. To realize that the burden of forgiveness is not on us, but with God. And that He forgives easily. Forgiveness will be burdensome for us as long as we try to forgive others by ourselves. But then, who are we to judge them? We should only ask God to forgive them.

God is in all of us. Not forgiving others is tantamount to not forgiving the God within others. Not forgiving only further injures us and makes our life miserable because we are not forgiving God, and instead judging God and His will. True forgiving requires humility and faith. It is only then that hurt and anger and sadness will ease. Often we are hurt because of our own expectations and not because of others' actions. We are angry because we are blinded to the idea of the goodness within others, in fact that there is God within others. We are sad because we feel that something that belonged to us is taken away. But over time, each of these misconceptions melt away when we open the window of faith and fully accept the sunshine of God's will. God gives, and God takes away. Others are mere instruments of His will.

Could a finger on one's left hand really not forgive another finger on one's right hand when one pinches it? Dont these very same fingers come and clasp together in prayer only a moment later?

It is said that to err is human, but to forgive is divine. It does not mean that forgiving makes us divine, but it does take us closer to God, because there is divinity in all of us all the time. More importantly, it means that while only humans can do wrong and sin, only God can forgive.

On the joy of letting go

2009-01-26T05:43:00.000-08:00

He who binds to himself a joy
Doth the winged life destroy
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in Eternity's sunrise.

- William Blake

More than metaphors

2009-01-25T10:51:00.000-08:00

As the dance is to the dancer, the universe is to God.

->There is no dance without the dancer. Indeed, the dance is within the dancer - it is verily a part of him/her. The dance at every stage - imagination, creation, manifestation and conclusion - is an expression of the dancer. It does not exist by itself. And so too with the worlds, whose creation, sustenance and dissolution are expressions of God.

As only still water can give a true reflection of the Sun, only an unagitated soul can fully realize God.

->The Sun's reflections can be seen on every drop on the surface of water, but if there are waves and ripples, the reflection of the Sun will be partial, incomplete and interrupted. Only in still water can we see a true reflection of the Sun. So too with God, in our agitated, restless ways we perceive God imperfectly, partially, or not at all. The fault is within ourselves. But when we gain the calm inside, we can fully perceive the glory of God.

As a lump of salt that dissolves in water, the Soul or God permeates the universe.

-> When a lump of salt dissolves in water, the salinity can be tasted in every drop. That lump of salt is now present in every drop from every corner of the water contained. So too, in every small bit of life in the world, the Soul resides. Indeed, this Soul of God is dissolved in the universe, and is present everywhere.

On people and change

2009-01-05T19:57:00.001-08:00

People are a complicated lot. I dont think many people know themselves too well. I dont mean the word "themselves" in a spiritual connotation of self-realization or such higher meaning. I am only referring to people knowing themselves like they know other people, or in fact, like their family or friends know them.

The key point is that people are constantly defining and redifining themselves, both consciously and unconsciously. As a result of all the experiences and our cogitations and reflections on these experiences within the environments we find ourselves in, we develop a system of understanding of the world around us - and that includes ourselves. As a result of the continuous reconciliation between who we think we are, what we think we want and who we think we want to be, we are actually an amorphous mass of shifting core values, with numerous blobs of inconsistencies and contradictions, rather than a well-defined, solid individual that we may perceive or project ourselves to be. Now this is perhaps, an overly complicated way of saying that people change - that seems obvious enough - but also that people change in ways that they dont quite understand well.

Critically then, the point to be made here is that people do not fully appreciate who they are - in totality. But, people do realize that they change. We see our faces, our voices, our bodies change, but also our dreams, ambitions, jobs, fears, convictions, passions, friendships and relationships - they all change. While one may realize that he wants to pursue a career in music now, instead of a childhood dream in journalism, he perhaps doesnt realize the extent to which this change affects him in other ways, such as his fears or friendships. They are too intertwined interally, for his intelligence to be fully aware of it, until it becomes apparent later. As a result, there is this gap that exists between who we really are, and who we think we are. When we talk about ourselves to others, based on who we think we are, we probably come close to describing several facets of our personality and our changes, but that does not describe who we are, and this is likely different from what others think we are, and how we have changed.

While this may not be understood or even relevant in people's everyday dealings, many emotional and inter-personal issues result as a consequence of this gap in communication. This may even help in explanining difficult human characteristics such as hypocrisy or betrayal.

Does God want?

2009-01-05T00:58:00.000-08:00

The general religious view seems to be that man is imperfect and it is this imperfection that prevents us from realizing God. In fact, it is said that we cannot even understand Him fully or to any reasonable degree, due to the inherent nature of God being within and without everything - omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent. Granted that religion is just a human explanation for divine power in our lives; still some concepts are hard to fathom, such as:

God wants to make us tougher and wiser by sending adversities our way. Which begs the question, firstly, does God want anything? The ideal of accepting everything God gives us, and surrendering to Him is very powerful and liberating. But then, doesnt the idea that God has a plan or pasttimes and wishes something paint God as less than perfect or human-like, even if as a Father? Even though God is perfectly capable of realizing His wants, does not the fact of wanting, wishing or desiring something run contrary to the idealization of the absolute, all-perfect God?

On hindsight, may be the key point is this: When we as humans want something, it is usually outside of us. But there is nothing outside of God, by definition. If God wants something, which is inside Him, it is not really a want, but merely a choice. And so, as we humans accept His plans, we must do so with the humility that we cannot even begin to know His ways, and so, to say God sends us adversities in order to make us tougher and wiser is unduly arrogant.

Isnt it sad?

2008-12-23T14:16:00.000-08:00

Isn't it sad how people break their promises?
Isn't it sad how comfortable people are being so selfish?
Isn't it sad how people chase happiness even when it takes away from the happiness of others?
Isn't it sad how people have evolved to just avoid thinking about others,if it comes in the way of their happiness?
Isn't it sad how the same people who show such kindness to strangers are so mean to people they know?
Isn't it sad how society teaches public decency better than family teaches trust and love?
Isn't it sad that the people that can hurt us the most are the people whom we love the most?
Isnt it sad how many people pick the former when they have to pick between doing the right thing and the kind thing?
Isn't it sad how your heart tells you what is good for others, and your head tells you what is good for you, and yet, we rarely follow our heart?

I loved you; until

2008-12-14T21:03:00.000-08:00

i loved you; until

i didnt love you anymore

it was like a dream when you walked into my heart

but reality woke me up and i showed you the door

i loved you so much;until

i just did not love you anymore

every moment with you then was so exciting

but each minute now is such a sad bore

i loved you like crazy; until

i didnt love you at all anymore

living without you, i just could not imagine

but it feels now like i never knew you before

i loved you completely; until

i totally didnt love you anymore

you were the one for me, i thought for so long

but i cannot be with you now, i know that for sure

i loved you a lot; until

i truly didnt love you anymore

love-all it was first, and then our game began

but i lost the joy in it while keeping the score

i loved you so very much; until

i so didnt love you anymore

this fruit of your love, i peeled and juiced

and all i have now is guilt at the core

i loved you maybe; until

i certainly didnt love you anymore

i promised we'll forever be together, as we set sail

sorry to leave you behind now, in a boat without an oar.

For another poem on this theme, please read an earlier post:I love you...because

But the tune ends too soon for us all..

2008-12-07T20:22:00.000-08:00

When youre falling awake and you take stock of the new day,

And you hear your voice croak as you choke on what you need to say,

Well, dont you fret, dont you fear,

I will give you good cheer.

Life's a long song.

If you wait then your plate I will fill.

As the verses unfold and your soul suffers the long day,

And the twelve oclock gloom spins the room,

You struggle on your way.

Well, dont you sigh, dont you cry,

Lick the dust from your eye.

Life's a long song.

We will meet in the sweet light of dawn.

As the baker street train spills your pain all over your new dress,

And the symphony sounds underground put you under duress,

Well dont you squeal as the heel grinds you under the wheel.

Life's a long song.

But the tune ends too soon for us all.

Live at Montreux, 2003. Jethro Tull

Too much social networking?

2008-11-25T18:10:00.000-08:00

Could a lot of virtuality replace even a tiny portion of reality? If there is one thing that makes me feel old, at 27, it is this feeling I get when I consider the Facebook-Orkut-Myspace generation. If technology is great, newer technology is greater. And more the merrier, too, I believe. But where the online social networking parallel universe makes the world tick for many young people today, there is something that makes it a little too impersonal to sustain meaningful human relationships, to me at least. It may just be because no amount of text , emoticons and video can match the combination of a human face, a human voice and the human touch. I might be the dinosaur in cyberspace, but I was happy to read someone else shared my views. Read this.

The cut to the chase

2008-11-21T18:15:00.001-08:00

How pointless it is to chase after someone determined to get away? Or is it? Or does it depend on what could be accomplished instead of pursuing the chase? Does it depend on who the someone is?

What if it is a something instead of a someone? How about a magical dream that slips out of your mind with the first rays of the sun in your eyes? Is it not worth the chase ? Does the seemingly high probability of failure by itself make the chase futile? How many times does a thirsty nomad have to be tricked by mirages before he should give up on searching for the oasis? Does the constant seeking and losing sight of a goal make the eyes more or less capable of spotting the goal?

Kafka's tunnel

2008-08-30T16:39:00.000-07:00

"Seen with the tainted earthly eye, we find ourselves in the situation of rail passengers in the midst of an accident in a long tunnel, and this at a point where the light at the beginning of the tunnel can no longer be seen, while the light at the end of the tunnel is so small that the eye constantly seeks and loses it, such that the beginning and end are not even certain. But in the confusion of the senses, and their overwroughtness, we have all kinds of monsters all around us, and depending on the mood and injury of each, the kaleidoscopic patterns either excite or exhaust us."

-Kafka

A bird in hand

2008-07-01T19:11:00.000-07:00

It has been long known to man that a bird in hand is worth two in the bush. Conventional wisdom is, of course, right. The medieval English certainly had a keen eye for the economics of risk and reward. While the equation relating the relative worth of birds in hands and bushes may not be applicable beyond the world of birds, we can build a perfect science in risk management on the certainty of this foundation: after all Rome wasn't built in a day.

But returning to birds and on further examination using the advantage of ordinal convenience, we see a startling revelation. If a bird in hand is worth two in the bush, surely, if there were three in the bush, we must go after them.

Imperfection, care and carelessness

2008-03-11T21:19:00.000-07:00

There is a silent sadness in seeing truth getting stained. Especially if the truth is an important part of your heart, part of who you are and what you feel.

Its the pain felt by the vet whose imperfect hands are giving care to a bird that is hurt. Its the diminished joy of the parent whose child falls hard before it learns to walk. Its the uneasy feeling of the gardener who sees his hose deform the roses that he is watering.

But this sadness shouldn't speak now, for the baby has already gone to sleep.

THE STORY OF STUFF (...and why the economy isn't just GDP)

2008-02-14T17:24:00.000-08:00

It just struck me that the modern idea of the economy of a country is SO DIFFERENT from the original concept of economy, as a characteristic. In fact, it is the EXACT OPPOSITE of the dictionary meaning of the word.

The textbooks teach us that the backbone to the ECONOMY, which in the modern world view, is measured by the GDP - the super-broadest measure of the economic condition of a country - is actually CONSUMER SPENDING.

GDP = consumption + gross investment + government spending + (exports − imports), or,

In the case of exports, well, its still spending ; only someone else in another country spends it.

But here is what Merriam Webster says:

econ·o·my

a. thrifty and efficient use of material resources : frugality in expenditures;
also : an instance or a means of economizing: saving
b. efficient and concise use of nonmaterial resources (as effort, language, or motion)

Now, the only reason I even thought of this misnomer is because I saw this video.

http://storyofstuff.com/

An incredibly well-done video about conservation, sustainability, people and environment. It's wonderful. It's funny.

It's important.

Uncomfortably numb

2008-01-27T16:49:00.001-08:00

Wjz282 Siw24 is uncomfortable right now. What makes him uncomfortable is that he is in the company of Pmb9cx Ho4q9q. Pmb9cx, interestingly, is a very tolerant man. To elaborate things further, in tune with accepted definitions of his society, he has demonstrated satisfactory levels of tolerance to all of the 419 well-established annoying techniques and the 23 needle tactics that can even be used in haystacks on cloudy days. But what separates him from the rest of his community is that he is very capable of tolerating new and undefined irritations.

They are in each other's company at this moment on account of the not-so-curious incident of the dog in daylight savings time (this incident is sometimes also referred to as the Polygraph Polygraphovich Sharikov case). Pmb9cx built a sophisticated kennel for a stray dog that he picked up in the streets of Moscow. Given his unrecognised capabilities as an inventor and peculiar knowledge of technical Japanese, he was destined to build a machine that no one else would care for. Not even a dog with a double transplant and an unwieldy name like Polygraph Polygraphovich Sharikov. Anyway, Pmb9cx's kennel had only a small opening and operated on the noble principle of automatically letting the dog out at 6 a.m and if necessary, forcibly, bring the dog back in at 4 p.m. This was a mutually agreeable status for all concerned until winter came by and daylight savings time spoilt the canine side of the equation.After expressing its disapproval about the machine to its master by cursing him in unprintable Russian words and barking his lungs out, the dog, finally, had an inspired go at the fleshy calf muscle of his tolerant owner. The dog's immediate inspiration came from gulping down a bottle of vodka at noon.

Pmb9cx let out a wail so sincere and loud, that the neighbours had alerted the police and an ambulance had been called for. Yet, he singularly refused to show any semblance of frustration or anger at the dog, instead only recollecting some convoluted Japanese mnemonic to wonder why the contraption had suddenly failed its intended purpose.

A few weeks after this queer episode, Wjz282 came knocking at the door of Pmb9cx. He was an officer in the department of domestic safety of Western Russia with special authority in all matters concerning mice, dogs, parrots, cockroaches and owls. He took pride in the fact that under his tenure cats had ceased to be a problem worth special attention, and hence the additional responsibility of cockroaches was added to his impressive portfolio. So, it was in this position that he found himself seated in a small room of a perfectly unimpressive house in Ulmner Street, facing a man who was making him quite uncomfortable.

"This Sharikov, the culprit, eh?", he said.

"Depends on what you call the crime, really. No, I take that back. Polygraph Polygraphovich Sharikov is not guilty of any crime, which ever way you look at it".

"But it is against the rule of law for a dog to harm a citizen of this great nation; besides the office of domestic safety does not approve of a name like Polygraph Polygraphovich Sharikov. Dgexza would perhaps be a better name for a stray dog",Wjz282 countered sarcastically.

"The dog wasn't told about it, I am sure."

"But regardless, the dog separated you from some of the flesh on your leg. That being the case, it needs to be taken to the pound, and I need you to cooperate with me."

"It is all part of the training I have been putting him through. I refuse to let him be taken away from me.He is an excellent student."

"Is he really?", Wjz282 enquired, adding a bit restlessly,"well, then, why don't you show me how good he is. I haven't been an officer of the government without taking my level-three certification in proletarian animal etiquette."

"I would be far too insulting if I asked you to judge my Polygraph Polygraphovich Sharikov. Still, I will do as you say, and let you examine him, but not at this time. I have to agree with him on a suitable time."

"What kind of a blighted Russian would request an appointment from his dog? Why, do you also imagine that we have to request mice for their permission for scientific testing? Our aeronautical engineers did not bow in front of the blessed Laika to be the first dog in space, they merely put her in a rocket and off she went".

"I, for one, would. I couldn't care about rodents if I wasn't about to hurt them in the name of science. But canines, yes. Polygraph Polygraphovich Sharikov doesn't like to be disturbed in the afternoons when he is usually immersing himself in Dostoevsky and Bulgakov. And please don't light your cigarette inside the house."

"Blame the devil! Have you entirely lost your bearings? There is nothing sane about this conversation, and that is the truth. I insist you show me the dog, now. I am sure the smell of tobacco doesn't agree with the dog either, does it?"

"On the contrary, he finds it rather agreeable. I would strongly urge you not to smoke it in here, for your own sake, lest you intoxicate him. The last time he was high was when an Englishman came here with a bottle of rum;Polygraph Polygraphovich Sharikov recited from Shakespeare's 'As you like it' and quoted Engels before he chased the man back to his tavern".

"I am quite fond of Engels, as you would imagine. Here's my first puff, call him out, then. Slip out of your hiding, wretched mongrel,", he roared, "a couple of punches at your jaws and you will, perhaps, then recite the Old Testament or the Proverbs, why you will even sing Sindbad's symphony of the seas to my tune".

The stately dog made its appearance. As he stood at the door with an air of nonchalance and calculated indifference, he wasn't much unlike the Rocky from Hollywood. But to the seasoned eye, there were subtle differences.

There is a thing to be said about confidence and overconfidence. There is a moment in all battles when the overconfidence of one party melts upon first contact with genuine confidence in the other. Pmb9cx saw it, then and there. He glanced at the watch casually. Two minutes to three.

Polygraph Polygraphovich Sharikov leaned down on both his forelegs, and stretched for a few seconds. Then fell to his knees and looked at Pmb9cx. Knowingly. He took a deep breath, and the warm nicotine fumes rushed into his nostrils much as a cold sneeze would rush out of them. In a moment, he leapt seven straight feet across the distance that separated the dog and his drug, and snatched it right from between Wjz282's fingers and posed for a minute on the laps of his now quivering adversary. As the clock was about to strike three, he grabbed his enemy's collar and flew toward the kennel, which opened like a flower in bloom and operated a sequence of unbelievably quick, acrobatic pinpoint-precision moves. When quiet returned, Wjz282 was inside the kennel. And very uncomfortably numb.

Optical sophism -101

2008-01-11T19:17:00.000-08:00

Axiom, Alpha:
Perception isn't reality.

Uncommon Insight, Alpha minor:
Sometimes perception is not too far from reality. Often, it could be.

Common Knowledge, Beta:
Distance gives perspective.

Outrageous Conclusion, Omega:
The distance between perception and reality is identically equal to the perspective involved.

mechanics of a sober solitude

2008-01-07T21:21:00.000-08:00

roll on smooth
perfect motion
round and round
...
sputter, stutter
jump and jerk
pause and leap
...
rough and tough
fret and fritter
momentum
...
stop
crawl and drag
force and friction
...
between
beginning's end
and end's beginning

Once bitten twice blinded

2007-11-25T19:33:00.000-08:00

Oh blindness, help me see
beyond this whiteness,
even if it's a sea of milk,
or a chest of diamonds,
this blazing brightness, so wide
across the horizon?

Imagination, lead my eyes
into this blackness,
Is it just a heart with a hole
or charred lumps of coal,
this deadly darkness all around
the nothingness inside?

Unreasonably stoic

2007-10-18T20:57:00.000-07:00

It was extremely dark in the stairway, and my wet hands flimsily gripped the cement banister, one leap after another up to the second floor. I stood at the door, gasping for precious breath, while my thoughts wandered the disconsolate distances of melancholy spaces. Why should it end like this? What went wrong?

I wanted to knock, but I had been paralysed by these thoughts spinning through my head. I had given this relationship eight years of life and love, and it was going to end in a moment's decision. The unfairness of the situation mocked me with the meanest of sly grins, yet echoing like a hundred thousand wicked peals of laughter. I was forlorn, famished and forgotten. A page in my history's book turned over, even as I was just writing the first line.

What will I do now? When will sanity return? And what about these tears I cannot stop? My hand nervously reaches to the door, and I knock at the door, first gently, then steadily. The voice that spoke to me on the phone that the door will not be open for me, apparently meant every cruel word. Those were the toughest words I have ever heard in my life. It stabbed away at a corner of my heart, chopping at it relentlessly. Have I become so unwanted?

I felt like an abandoned child in a cold desert.

But I kept knocking. Just as life fights for itself, love fights for itself, naturally. It was not about success or failure. Anymore. It was about that dogged, invincible feeling that people so easily abuse. I had given her my everything before she hung up on me. I had invested my soul into a relationship that ended with the click of a phone line going blank. I had made every effort at reconciliation. I had sacrificed the world I knew for the world she dreamt of. Everything I ever wanted had vanished into a blackhole. Gone.

And then I paused, and heard something in me say just two words: so what?

And I wonder...

2007-09-09T20:49:00.000-07:00

There's a cold breeze under a violet sky. And the moon hides behind an ocean of clouds. Breathe in the feeling of supreme contentment. Just to lie down and look up is pleasant as can be.

The stars would be nice to see, of course. But its magical to see the clouds slide across the heavens too. Utterly calming to see them move, as they are gently rocking earth's cradle. For those that feel the wonder, the eyes close slowly.

And soon enough a lonely star appears peeping behind the screen of clouds. And then another, then a couple more, and the cosmic symphony is underway, performing a silent lullaby to those that wish to hear. And that is what wonder is all about.

Men and the line between right and wrong

2007-08-05T19:59:00.000-07:00

There is no dearth of opinions and discussions - both practical and philosophical - about the line between right and wrong, if there is such a line in the first instance. For a moment, let us assume that the line exists.

In some ways, of the many theories and ideas expounded in an attempt to traverse this line, the most popular ones seem to be the ones with the simplest all-encompassing definitions. Nevertheless, while stranger thoughts have led me to stranger places, one of these days I arrived on a small definition for myself, which I want to reexamine at a later point in time - hopefully, with a more experienced and dispassionate view on life's machinations - and perhaps validate or disapprove it. Based on an assumption that every man has a set of values that he perhaps ultimately answers to, not necessarily in his conscience, but even in the principles he supports vocally or otherwise. This clearly makes the definition relative and far from absolute.

The central idea is just this: if you do something once, and if your value system allows you to do it again, given that you have already done it once, it is right. Otherwise it is not.

I understand that this may not be useful in situations - and there are many such situations that arise - where we are considering the merits or demerits of a given action before doing it. But even so, it is possible to imagine a hypothetical situation where you have already performed the given action, and then are posed with the question of whether to repeat the action. While it is far from simple in such situations, I feel this would allow for the mind to juxtapose the value systems in light of the fact that you have already done this once, and then to ponder on whether to do it again, not about whether it was right or wrong in the first place. The right or wrong dilemma is inherently and indirectly answered as a result of these thoughts rather than the other way around - namely, that a presupposed notion of right or wrong dictating whether to repeat the action. There is a difference, and is perhaps not all sophism and subtlety.

Building on this foundation, I found that all the people in the world fall under four categories. The criminals, the disgraced, the depraved; and the others.

If a man thinks his actions are not wrong, but the law defines them to be wrong - justifiably or unjustifiably so - he is a criminal. The law is often, just a piece of paper that aims to guarantee the contination of civilisation at the expense of freedom, and no more. And so, it is likely that the laws change more often than people's value systems and to this extent, I think criminals are the best of the worst.

If a man thinks his actions are not wrong, but the society - his family, friends, and everyone else who feels a connection with him, again, whether justifiably or not - believes him to be at fault, he is disgraced. In claiming that these type of people are at some level worse than criminals, it is to be borne in mind that the law often is more impersonal and arbitrary than the values espoused by a society, with whom the subject is assumed to have some sort of connection at some level. If the man finds the society mostly alien to him, then the beliefs of the society become as irrelevant to his value systems as are laws, only in this case, without the punishment.

And lastly to the worst of the lot: the depraved. If a man performs an action that he believes is wrong, then he is depraved. And this is because it is his most personal values and beliefs that he has betrayed. A man is depraved when he does not stand up for his own ideals. And a true reflection and test of what those ideals actually are will surely occur after he has done it the first time, if he has not dwelt on it before. These are the ones who forgive themselves easily, casually even.It is this very depraved repeat offenders - in their own eyes - that are the most dangerous and the most wicked.

The others, then are, just everybody else, who are not one of the above, and thus more righteous than the rest. More righteous in law and in their society, in technical terms, but most importantly, in their own eyes and hearts.

If love is round here's a heart-shaped hole

2007-07-06T22:23:00.000-07:00

You ripped the facade atlast today
and showed a truth so brutally bare
Of the myriad games that people play
Love is the most farcical affair

In faith and vows must you ever trust
Nevermind if love is round in hearts so square
You couldn't dare call the rules unjust
When in all of war and love, not a thing is bloody fair

The Ex - Or How I Was Not Him

2007-07-02T21:16:00.000-07:00

He is walking. Aimlessly, lost in thought, as though he were an actor trying to remember his last three words in a play in which he is a protagonist. She is sitting under a tree, and sees him walk by.

She:Hey, what's your name?
He:He.
She:Hey, would you like to be my ex-boyfriend?
He: My name is He, not Hey.
She: Yes, thats what I said. Now, would you like to be my ex-boyfriend?
He: What? That doesn't make any sense,I don't even know you. In fact, I never knew you.
She: Yes, that's exactly the point of an ex-boyfriend. I never knew you either.
He: You're mad! I am sorry, I don't know what it is that you want. I am sorry, I need a grammar lesson: I don't know what you want.

Now, she gets up swiftly, and is slightly angry at him calling her mad, and justifiably, the outrage is only rekindled by the fact that he called her mad when he doesn't even know her in the first place.

She: I don't love you any more. Go to hell.
He: Eh?! I did not mean to come near you, miss. Besides, I think your statement should have been, "I don't love you", not "I don't love you any more". As for going to hell, no thank you, I am just on my way back from hell.

She: Why is it so hard for you to be an ex-boyfriend? I am not asking you to be my boyfriend, not asking you to bring me flowers and lift me up in your arms. I have my dignity and self-respect. So you can keep your holier-than-thou sneer to your own self.

He: It's not merely hard, it's not possible. For me to be your ex-boyfriend, I must have been your boyfriend for some time in the past, and must have also ceased to be your boyfriend before this moment. Either that or I must be dead. And even if I am just back from hell, since I am talking to you now, I am inclined to discount the second possibility.

She: You're trying to beat me at logic? Yes, you are alive, and that's why I called you when I saw you walking. I don't go around asking corpses to be my ex-boyfriends. Get a life. I'm sorry, go die........(as an afterthought) and, please do not try to do the impossibly tough things for me, I don't want to feel indebted to you, even after you become my ex.

He (frustrated): I do not want to become your ex.

She (imploring) : Why do you love me?

He: Excuse me?

She: If you do not want to be my ex-boyfriend, you obviously have a greater interest in continuing this relationship than breaking it.

He: That's bizarre..there is no relationship between us.

She (begins to cry): That's the truth, isn't it? There isn't even a relationship between us now. Okay, fine, as you please. Let's break up....(and goes and sits under the tree)

He: No,...

He was about to speak his last three words, but fate intervened in the form of large size Grade A eggs and juicy tomatoes impacting on his face, forcing him to turn away and retreat a few steps, before the curtains fall rapidly.

Lies and Lives

2007-06-29T23:03:00.000-07:00

For life's just a paper and is truly white,
Black and red ink are magnificent lies
Used by man to sketch and write
Censored only by his conscience's eyes

But long after the fire burns it into smoke
Or the rains wash the colours into slime
Its only the unwritten and unspoken
Ash and mash that last the test of time

A letter to a wound

2007-06-18T21:10:00.001-07:00

Dear Wound,

Hope you are doing well. I mail you this day to seek your advice on some important matters.

I have been long grappling with the question of how long a wound takes to heal. Is it true that some wounds never do, and instead keep morphing from one form into another, like an invisible energy that cannot be destroyed?

The circumstances under which I have been pondering on these posers are no doubt, adverse. There is some hope, however, from the fact that the pain is now sporadic, while every bit as acute as it ever was. I do fully well understand that you are only discharging your duty in the scheme of things, in all goodness. Where I respect the principles of co-existence, I can no longer be indifferent to the inevitability of the outcome: my body has been directed to pick between a nebulous, lasting scar and a crippling,enduring pain. It is in this regard that I need to make a decision in haste.

Are scars supposed to make you insensitive? Is that a good thing? What if it hurts under the scars too. Could it be then, that there is something wrong with my body?

When people talk of healing, do they actually get over the pain? Or is it always in the background like a conscience made of wax that waits for just a tiny spark?

I am inclined to take the less painful way out, by recommending relief with scars, because I feel the healing has not even begun in my case. If time is the healer, does he know how much is too much?

These and many more questions have besieged my mind and soul. Your advice in this matter is therefore, critical and I want to follow the path you suggest. Please also bear in mind that the wound is on my heart.

I thank you for your help and guidance,

Yours truly,

Overtaken

2007-05-14T21:42:00.000-07:00

What do you do
when life
overtakes you?
and you're left behind
like a footprint in moist sands

What do you do
when life
spills over?
and there is too much more
than you can take.

What do you do
when life
pins you down?
and there is nowhere
left to go but down.

What do you do
when life
deserts you?
and the people you trust
become the ones you cannot.

What do you do
when life
begins to lie?
and the truth
gets lost in the darkness.

Chalk and cheese

2007-05-05T22:28:00.000-07:00

This is the story of chalk and cheese. According to myths some people don't believe, the first cheese did not give an apple to the first chalk while they were both not in the garden of Eden. Many thousand years later, some people believe in a magical f-word, or more appropriately, a c-word, just to keep the story buzzing and away from the censors. Some others, like me, don't think much of it.

All very well. Trouble is, nobody knows what the f-word means, although the consensus amidst the chaos seems to indicate that all is not well between chalks and cheese. As per informed sources, at the very basic level, the problem revolves around whether cheese and chalk are equal, or equivalent or any related comparitive qualifier, whether physically or mentally or some other splendidly inappropriate adverb. There are as many definitions and interpretations of the word as there are people who don't know what it means. I will admit, first and foremost, I don't know what it means either, but with people celebrating a carnival of sorts of the f-word, I figured I could add to the noise as well. It seems that there is this whole-hearted personal connection and inclusiveness built into this f-word that makes it impossible for some people to understand yet irresistible for some others to comment on. This makes every person's interpretation acceptable (shhh! so long as its a cheese's personal interpretation.....or, a chalk's sympathetic interpretation if it is not wholesomely disagreeable to a insignificantly large majority of the cheese-folk). One of the more simplistic (and profound?) and most-commended interpretations to come up recently asks people to judge for themselvs if they are f-nists (believers in the f-word) based on their answer to the question, "Are you white?". The preposterous idea being that all things white being equal, if a chalk believed it was white, it was suddenly forced by default to become a believer in the f-word, lest it be known that it was probably black!

Some say there is a quiet movement taking place as well (with the aforementioned carnival supposedly most likely taking its rightful place as a part of that process) with the the modus operandi taking multiple grotesque forms. Some of these forms include perpetuation of the ever-growing repository of of existing interpretations, publication of inflammatory propaganda and anti-chalk rhetoric, confounding the uninformed and provoking unrest among chalk and cheese alike who would rather prefer hear George Bush talk on the pressing need for democracy in oil-rich countries. Needless to say, the views expressed in such propoganda are predominantly comprised of cheese-folk describing in varying levels of detail their chronicles of the systematic abuse, discrimination and violation of cheese-folk by the more-power hungry, dominating chalks. Their leit motif is a graphic tale of cheese-folk hitherto being chained to the lowly confines of the kitchen seeking escape and liberation in the chalk-bastions, those glamourous black-boards in offices. Some words often thrown in for good measure are freedom, respect, esteem and such. While some displays of emotionally violent rhetoric often make personifications of tradition, religion and society as the preferred scapegoats, there are more extreme advocates who want nothing less than making chalks redundant and inconsequential to cheese. It is no surprise, therefore to note that the all-encompassing circus of the f-word reeks of ridiculous hypocrisy, both in idealogy and practice. The righteous fight against oppression, exploitation and violence have been entirely consumed by jealousy, covetousness and self-gratification. With no clear purpose, unity will mean nothing. To gain something, you lose something. Equality is an abstract ideal, it will remain elusive for as long as you have incomparable entities. To the more practically oriented, the world is a marketplace - even for chalks and cheese. I couldn't care less if the f-nists don't buy that. In the end, strength and character come from within. A test of fire may help, perhaps.

A brief history of nothing

2007-05-05T15:21:00.000-07:00

In search of my pet octopus

2007-05-01T20:42:00.000-07:00

My pet octopus appeared quietly in a reverie. It was the best pet octopus I have ever seen or had as a pet all my life. I was hoping it would stay with me for ever. But apparently, it could not.

It looked very hungry and thirsty as well. So I fed it some Chinese noodles, and fetched a few cups of water from the ocean. As humans, we all love home-made food, so I guessed a pet octopus might love water from its home. As it turned out, it loved the sea water. And even more, it loved the fact that I understood its needs and tastes to perfection. So, it promised to be my friend for eternity. I was thrilled beyond words.

I just asked it if it would like to be with me for ever. The happy look on its face turned stiff, almost stoic. It said it could not assure me of that, but it would spend a whole day with me for sure. I knew that wasn't going to be nearly good enough. I loved this pet octopus. It was a gift from God.

I thanked it for agreeing to spend a day with me. I promised to take it around my city, to show it all the sights and spectacles that were on offer. It was the best day of my life. Ever. The pet octopus was having so much fun, and so was I. But the cold breeze started to affect it. So we returned home, earlier than we both would have liked to. In a moment, it began to get better in health, but I couldn't help noticing that the smiling countenance turned to an expression of a resigned acceptance. I wanted to know why it could not stay with me for another day. It did not answer.

I did not know too much more about a pet octopus other than it really liked sea water. So, I asked it if it would like some more sea water. After some thought, the pet octopus said yes. So, I went back to the ocean to get some sea water. By the time I returned, the dear octopus had gotten ready to leave. It gratefully accepted the water and drank it like a baby. And then, the pet octopus told me it was time for it to go. I begged the octopus to at least tell me a way to meet it later. It reflected on the question for an instant, before replying that meeting again would not be good for either of us. I asked why. I got no answer. Then, as it was just about to disappear into the distance, with that solemn, moist-eyed way of parting that can kill a man in an instant, it told me that if I truly wanted to find it, it would also wait for me in the middle of nowhere, till the end of time.

And since that moment, I have roamed every place in the world that could be nowhere, searching and seeking, failing every instance till date. But I continue today in that search, spurred on by an obsessive single-mindedness of pursuit, that like everything else in this story of my life, is hard to explain.

About Life

2007-04-23T21:16:00.000-07:00

Life,
with,
or without,
any,
or all,
of the highs
or the lows,
for good
or bad,
in white
or black,
may,
or may not,
be
what you
love
or hate
about
life.

A Night In The Abyss

2007-04-05T19:34:00.000-07:00

I'm the ship sunk by a heavy heart
Lost many miles below the sand

One tear too many down my face

Veiled as just another drop in the sea

Entrapped by cold inevitability

Years I have frozen within

Oh, this abyss of indifference

Unbearably tortures yet sustains

A life I couldnt care about, or

My death that wouldnt come

More or less does not matter

Until pain and hope aren't the same.

The inertia of restlessness

2007-03-28T22:10:00.000-07:00

I am consumed by fear and anxiety. I seek a repreive.
I am in pursuit of an illusion - an elusive ideal. Trivial pursuit it is.
Life is so routine and meaningless that it is addictive. Trance-like.
One step after another.
One step after another.
One step after anoth.
One step aft.
One step.
One.

When you search for something for too long, you forget what you are searching for. But search you will because search you must.

Its a patient and enduring restlessness.

Its almost like relativity. The inertia of rest is not too different from the inertia of restlessness. I dont know what my state is. Should I stop to check. Or I should I spur to move?

And does it really matter?

What I could be

2007-01-07T12:17:00.000-08:00

If I could be more trusting
and still lucky enough to be alive,
If I could be less cynical,
and not be taken as foolishly naive;

If I could more instinctive,
yet not waver from the pursuit of perfection
If I could be less methodical,
And still swim across the freezing ocean;

If I could take more chances
And remain unconquered by disbelief
and if I could be less regretful,
equally unaffected by jubiliation and grief;

If I could treasure every living memory
And not cry over the things I lost;
If I can keep my tryst with the future
And still be loyal to my past,

If I can live every single day this new year
with all my life'e lessons learnt,
If I could enlighten like the wick of the lamp,
without myself getting burnt;

If I could value something in everyone
And still be clear of envy,
I could be everything I am not
And still be exactly me.

Gratitude and Patience

2006-12-22T12:02:00.000-08:00

These are the two things that I have understood differently in the last year or so. Trying to develop a deeper sense and sensitivity to gratitude and patience, oddly, feels like more of the same goodness that we never cared too much about. In some ways, taking time to improve one's ability to be grateful and patient in life may appear to some people as a wasted effort, as it does not have an immediate tangible benefit. But only as much as going to the gym to build muscular strength may be called an exercise in futility.

Indeed, I've found that building patience and gratitude is also best accomplished by philosophical work-out sessions. You need to sweat a little every day, figuratively that is. You must be willing to put your psyche in slightly uncomfortable situations, to stretch that much harder mentally, and to exert mind and sinew to emerge stronger. Your daily life is the only gym you need.

You just missed the bus or train to work, and you are getting increasingly restless every second , possibly until you get into the next bus or call a taxi instead. Its not helping your patience. I have absolutely no doubt that exercising restraint and inculcating a little bit of patience in the smallest of small things we do is what ultimately prepares us for the more taxing challenges in life. If you tap your feet alternating endlessly between the accelerator and the brake at a red signal, almost hearing your breath counting down to three, two , one, go, DON'T. When you have to stand in a very long queue, make it an opportunity to build some patience. It pays. Perhaps, later on in life, when a few experiments or proposals don't go very well, and you want to quit, or take a shorter alternative, while you may be within striking distance of making it work, patience will help.

To be able to look at a glass half-full, you have to first be thankful that you have atleast half, where the glass could so easily have been empty. It is tempting to feel miserable because the others around you may have their glasses full, and you think you're the only one who doesn't. The obvious truth that we have to be grateful for is that there are many more who perhaps don't even have a glass in the first place, and then there are others with a perfectly-empty glass. Our temporary misery blinds us to our relative well-being.

And again, a quick exercise of gratitude in our routines will help us dealing with more challenges in life, head-on and hopeful.

The Arunagiri Dairies: Subramanian Razzaq

2006-11-30T13:48:00.000-08:00

This is a continuation (part 3) of an earlier story thread. The links to the first two parts are here:

The Arunagiri Diaries

The Arunagiri Diaries -The Encounter

*******

"Hello...I'm Srinivasan...", I blurted nervously before being consumed momentarily by a string of doubts, "I'm sorry.....vanakkam".

The man in front of me said a crisp hello before falling silent. I felt a little odd, wondering how I could confirm that this was indeed the man, or was it him at all? An imposing figure by any standards and a stern visage to go with it, he didn't look anything like what I had imagined Maniyaru to be. No beard, no saffron robe, no religious appendages. To my eyes, he looked seventy, and in his sand-coloured kurta pyjamas, perfectly like Atre bhai, the elderly Dabbawallah who brought me the daily box of lunch to my office in Bombay. My thoughts were now focusing on how the ability to initiate a sensible conversation had suddenly deserted me. These silent seconds began to seem like straits in the sea beween the mainland and an island. I was the mainland. And I was the island too. If Rome was not built in a day, could a bridge be built in a second?

"Your camera", he said pointing to the Minolta that had fallen off me near the bushes behind me.

"Oh, yes, thanks", and I walked over to pick it up, before I added, "I'm sorry to disturb you, I didn't see you sitting here as I was running, there was a snake that was after me".

"In the temple?", he asked enquiringly.

"Yes, I saw it behind the gate".

"That is just a dummy", he said quite calmly.

"A dummy? No, it came after me. Really?"

"Don't worry, you are not the first", he said before continuing, "you also are an adventure-seeking tourist, I suppose."

"No, I'm not a tourist. I'm came here to...", I trailed off, eliciting an anticipatory glance from him. And then, I bluntly asked him, "Are you Maniyaru?"

"That's what the people from the temple in Madurai call me. My name is Subramanian Razzaq." I had only suspected that Maniyaru actually was a respectful appellation, but never in my wildest imagination would I have guessed that it was actually a corrupted version of Mani R, or that his last name was Razzaq. I briefly considered asking him about his curious name, that was a hearty mix of an orthodox South-Indian Hindu first name and a typical Muslim last name, but resisted the temptation.

Instead, I just said, "I'm very happy to meet you. I came here looking for you, in fact. I have read about you in the newspapers, and that made decide to come and meet you myself. I'm from Bombay."

"Are you not a journalist yourself?"

"No, no. I work in an a textile company, they make suits and trousers. I came to meet you, as I was excited by what I read about you, intrigued, I would say. I wanted to know more about you. About why you live here, about your beliefs in God and about your life in general".

"Why?"

The simple manner in which he asked why had no suggestion of arrogance or hubris, but only a patient curiosity. His eyes looked straight at my face, even as he was folding his outstretched legs into a cross-legged squatting position.

"I just wanted to know more about you. I felt a need. Maybe, I have an inherent faith in your philosophy and ideas."

"I'm not a philosopher. I don't think I ever intended to profess any ideas or teachings. I only follow my beliefs, just as you follow yours."

"But then, why do you live here, why do you consume poison, and how come it doesn't affect you?"

"It does affect me. I believe it gives strength and longevity. It must be done in the right amounts, though. As to why I live here, that is a story that goes far into the past. I do not deem it appropriate to share much of my history with anyone."

Saying this, he quietly excused himself, and I did not persist. Deflated with this development, I got back to the hotel, and as I talked about this meeting to Raghu, who had recovered from his illness, I could see it from his face that he would so dearly have loved to have met Maniyaru with me today.

Over the next week, Raghu and I climbed up Arunagiri religiously hoping to spot him again, discovering new paths up everyday, and never feeling a tinge of boredom. We did not see Maniyaru, however. In my heart of hearts, I felt that I may have stepped too much into his personal life a little too suddenly and that he must be quite wary of running into me again. So, after a few more unsuccessful ascents and descents lasting four days, we packed our bags to return to Bombay, as both of us had already exceeded our period of leave from work. When we were on the train, I asked Raghu if he wanted to go back to Arunagiri sometime. He said he wanted to, but feared he may not be able to make it. I was sure I would go back. Yes, he had a family to take care of, unlike me. But where his motivation to go back also dipped from the fear of ill-health and not being able to meet Maniyaru, my motivation was redoubled on the basis of my fortunate meeting with him. Besides, there was so much more to explore, as much about Arunagiri as about Maniyaru himself.

Amused by sadness

2006-11-29T22:41:00.000-08:00

Not too many people counted him as a friend. Some pretended they didn't know him even if they did. Others wondered what it was about him that made them so unfriendly towards him, so much so that they actually hated themselves for their behaviour towards him; not that it altered their attitude in the slightest, but still, like most of us, they liked to reassure their rational minds once in a while that their conscience was still somewhere within, and that it had not disappeared into the quicksand of convenience.

As for Dilip himself, he couldn't care less. That was probably why.

Suprisingly, if not ironically, he had a very pleasant disposition and a very welcoming countenance. He was a recluse, but then really, he wasn't. The confusion arose because he didn't consider talking as a need, and behaved just so. He was a miser when it came to speaking. He was capable of giving you a most charming smile, but the lips rarely parted, and the words that did come out would be in spurts of twos and threes. Thank you was a favourite.

Often he would walk along the street all by himself, hands in his pocket and a spring in his stride. Purely going by his face and the teenage-eyed expressions he invariably presented, you would most certainly be convinced that this man must be the happiest man in the world. Didn't he have anything to worry about? Debts? Low-esteem ? Failed love? Broken dreams perhaps?

On the few occasions that a stranger was sufficiently intrigued to ask what kept him so happy all day, he would only chuckle and grin. Where it mattered deep inside, though, a sequence of the tragedies in his life would quickly make a sort of cameo appearance. In those two seconds, he would experience a chilling numbness. It was as if all his heart's grief was made a million times more intense in those moments so that surviving without more than a reluctant tear-drop would be close to conquering death itself. No he couldn't be indifferent to pain, no he couldn't ever be the same again, never like us again. But, yes, in his own world, where happiness and melancholy were solely dependent on him and came from the choices he made rather than the consequences of those choices, he slowly learnt - as a baby learns to walk - to be amused by sadness.

A little nothing

2006-11-17T15:38:00.000-08:00

The evening sky wide in front of me.
Sand under my feet,moist and tender.
That gentle tide who teases me from a distance, and rocks into me lovingly.
And retreats to slip through silently between me and cold earth.
A little nothing, that feeling.

A face to remember

2006-10-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

I have a very forgettable face. A little like the kind you see in badly drawn cartoons. Typically, this is what happens when I meet someone for the first time:As I approach him, he will see my face and feel completely unaffected. He will then try to take a moment to register my face in his mind, and fail miserably. So, he looks up at me a second time. Then a confused, third glance, even as I flash an awkward smile and say, "Hi, I'm Rajesh". He tries to succeed where probably hundreds have failed before. Absent-mindedly, almost apologetically, he will figure he hasn't introduced himself, and proceed to finish the avoidable formality. Avoidable, because after all, he is never going to recognize me if we do meet again - even if he runs into me again in the next few minutes.

It's another forgetful day of my life today. If only I could forget how easily people forget my face. I get up from the table where I was pretending to read Einstein's relativity. I walk a few steps to the mirror and look straight into my face. There's nothing missing: a large nose flanked by two blank eyes wide open on either side. A thin upper lip overlooking two pairs of teeth protruding above a bulging brownish lower lip. A few pimples dotting a greyish stubble, and two perfectly normal ears. Now, I begin to think, the fact that there's nothing missing on my face makes it so regular, so much of the ordinary and the average that there is nothing of it that one could remember, much less recollect.

Satisfied with this explanation, I walk over to the balcony lazily. As I stare into the evening sky, I see a few birds fly across right in front of the perfect circle of the orange sun. In that instant I also see a face: a bird with wings spread wide makes the shape of a nose on the face of the sun, two birds for the eyes, two more for the lips, and the rest of the flock for hairlocks. A face at once so beautiful in its natural formation that I captured its startling beauty in my mind to remember it for ages to come. The bird that formed the nose of the face was probably a millionth of the radius of the sun. Yet in my mind, it wasn't. Relativity, I told myself. Life's lessons come to us not when we are poring over tomes, but when we allow ourselves to get lost in utter admiration of what the world has to offer.

Back in the toilet, I wash my face, and for the first time I observe that my left eye actually is the right eye of the face in the mirror! It was shocking at first, sort of phantasmagoric. After closing my eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, I look back and run the index finger on my left hand slowly over my left eyebrow, and watch the face in the mirror trace the movement just the same, only with his right hand on the right eyebrow. I'm sweating now, oh God! The face that I see in the mirror could not be the face that people see when they meet me. A terribly simple realization. I walk out slowly as if in a daze and hear some music playing from my brother's room. I push the door and see him sleeping on the floor. As I turn around to go, I see a small hologram on a sticker on the closet door that reads: Use your illusion.

Is the mirror an illusion? I wonder. I walk into the kitchen to drink a glass of water. The small stainless cup feels oddly cold against my nervous fingers as I fill water into it from the water filter. I would have most certainly gulped it down with my eyes closed as I always do, but no!, today, I wouldn't. I see grotesque forms of my face approach me menacingly as I bring the cup closer to my mouth. And a string of rumbles and a final glug later, I am no longer thirsty, still every bit as confused.

I try to rub it all off! Mom and Dad must be coming back home in half an hour, I realize. A cursory look at the clock tells me I have about twenty minutes to play cricket and get back home before them. And the next thing I know, I am running down the stairs. Three leaps to a flight. Four flights to the ground floor. Nineteen minutes and five friends to play with. Thirty runs, two wickets and a diving catch in twenty-eight minutes sure sounds like an all-rounder to me. Need to rush home now. I sprint out of the park and just as I run around the corner, I quickly glance back a moment to see if my parents are anywhere in sight. Thud! And I am lying on the ground, and so is a small girl. I ran straight into her. I get up, dust my elbows and knees and get up to see if she is allright. She is not crying, only a grimace on her face. I lift her up, and say sorry. She looks beautiful, I think, but she is not looking at me. She says an involuntary "Thanks" and bends down to the ground groping. "I'm sorry", she says, grabbing a small stick in her hand. That's when I see she is blind. I'm in a shock. She quietly taps the stick on the ground firmer now, and walks on smiling. I stand there in disbelief. Not because I ran into another person who will not remember my face. Maybe because I realized the beauty in her face would stay with me forever, and yet she could never realize how beautiful she was. Or perhaps because, she finally taught me how to forget the fact that I had a forgettable face.

A struggle for surrender

2006-10-10T14:05:00.000-07:00

A slumber called death, a voyage from afar
Ends with his birth into this life's bazaar

Where schooling taught him to haggle and buy
Yes, but he also learnt to fight, cheat and lie

A great education gave wings to the bird
Only conditioning him to walk with the herd

A million lonely walks through crowded streets,
And as many bitter pills in the guise of sweets,

The path of life was too long in years
He crawled through the tears and ran with the cheers

Hardened yet calm, hard-working though old,
Waited patiently for the moment of truth to behold,

Suddenly then, he fell, and quietly kissed the earth,
A surreal, blissful experience that made it all worth

Oh, the meaning of life, so subtle and tender,
Isn't it our own little struggle for surrender ?

St. Thomas in India a fable? And the larger picture...

2006-09-28T11:40:00.000-07:00

Chanced upon this very intriguing set of articles recently. Found it to be a telling reflection of the times mankind has been through:

http://hamsa.org/01.htm

This is not the first piece I have read on the destruction of Hindu temples and culture and the subsequent supression of such facts by well-orchestrated contrivances controlled by forces opposed to Hinduism masquerading in many forms. Whatever the truth is, we probably will never get to know, so it may be best to reserve judgement and leave our prejudices behind. The sad fact still remains that, where researchers of history and journalists could be the most useful resources, they could also be (and probably are!) the most wretched and depraved liars that money could buy.

"It is because journalism is so exploitive of people and events that the only redeeming feature of the profession is the moral obligation to tell the truth."

The truth is NOT out there.

Over and over again, we are subjected to news and information that is filtered and censored by powerful sieves designed and manipulated to distort our perception of the world to an extent that we only see what they want us to see, and hear only what they want us to hear. We are already indoctrinated by our education and hypnotized by our upbringing not to look beyond what we are shown. Do we care enough about a history so long forgotten to know if it is the truth? Why should we want to know if an event that does not materially affect our lives is actually reported in truth , without motives, ulterior or otherwise?

See, that's the tragedy.

What we need is a shake-up in our attitudes, to wake-up from indifference, to become aware and to seek the truth. Indifference is certainly worse than inaction. For, someday in the future, it may be too late to care.

The saving grace is:

We still can choose to believe what we want to believe inspite of the tireless propaganda of invisible forces.

We still can choose to trust or distrust these sources.

But do we?

PS: On a lighter note, did you hear that Fox, BBC and a dozen other news companies are diversifying into the semiconductor industry and even the textile industry? The word is that it is only now that they have realized their true abilities to fabricate.

Non-essential

2006-09-18T16:55:00.000-07:00

It's about time. Only the essentials will survive.
The rest will be seen falling out ignominiously through large, uncourteous windows.
Cell phone connections make nice first casualties.

Mostly about us

2006-09-07T20:08:00.000-07:00

If you are one and lonely
the nights cloudy and starless
Faith will give you company
and light aeroplanes up like stars

If you are poor and needy
and hunger is a way of life
Hope will feed you hope
and drop an apple on your head

If you are weak and scared
And fear freezes your mind
Courage will spring from the heart
and strengthen you with a fire

If you ever loved and lost
and sadness pours like thunderstorms
Not faith, not courage nor hope
can stop your flood of tears.

A flower, a life

2006-08-31T17:34:00.000-07:00

I sprang on a stalk,
a thin, anxious bud
just couldnt wait to assume,
the beauty of a flower

Bloomed with the wind,
and sang to the rain,
Then suddenly, I was plucked,
my youth was snatched away,

until life sprung a surprise
when a queen tucked me neat
to adorn her glorious hair
and put me on top of the world

but not for long does the mirror lie
and I fell down hard on the floor
as back she stepped to take off her wig,
just happened to crush me under her toe.

Insignificance

2006-08-28T22:15:00.000-07:00

Grains of sand fall and fly,
tossed all together in a desert storm,
collude and collide and live and die
then proudly claim all power and form

Ego, senses and a rational arrogance
equally blinded by these are men
so ignorant of their gigantic insignificance
the sinner, the king and the unforgiven.

Found too soon

2006-08-09T19:13:00.000-07:00

So trapped I am in the inertia of searching,
this groping for a lost key in broad daylight,
for so long now since my memory failed me,
I won't even know I've found it,
when I lay my hands on it by chance.

Instead, the search will go on;
a never-ending cul-de-sac
all along the imperfect circumference
of this perfect circle of my life.

A borrowed life, no less,
a life in debt ,I live,
in a world so deserted,
my screaming voice drowns completely
in the overwhelming sound of its own echo.

Still, the voice calls out madly,
as time ticks on,
and the hands vainly grope in hope,
faintly in tune with the needle on the clock,
until it's key is unwound,
And the moment of truth arrives,
so much without fanfare,
if life is so fully of irony, as I am afraid it is,
that is when the key is found.

Vanity in writing

2006-07-12T15:36:00.000-07:00

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.
- Henry David Thoreau

And I'm left speechless.

I wonder now why I write at all.

I like to write,yes, but why? Is it in part because it silently fuels the raging fire inside me that is my ego? Or maybe, like Walden said, it's plain vanity?

The-State-of-the-art

2006-07-02T18:03:00.000-07:00

I'm a piece of art, yes, just a piece, partly-done,
an unfinished canvas, the paint still wet,
but already,I'm quite summarily abandoned,
and no, the painter didnt forget

what he wanted to do with me,
Nor was it for want of a better palette
But the truth is quite plain to see,
He walked out on me without regret

For sure, he cant risk his name,
Or hurt his ego and fame, no he cannot,
He's already imagined the pathetic shame
When the critics call me "the-state-of-the-art".

He's dissatisfied that I'm not fit to be seen,
I'm rubbish, because he doesn't see what I am,
but only what I could have been,
because when the ship sinks, I'm the only jetsam,

In just another relationship killed by expectation,
Where everything is meant to be a thing of beauty
There's bound to be intellectual assasination,
Surely, when destiny does it's duty.

A silent musing

2006-06-23T10:11:00.000-07:00

I am the man in God,
and I seek the God in man,
Yet, no man is God,
Even as God is in all.

Every man has a beginning
and each meets his end,
but the One that is never born
has been there forever.

As in all grain there is husk,
and in all fire there is smoke,
In all men there is evil
but also a Light inside.

In each soul, the weights of Alpha and Beta grow,
Though good and bad are not written in stone,
Alpha times One plus Beta times Zero
Is the sum of life, to each his own.

A new pair

2006-06-17T16:17:00.000-07:00

At a quarter past five, ten minutes past the appointed time, Deepa walked into the trendy Cafe Coffee Day (or CCD, as some would say) store on M.G.Road, which was considered by most young people in Bangalore to be the coolest place north of Antarctica. Atleast it was more "happening" than Antarctica!

"I'm so utterly sorry I am late", she blurted instantly with a sheepish smile on her face as she spotted him at the table to her right. She knew she would have been quite cross with him for being late on the first date, but then she knew he would not, after all it was the first date.

"That's fine, I haven't been here long", he lied. He was there a good half an hour before the appointed time, and had seen her get off an auto and walk into the mall across the road. He had not seen her walking down the steps of the mall with a spring in her stride, quite literally. She had just bought a brand new pair of shoes, a pair of love heels, as they were called, a bit like small stilettos. Infact, she had worn it right away, neatly tucking away her old shoes in the box that came along with the new pair.

"So, Deepa...",he broke the silence and felt quite good calling her name before continuing, "... what would you like to have?"

"A mocha, perhaps", she replied with the casual confidence of a CCD veteran.

"Well, goes with me too".

And then they talked at length on all these things that a girl of 17 and a boy of 21 talk in Bangalore. When it was time for her to go home,he dropped her off on his bike at her house, which he had known since the first day he took tuitions for class XII, about three years ago. He had seen her watering the plants quietly on the balcony of an apartment on the second floor, as he walked into the tutor's apartment on the ground floor. From that day on, no motivation was necessary to take tuitions.

As she turned to go, he said dreamily, "You know, on days when you did not come out to the balcony to water the plants, I used to be so distraught and disoriented that one day I wore my left slippers on the right, and vice versa, and walked all the way home, and realised it only when my mom pointed it to me."

She laughed sweetly, then smiled radiantly, then blushed adorably. "You know", she said," I bought these shoes specially for today? I love them, and you know what they are called - love heels!"

"Quite appropriately, don't you think....they look just perfect on you!"

"Thanks, I've got to be going now, see you soon".

"Okay, see you so soon, good night."

They met often afterwards, once a few days, then once a day, then a few times a day. Soon, it was January, and when she told her parents about him, they advised her to be friends with him for now, and that things can be taken forward at a suitable time. He went off on work to Bombay every once a while, and would bring her something pretty each time.

She felt an incredible joy in seeing him so completely lost in her, but it also meant she missed him terribly those few days he was away on work. It was like the sun shining magnificently through a long,warm summer interspersed with spurts of showers from passing clouds.

And then came the winter.

She nearly fainted when she heard of his accident. He was driving back home after dropping her off on an ill-fated November evening, and had been injured severely. They had gone out to a pub and he probably had one drink too many. She was inconsolable in the waiting room of the hospital, even as his parents prayed while the doctors operated on him. Eventually, he was saved, but his right leg had to be amputated.

She could not recover from the shock. She broke down everytime she had to help him walk with crutches. Soon her parents realised this could not go on. They decided to move out of Bangalore, for their daughter. She resisted, shouted, cried, but yielded.

And when the packers arrived to help them move, a small pair of love heels stared at Deepa from the shoe rack. And she looked at them, with moist eyes as her mother grasped her hands.Then the mother calmly said what Deepa did not have the heart to say, "Leave those shoes behind, they don't fit anymore. We will get a new pair."

The long littleness of life...

2006-05-31T07:07:00.001-07:00

"A young Apollo, golden-haired,
Stands dreaming on the verge of strife,
Magnificently unprepared
For the long littleness of life."

- Frances Cornford(1908)

I came across these lines a few years back. The verses struck a chord with me everytime I thought of the countless dreams, hopes and aspirations of the beautiful, young people the world over.

The long littleness of life.

To me, these four lines, in many ways, captured the great dilemma of the romantic idiot in all of us. Until, I read about Rupert Brooke, that is.

Frances Cornford, the granddaughter of Charles Darwin, wrote these memorable, beautiful lines about Rupert Brooke, an incredibly gifted poet himself, but more importantly a man who had such a charming personality and believed to have been so stunningly beautiful that W.B. Yeats called him "The most handsome man in England."

Rupert Brooke was only 21 when Frances Cornford wrote this poem about him. After two unsuccessful relationships with women he had fallen head over heels in love with, Rupert Brooke became gradually disillusioned and afraid of committing himself to anyone, so much so that he remained mostly lonely and depressed. He died when he was only 27, due to blood poisoning contracted from a neglected mosquito bite in the Aegean in the early months of the First World War.

And Winston Churchill, the then First Lord of Admiralty wrote about him,

"The thoughts to which he gave expression in the very few incomparable war sonnets which he has left behind will be shared by many thousands of young men moving resolutely and blithely forward into this, the hardest, cruellest, and the least-rewarded of all the wars that men have fought. They are a whole history and revelation of Rupert Brooke himself. Joyous, fearless, versatile, deeply instructed, with classic symmetry of mind and body, he was all that one would wish England's noblest sons to be in days when no sacrifice but the most precious is acceptable, and the most precious is that which is most freely proffered."

The long, tragic littleness of life indeed.

I love you....because

2006-05-19T11:34:00.000-07:00

I love you
because

we share common interests like gardening, and crosswords,
where I like the words that go down, and you the ones across

I love you,
I love you because,

although marriage is a not-for-profit institution
its simply better not to make a loss

I love you, oh so,
I love you because,

you're rich and I'm gorgeous, and together
we can hear them say the oohs and the aahs

I love you, I do,
I love you because,

our love will be like a roller-coaster with remote control;
so we can skip the lows, and in the highs we can pause,

I love you,I love you,
I love you because,

Though I don't like your siblings,
your parents will make nice in-laws

I love you,I love you,
I love you because,

you're impatient and I'm understanding,
and if all the world's a stage, our play can be a farce

I love you, love you, love you,
And I love you because,

you'll lead your your life, and I'll lead mine
there'll be total independence and nothing to call ours.

The cold sounds of silence

2006-05-13T21:00:00.000-07:00

It was a very special moment for Kumar and Gauri. Joy so undescribably obvious on their faces as they look at each other and smile knowingly, Gauri still lying in the bed and Kumar by her side as he takes her hand in his and holds it firmly, as if to say, we've made it. And they look to the right of the bed with a genuine pride and warmth: their just-born baby in the cradle. If the happiness in seeing the precious form of their baby was infinite, the anguish of not being able to hear the baby's cries was a million times more intense, only that it remained within their hearts and moistened their eyes. They were both deaf and mute.

A few years later...

The boy came running inside, visibly excited by what he had seen outside in the street in front of his house: a snake charmer. He was four and adorable. He had been playing with his mother at home, when he looked out the window to see a small crowd gathering. He had rushed out to see what it was about. Mama quietly followed him until the threshold and returned inside.

They were a poor family - one of the thousands in Mumbai - living in a house that Kumar's small earnings could barely afford. He earned his living by selling vegetables from a small push-cart in the nearby middle-class residential localities. He left home at five each morning to buy vegetables from the farmers from the north of Mumbai, and returned home after seven in the evening. The boy intently observes the snake's movements and imitates the snake charmer's action of playing the pipe with his fingers, just as the other kids on the road were doing. He was ecstatic as he came back running in to his mother. Now, he would eagerly wait for his father to bring him a small packet of peppermints, as he did everyday.

As Kumar came back home after a long summer day, his son came rushing with his hands forming a shape of the pipe used by the snake charmer, shaking his head to go with the movements of his hands. The boy then tries to tell his father he wants to become a snake-charmer too. The words do not come out of his mouth. Of course, the father cannot hear. He doesn't know that the boy can no longer speak, or hear. He doesn't know that it was because of their not being able to communicate with him. And as the mother brings them both something to eat for the night, gesturing to her husband to wash his hands, and the boy still lost in imitating the snake-charmer's action, one but just wonders when and how the parents might realise the truth. Until then, the house will be filled with the cold sounds of silence.

What might be

2006-05-06T22:54:00.000-07:00

From where I stand I see, a road,
so long
and so far straight ahead,
as far as my eyes can see
narrowing with every step, it appears
until it merges with the sky
and the nothingness beyond.

From where I stand I hear, sweet notes
of another tomorrow,
of what might be,
in the world beyond the long and straight road.

Off the highway,
behind the trees, tucked away,
snugly,
along the green slopes
flows a small stream
of music.

I should be getting back,
on to the long and straight road again,
paved out just for you and me.
No, sire, no distractions
now as far as the eyes can see.

But I'm thirsty,
and as I bend down to sip,
my mind is calculating,
how far I could have gone,
on the long and straight road by now.

It's magical,
no nectar
could be sweeter,
and no ocean deeper,
than this stream of music,
heavenly,
unearthly, divine.

I could have been one of them,
passers-by on the long and straight road,
driving into the sunset,
oblivious to the unmatched joys
of these still waters.

But I'm still thirsty
and I no longer think
of the highway
that I have left behind,
and I drown,
and I drown
quietly
into the sacred depths,
getting high the right way.

Reality checked

2006-04-27T13:19:00.000-07:00

Slow,
beautiful,
young,
bright,
colourful,
warm,
lively,
sweet dreams
meet
a cold,
quick,
evil,
dark,
sudden,
bloody,
gory death.

Reality checked.

The Five Virtues

2006-04-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

On some instinct, I decided to think about and list down the five most desirable and adorable traits, that in my opinion, form the basis of great character in a man/woman. I am certainly aware that there are many other virtues that I adore in great people, but I decided to focus my thoughts on just the five virtues that I would like to develop in myself, which led me to blog about it because I do think there is a fair chance that these thoughts, as well as my choices for these attributes may be shared by others as well. Just as a note, I did not rank these five attributes in any particular order, nor did I choose any attributes that are gender-specific. I do recognize the fact that I may have been biased in my thoughts, and while I made a conscious effort to thresh out any prejudices, obviously there is bound to be some bias as these are based on my individual experiences, observations, reading and cogitations and simply, my life.

As always - you and I – we are two different people, and we will have differences, and I will be glad to know what you think would be your chosen five. Probability demands that we have a few in common, but how many out of five? I recommend that you pick your own five after careful thought before you scroll down to see mine, so that you are free of bias.

Honesty

Humility

Courage

Gratitude

Patience

And after I made this list, as an afterthought, it struck me that the idea of five attributes goes well with the five elements of the world: air (wind), water, fire, earth and sky (space). On thinking further, I realized I could possibly make some connections between the five traits and the five elements:

Water – clear; transparent; pure -> Honesty

Earth - massive; great; yet small -> Humility

Fire – heat; energy; strength ->Courage

Air (wind) - vital for life; powerful, yet not self-made -> Gratitude

Space (sky) - all encompassing; still; calm-> Patience

A failed attempt at poetry

2006-04-12T06:41:00.000-07:00

You hate poems with long verses

So obviously squeezed in for the sake of the rhyme,

Or simply for flimsy humour, but you think much worse is

One that ends as if the poet had run out of time.

Rumours abound lately that hovering across the cyberspace,

And at ungodly hours appearing, is a writer of formidable lunacy,

Anon is his name as he blogs without a face,

The garbage that he writes is just about all you can see.

Like, If Shakespeare had been a pugilist,

A pen being mightier than a sword or a glove,

Could he have still written with a clenched fist?

Or would he be knocked-out by now?

See, you're annoyed and hurt, not the least amused,

And well, yes, the only reason why,

The pain, sometimes, is fractionally reduced,

Is because you realise that you're lucky, and it is not a lie,

That most of his readers have died, some instantly others slowly, bored

You are terror-struck and want to survive, so seek mercy at his virtual feet,

As he wickedly continues to type, "Fear no more, I shall save you with my keyboard",

And quietly presses the three magical keys called Ctrl-Alt-Delete.

The Arunagiri Diaries: The Encounter

2006-03-31T22:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a big day for me. It’s days like these that get you wondering whether you are a new age rationalist with traces of faith in fate, or a strong believer in destiny with only the occasional sparks of suspicion. And I am still wondering.

I remember the exact words - his first words to me yesterday when I was introduced to him by our now common friend Arunagiri: "It is good to set your eyes on where you want to go in life, but it is just as good to keep your eyes open to where life takes you". I heard his voice first, a good few seconds before my eyes could spot him.

I slept fitfully last night. This simple utterance kept haunting me in my dreams and even my thoughts, during the brief periods when I did fall asleep, were about the same: the face, the voice, the unlikely manner of the first meeting, and beyond all that, the stunning realization that this was a sequence of events that was meant to happen just the way it did.

After an unsuccessful outing on a long first day, we were disappointed and tired to the point of being groggy, but thankfully we got back to the hotel before dark. At dinner, Raghu seemed uneasy about something, possibly a twisted ankle, but more likely, generally indisposed after the adventures, or the lack of it, on the first day. I found out yesterday morning that he was down with fever and although the febrifuge had done it's bit, he really did not look like he was going to help himself greatly by joining me up the hill. So, I advised him to take rest for the day, and assured him that I would return well before dark.

By noon I had climbed a quarter of the way up and honestly, I felt the climb was getting tougher without Raghu around. Even though I had no companion to talk to, I must say Arunagiri was a dear, and made me feel quite at home. After I had reached Sunshine point from the east side - this was a particular clearing in the forest which Raghu and I had similarly reached the day before yesterday - I decided to change course and climb up from the west slopes. It was Raghu's suggestion to use this clearing as a point of rest and reference, and we named it Sunshine point, because of the generous amounts of sunlight in this clearing, in stark contrast to the shady greens on the slopes directly above and below it. There was also a small rock face here that jutted out at an angle, spitting out a thin trickling cascade of water. It was late afternoon when I had reached near the top-most flats of the hill, and uninterestingly, without any major adventures. Close to the top, I arrived at what looked like an abandoned temple. From a distance, it looked like any other temple, although it was curiously smaller, no larger than two railway compartments placed along their lengths. Two frail-looking columns invited you on one end, and there was not even a prominent gopuram, so typical of South Indian temples. Instead, there was only a small conical finish at the top, over which there fluttered an orange flag.

I briefly wandered inside to pray to the deity in the temple. As I looked through the gate - a sturdy iron molded into grills forming patterns of squares and diamonds - I could not see the idol. There was no idol inside! I was intrigued, as I had never before seen a temple without the idol of the presiding deity. I looked around to see if there was anyone, and let out a small loud sigh, to attract the attention of anyone who might be around – frankly, I did this only to convince myself that it was safe to go closer to have a better look in. Then, as I slowly walked up towards the sanctum sanctorum, I noticed that the gate was in fact, locked. I took quick and uncertain steps, and peered inside behind the grills, and although it wasn’t very bright, I saw clearly: there was nothing inside. I pressed my face against the gate and looked askance into the dark corners, still, nothing.

I was about to turn around and walk back to resume my pursuit, when my eyes fell on something inside the sanctum sanctorum, in the near corner: the perfectly still hood of a snake, right in behind the gate. Never before had I seen a snake any closer than from where I stood then: a silly six feet separated me from the perfectly poised serpent.

In an instant, I pushed against the gate, jumped back, turned around and ran. I did not even turn to see where the serpent was, or whether, in fact, it was behind me after all, nor did I care to know which direction I was running in. All I knew was that I had to run for my life, and run I did. Until, I tripped over something and fell flat on my face. Too tired to get up, I lay there on the ground, panting heavily, when I heard those words: "It is good to set your eyes on where you want to go in life, but it is just as good to keep your eyes open to where life takes you"

For a few moments I did not quite register the fact that I heard someone speak, let alone understand what was said. I turned my head, still lying on the ground, trying to make sense of it. I found no one. Then, all at once, those words rang in my ears. And that’s when I looked back to see what I had tripped over. There, lying peacefully on his back, stretching the long legs that I had ostensibly tripped over, and presently looking up at the sky, was the man who had just spoken.

I felt an electrifying shiver in my spine. And a cold drop of sweat on my eyebrow.

Attractiveness in mates: Research on a Gult perspective

2006-03-28T17:57:00.000-08:00

The attractiveness of Gult guys - as proposed by T.S.V.S.V.S.V.S.M.N Rao(1983), and agreed upon by “a reasonably large” percentage of experts on the subject, also subsequently verified by lie detector tests conducted on a sample of 439 Gult guys in the range of 25-29 years and 345 Gult girls in the range of 22-26 years - is expressed by an equation,

A = P raised to the power of (g multiplied by S)

where P is the value of the property owned by the guy (in crore rupees, round off to the next integer, please),
g is boolean which is 1 if he holds a Green-card, and 0 if he doesn’t,
S is the annual salary in U.S dollars after tax deductions, less the average wasteful expenditure* in the last five years( to the uninitiated, this includes cars, bikes, gizmos, gadgets; *ladies jewelry is not considered wasteful), and
A is the attractiveness measured as the probable time(measured in seconds) that an average Gult woman will even consider him as a prospective partner for life.

Venukonda Nagavenkata Satya Srinivasa Reddy(1999) proposed an addendum to this body of research, suggesting that the same equation is applicable to the attractiveness of Gult girls,with minor modifications:

the parameter g is replaced by h, where h is 1 if the girl has no brothers, and is 0 if she has.
P is the value of the property owned by the girl's dad. Oh, and yes, S is the annual salary in rupees of the girl’s dad, the usual rules again.

References:
1. How to marry a Gult, for Dummies? Aaxfard University Press, 1983. Reprinted 1999.

The Arunagiri Diaries

2006-03-19T16:08:00.000-08:00

Early last year, I made a startling discovery. I chanced upon it when I was clearing an old trunk from the attic yesterday. There was a set of books that smelt their age, some partially- torn diaries, papers, maps, photographs and other assortments that must have belonged to my uncle Srinivasan, about whom I knew very little until I found this. The proper thing to do would have been to burn them or discard them, but curiosity got the better of me. I must confess my curiosity was rekindled by the thought, even a fear, that my uncle might have been a great mathematician whose works were so far condemned to my attic, and that to destroy them might be an injustice to his genius. As it turned out, I was both right and wrong. Wrong, because Srinivasan Vaideeswaran was not a mathematician and right, because as you will read below, one of those diaries, though partly destroyed contained several rare first-hand accounts and chronicles that truly deserved preservation. Unfortunately, there are only a few pages which are today in any legible condition, and I have reproduced here, in full, a few of these pages, arranged chronologically.

4/03/78

There are few people in the world who have combined the contradictory forces of mysticism, madness and maturity into a potent philosophy as well as the man they call Maniyaru. He has been only recently written about by most self-respecting dailies, described either as a cult-guru or just as a supremely approachable philosopher. Sitting in the cradle of one of Tamil Nadu's most orthodox and religious belts, he has on more than one occasion spoken words of such terrible simplicity that the theists and atheists alike shuddered in awe and disbelief. As soon as they recovered from the spells cast by these magic words, they unabashedly resumed in their mundane debates and bickering about the nature and existence of God.

He was unlike any other man of wisdom of this age. He propounded no faith; he taught no method to reach the absolute, and spoke no ambiguous sophism - and yet that was his philosophy and that was his secret charm. He did not ridicule the practitioners of the most organized religions of the world, nor did he insinuate anything against the nihilists and the non-believers.

Some scholars said he was a doctor in the meta-physical domain. Others said he was just a lucky lunatic. Maniyaru could not care less. The most publicised piece of information about him was that he consumed a small amount of poison every day. And unlike other stories written about him, this was the one true story, verified by his own admission that he believed the right amount of poison at regular intervals was the secret to a long and healthy life. It should be no surprise then that this man is believed to have been climbing the Arunagiri mountain everyday for the last 48 years. Although no one knows where he was born or when, conservative estimates indicate that he is atleast 96 years old today.

Having heard only very recently about the man, and totally mesmerised by what was said about him, Raghu and I required no further motivation to set out to meet this strange man. We packed a few bags full of clothes, a Minolta camera and some munchables, and left by the 6.a.m train out of Bombay to Madras. After the train snailed into Madras Central at 10 a.m. yesterday, the 3rd of March 1978, we took a bus further south to the temple town of Madurai, and after some refreshments, we travelled further to the small town of Arunagiri, where we arrived late last night, tired, yet somewhat refreshed with the prospect of an exciting day today.

We left our small room in the lodge early in the morning, to ensure that we give ourselves the earliest chance of spotting him. Besides this would also give us so much longer to attempt to talk to him, if we did find him. And in the sweet mellow light of dawn, we walked steadily, towards the hill that now symbolized the single-minded pointedness of our pursuit, as much as it symbolized the unexplored facets of the man we were hoping to have an encounter with.

By quarter past eight, we had climbed to almost a fifth of the height of the hill, and in doing so, we also realised that Arunagiri was actually a pretty neat stretch from an adventurer's perspective, and even in the absence of a motivation as strong as the one we had, people should be gladly willing to go trekking around here. There was a densely vegetated area at the foot of the hills and as you climbed up there were progressively taller and fewer trees, but at each stage of ascent, I felt like I was developing an ever-so-subtly increasing familiarity with the hill. It almost felt like the first stages of a friendship, replete with little hesitant introductions and conscious smiles interspersed with short gusts of small talk.

I do not know today how long this friendship will last, but I have a reasonable intuition that it will last for a while, because the friendships in life that last the longest are those that are secured by the undiminishing power of admiration yet unchained by any need imposed by the rationality of the selfish mind.

(.....the other pages to follow...)

A prayer for Pati

2006-03-14T20:45:00.000-08:00

My dearest Pati had an accidental fall a few days back. She is going to be operated upon for a fracture. I pray to God that she has a successful surgery, and a complete recuperation soon after and indeed for her good health.

I have written it down because I believe that when you pray for someone other than your self, they are definitely answered.

An (Unfinished) Autobiography of an Afterthought - Part II

2006-03-11T20:45:00.000-08:00

Foreword: This is Part-II of my brief autobiography. Part-I may be read here.

He wasn't his usual self today. The soft stop-go-stop whistle, that had been his usual companion on the walk back from his office to the subway station, was missing. He looked like a man possessed by a strange ghost that seemed to have robbed him of his emotive abilities. He walked in lazy steps, looking somewhere down in front of him, lost in thoughts, past familiar faces down the steps of the subway station on Canal Street - faces that he would greet with a gentle "Good evening, Mr. X" in the normal course of events on any other day, faces he had seen almost everyday, faces of people who today threw half-amused-half-surprised second-glances at the man who would usually respond with a smile to their "Hi Mohan!".

When you keep your share of worries, frustrations and sad thoughts to yourself, using them to slowly fill a small China cup that is your heart, two things can happen, eventually: one, the cup runs over, and flows out from your eyes or two, the China cracks.

In either case, people who care about you, usually know it before they give you a second glance. You cannot expect too many people to care about you at 7pm in a subway station in New York City, the world's loneliest city if your nearest loved ones are 7000 miles away.

Mohan stops abruptly. He hears the train approaching. He waits for the alighting passengers to clear the way into the train, and quietly steps in. He doesn't care to look for a seat; he stands and stares into blankness. His lips don't twitch, nor does his gaze shift from a direction looking out the glazed windows, scratched and abused by years of blatant incivility of uneducated commuters and advertising-obsessed corporations.

I am observing him now, his mind completely preoccupied with haunting memories. Memories of a long-lost past, previously condemned to an isolated corner of the mind, with a post-it that reads Touch-me-not. But touch he did today, and how?

Afterthoughts like me are extremely powerless sometimes, and this is one of those moments. I did not expect to enter a mind so stirred with emotional precipitate. Apparently, not everything dissolves with time. Some memories are like undigested bitter pills, swallowed with difficulty, but still to dissolve after eternity, merely settling down at the bottom. And when these memories don't dissolve, it only takes a few moments of stirring to make a clear liquid into a turbid mass, so opaque and so ugly with suspended thoughts that nothing except prolonged inaction will ensure any return to clarity.

Mohan took up a job as a journalist with The Global Times in New York City about four years ago. He had no family here. The only human form at his house other than himself was the man in the mirror. His parents stayed in Kerala in India, and were a happy couple, grateful in the knowledge that their only child was well-educated and well-off. Their only wish left unfulfilled was that Mohan should start a family of his own soon. He was thirty-three and single, and in India that wasn't the most socially acceptable status. Mohan's parents had brought it up with him on his last two visits to India in the summers; he had politely declined any discussions on the matter the first time, and the second time, he told them a story that was to prevent them from ever bringing up the matter again. His story. A love story.

Mohan now gets out of the train, and walks slowly toward the exit. I see what his mind is upto. Should he call home and talk to his mother? He decides against it - might be too early for her in India. His mother usually woke up around 6 a.m - another ten minutes, perhaps. Mohan realises he has gotten off at the wrong station, he should have gotten off one stop before Church Street. Too much going on in the head today. He can't be faulted for not remembering that today is Janmashtami, the festival celebrating the birth of Lord Krishna in India. His mother was already awake, and had taken her bath and said her daily prayers; she was actually expecting Mohan to call her anytime now. Mothers know their sons so well. I help Mohan decide. He picks up the phone again and dials home again.

"Hello Amma", his first words in the last two hours, and fittingly to his mother, in a Malayalam-accented Tamil.

"Mohan? How are you? Good morning..sorry, Good evening. I was just thinking of you, I knew you would call today, as you always do". "You sound tired, are you home or still at work? Is anything the matter?"

Some lies are pardonable. "I am fine, just have a head-ache. Is Appa awake?.....no, I am fine....nothing at all, just felt like talking to you and Appa....oh? I didn't remember, today is Janmashtami....don't strain yourself by making too many sweets and snacks....Okay, I'll talk to Appa...", as he takes the steps, then across the road and to the other side of the subway station.

"Hi Mohan! Happy Janmashtami to you. Amma has made seedai for you. Eat some sweets tomorrow morning", his father said warmly,continuing,"....Mohan, speak louder, I can't hear you clearly..."

"Nothing, I just said I may not be able to eat sweets tomorrow, let me see...", said Mohan, his turbid thoughts further stirred by some more worried thinking. The train is approaching. The rattle-rumble of the oncoming train getting louder, every moment.

Oh, no ! I didn't see this coming. No, please Mohan, relax. I have to stop watching and get working in his mind, before he does something stupid.

"Where are you? You are not at home, it appears...your voice is not very clear...", his father shouted into the phone.

"I am in a subway station..."

"Okay, go home and call us later....oh, wait your mother wants to say something".

"No...I...it's okay, I will not call again now...just wanted to speak to you...okay Appa, take care of your health, take care of Amma....yes..I'll talk to Amma". He gets into the train.

Phew!I almost had a heart-attack here. I'm glad you are safe and inside the train, Mohan. For all the tough-guy image I have told you about myself, I am quite a chicken-heart.

"Hi Amma, ......no, I am not silent...I am saying that I love you.....yes Amma, ....always....no, Amma I won't call again now...some other time....you take care,please take care of your health, take care of Appa, and pray for me.....okay Amma, thank you Amma....good night...........yes, I am on the line still....nothing....just wanted to hear your voice....no, nothing...okay, you and Appa go to the temple...bye Amma", he closes his eyes and forces himself to cut the line.

Mohan gets off the train. I must confess I am relieved now, as Mohan walks on, thinking of his parents, leather-bag in hand. In another time zone, his mother and father smile at each other. His mother walks off into the kitchen and his father sits down by the phone. Mohan walks on, now at the end of the platform, just by the flight of steps that take him home. I see Mohan stop in his track, turn-around, stand still, then turn around again. The tears threaten to flow down his dry cheeks, they cover his pupils, as people walk behind him and in front of him, even as he sees the train rattling past him and ruffling his hair, as it leaves the station.

He had tried, for two years now, to take it in his stride.
He had tried, for two years now, to wear a smile and ignore the painful prick of the past.
He had tried, for two years now, to live without defining an immediate purpose to his life.
He had tried, for two years now, to hide his gradual emotional wrecking from his parents.
He had tried, for two years now, to fight the inevitability of tomorrow by the power of sheer hope and courage.

In Kerala, his mother is pouring her husband his second cup of hot coffee of the morning. He stands like a statue on a deserted subway station, a hundred thousand volts passing through his brain, his thoughts speeding uncontrollably on an over-congested mental highway, now approaching a red signal. He doesn't hear the sound of the next train approaching. His thoughts are not slowing down at all, if anything they're only faster now.

I need to put the brakes on his thoughts; this is probably going to be the most important time for afterthought in Mohan's life. In his mind the thoughts are still speeding, no room for another thought here.

He sees the train through the corner of his eyes. The tear drop still intact in his eyes, as he stands motionless, almost as if his incredible mental activity has rendered him paralysed and unable to make any physical movement. An afterthought is invaluable in a world like this, filled with billions of thoughts, hopes and dreams.

The train stops at the station, far to his left. Mohan's mother walks out with the cup of coffee for his father, the air filled with the smell of coffee. Elsewhere, the air is pregnant with tension. Mohan's hand trembles slightly, and the leather-bag falls to the ground, a few books and papers partly slip out.

"Here is your cup of coffee", says Mohan's mother and extends the porcelain cup to her husband. I am just about to enter her mind and make her remember to say,"Please be careful, the cup is very hot!", when in New York, Mohan clinches his fist, and steps forward to throw himself in the path of the train.

God!

The thoughts jumped the red signal.

The China breaks. One instant. Two places.

Ten minutes later, the police arrive on the scene; an officer bends down to pick up the bag dropped on the platform. He sees an envelope: a suicide letter, he thinks. Opens to read it: Satish weds Radha, a small fateful card announces.

Sometimes the wind blows hot, sometimes it blows cold. Sometimes, the wind blows too late.

P.S: This incident affected me deeply enough to make me decide not to continue writing my autobiography anymore. Apologies to one and all.