Run, kid, run

Why stop now, kid?
Run along
For the day will become night.
And running makes
A day out of night.

You gotta get there
Which is not here.
You get to do something
More than simply
Hanging around.
Run along, kid.

What do you think
You will get from life?
Run and you'll know.
You gotta know
What you want.
And more importantly,
How to recognise it.

Run along, kid.
Life is not for those who sit
Life is not for me
For I have run years
And fallen flat on my face.
But, run along, kid.

Really?

Do read this article:
http://go.reuters.com/newsArticle.jhtml?type=oddlyEnoughNews&storyID=12599331&src=rss/oddlyEnoughNews

Things can't get funnier. What did the head abbot expect them to do while watching a match? Count rosaries? And is it evil to watch a match? Just thinking... Would love to hear your opinion on the evil quotient of watching matches... :-)

Decadence

Don't let me go.
Don't let me go.
I press my hands to the walls, these soft walls covered with her blood. I don't want to go. It might be the right thing to do. It might be the most virtuous thing to do, but I don't want to let go off this. Here is where I learnt love, here is where I was drowned in the affection and completeness of her. Why should I let go of all this for the sake of this world? What will the world give me? Will the world understand such love? Such passion? Won't it call me names when I pronounce my affair while I go betrothed to the world and its people one after another? What joy shall I get beyond the bliss that I have?
I press myself and cling to the walls as fate and she push me away. She is crying, I know, but why? I want to be with her, forever. Is that unacceptable?
I drown in a concoction of my ideals and passion, only to find it draining on me. Alas! what irony that the drowned lose their life because they were brought to dry land. Have you ever known how it is to have your breath leave you, visibly, noisely? Ask a dead man, but how would you ever know how to talk to the dead? Ask the man who feels his tongue sinking into his mouth as he watches life and his breath leave him, like a blanket pulled off a naked man in the Arctic. A ghastly revelation that the life breath that you breathed, that you thought was yours, that you thought made you and connected you to the Eternal, is not that. Lie down and watch life and love leave you, slipping from over your torso, leaving a crumbling rib cage behind, like the aftermath that trails the path of a gnawing tornado... life sliding over you and down between your legs. You raise your head ever so slightly, with the vain hope that it might see the love in your eyes and return, but it spirals down and out of your vision.
I am losing my grip and the hand of Providence is of iron as it pushes me further and further away from what I hold true, what I love.
She screams.
So do I.
She wants me no longer with her, in her, of her.
I shall yield.
I let go.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

"Congratulations Mrs. Bhatnagar. It's a boy."

I look at her ruddy face as she gazes at my blood smeared visage.
You let Him slice the cord that held us!?
Why do you cry now?
You are happy?
Don't lie to me... don't.
For old times sake.
Don't.

Straight spines tingle me...

I am married to the ideal of being promiscuous. I fail to see the reason in being singularly dedicated to a single book. I find little reason to hold one book superior or more arousing than another. The delicacy of a book is never lessened by the sensation coursing my ocular tongue as it gapes through the pages of another book. I cannot but help find myself helpless in the midst of such intoxicating entities such as books. Books, dear, are my undoing, that is, apart from Italy (and things Italian) and women (and fine feminine wonders)! But unlike the latter pair, I feel safer to confess to my infidelity in the company of books, for patriotism and societal morals paint me a lesser man in the wake of other innocent confessions.

A bookstore is nothing short of an orgy. Consider the sheer delight of books beckoning with the slight twist of a finger and a lascivious glance as they colour the shelves arranged in a pitiably military manner. Why, books aren't meant to line indifferent wooden cabinets but should be tastefully placed bringing strong men to their knees. Care and cosseting is never enough or in excess when the target of such affection is an array of splendid books (sorry, chick-lit is excluded). Bookstores (at least in India) seem to spend very little time considering design and seduction. A reader must be invited into the midst of stylish books and never coaxed into wishing to possess one or rather being possessed. Of course, I find it bad taste when someone picks but one book and heads straight to the payment counter. Oh dear! Is that all you wanted? You should have read the newspaper instead! I, for one, can't stop with one. One as a number suits many occasions and rituals, but books surely aren't one of them.

I have a fetish for hardbound books. I pick an interesting book and then whistle away as I look around ensuring that people are busy in their personal affairs and in a flash open it somewhere near the middle and dive between to smell the gum and aging paper. Aaaah! Who needs a Chanel No. 5? The holy trinity of books, food and women can out-do the other, but I still feel that books hold a greater power over me (for I have skipped my dinners and women-friends while in the company of a book). A friend of mine once divulged that the best way to lose me is to lead me into a bookstore and leave immediately. I understood the former part of the demarche but failed to understand why she had added the latter. She later told me, "E, its like why I come to you when I have to get on a diet. The way you describe food to me, I feel like I am having a feast of carrots and juices/ambrosia. I can't let that happen to me in a bookstore."


Paperbacks, of late, are brilliant too. Have you run your finger over the cover of books published by Signet or Vintage (not all)? Close your eyes and shut off all the unnecessary things of this world (which is everything but the wonderful maiden you hold in your hands). Run a finger delicately from the lower left corner of the book to the top left corner. Do you feel the bevel of the title and maybe the author? Oh! Please try it again. Slowly dear, for a woman can never be rushed. I would do it differently. Have you ever held a long satin sash in your hands and lightly flicked it in the air like what makes a whip crack? Preferably choose a red sash if you stand on a meadow against a clear sky. If the sky is clouded and the earth is devoid of the green blush, you might prefer a golden sash, perhaps? The elongated "S" shape is the divine inspiration behind the pattern that the fleshy side of my index finger traces along the cover. Delicious! Penguin, with their orange slaps along the spine, need a change. It is unfortunate if the story is packed in jarring colours and textures which better suit a monitor lizard.

As I mentioned earlier, designing places for books is essential and cannot be
treated as a matter to be disposed of to the hands of a kafir. When I say places, I do not stop with the introduction of appropriate racks and shelves. Why, a reader is vital, isn't she? Where will you host her? Atop that oak shelf? Bear with me while I retch (of course, outside the bookstore). Soft cushion chairs to relax and maybe bean bags. Tables on which heavier books can be placed and reading lamps would be so welcome. Alcoves where a book is being read and a coffee shop with old books would complete the picture so wonderfully. Food and books don't always go together, hence people shouldn't be allowed to take books into the coffee shop or coffee into the bookshop. Simple and thoughtful gestures like cushions which a reader can pick up and drop down near a nook to get the feel of a book or those wooden book rests (which so many people think are only good for holding the Gita or some religious text) would be perfect.

A book should be housed in a manner that befits her mettle and should be attractive to the audience that she would draw. I love designing bookshelves, and of course, filling them with companions for a lifetime. Amongst the ones I designed I only have the sheets for about 2-3 of them. One of them is shaped like a pyramid (in 2-D) with glass and lighting and another is designed like stairs along the wall in a manner quite different. The CCD of my camera has some trouble, else I would have uploaded the pictures of the sketches and design dimensions. The most essential elements of a well designed bookshelf are sufficient lighting, shade and supporting material. Placing books on iron racks without protection or against the window, exposing them to sunlight is genocide. Wooden (paper's grandpa) shelves are the best suited. Be sure to line them with dehumidifiers (e.g. silica gel). Direct light of any sort should be avoided. I would recommend posting a sentry to ensure that the crass do not fold paperbacks over their back, or lick their finger tips while paginating. Urgh! Be sure to clean the shelves often enough.

There is something about a purchase that calls for a lot of dreaming and cooing. Dainty baskets in which one piles books for future careful consideration are a delightful sight. Please spare time at large bookstores to watch fellow lovers or pseuds walk up and down with their baskets. Each container speaks tomes about the person. It is such a pleasure to amble along trying to understand the inner working of the handsome man as he smiles at a copy of The Magic Mountain and adjust his spectacles before he lovingly places it in his basket. Or that cute girl who is busy popping gum out of her curvaceous mouth and books by in authors into her basket. Well, the books in my basket reveal a lot about me too and I hold it close to my self. The satisfaction that I feel when I pick half a dozen books and convince my good-goody side that I will cut down next month, is immeasurable. The sheer sense of power I feel when I unload my cart (softly and carefully) and offer a card (depending on the time of the month) to swipe, as the finishing stroke of a winning day... Nirvana.

Bookstores also offer interesting incidents. One such incident was captured here.
My friend once asked me where I planned to take my wife on a honeymoon. I promptly replied that I would take her to a good bookstore. She smacked her forehead and said, "E, you have to take her to some new place."
"Ok... a new bookstore?"

Once, a lady walked up to me and spoke thus, "Excuse me, will you help me?" I wasn't one to refuse help on a lazy day.
"My daughter is interested in buying books. Could you suggest some good books?"
I was expecting a little girl in pigtails with a toothy smile to steal my heart and attention and I was disappointed to find a young girl, a few years younger than I, walk around a bookshelf towards me. I wanted to drop my jaw and books and shriek, "Buying books NOW!? What have you been doing for all your life?" but I let it pass and asked the embarrassed girl:
"So what do you like to do on a weekend? What in a story enthralls you? Which colour do you like on a Mercedes Benz SL65? Is ethics an issue that interests you? Do you..."
"I am sorry my mother troubled you. I was just looking around and I'll find a book. Thanks."
"Sure", I smiled and returned to my world of books.

How did her mother (who looked very impressed by the questions I shot out) expect me to suggest a book for a daughter without knowing anything about her? I hoped she realised that though the answers would have given me an insight into the working of the squishy mass in her daughter's cranial cavity, it was intended more to frighten than anything else. These "oh you must read it. Its so gooooooood" kind of statements are revolting, if not shallow. I need to know you, understand you before I can recommend anything for you, including books. Try ordering food for someone you love and for another person you have just met. Notice the difference.

At the end of the day What I always love to return to is a warm home with my room defined by many cabinets as the one below. I tried it many times, but most of the times I returned to find books lying sensuously and spread open on my bed. Did you know, that I sleep on the floor because I do not wish to disturb them? My mom thinks it is laziness. Oh god! When will she learn?

Trounced

I served him a deep laugh when he expected awe and respect, but isn't delirium the reward of deep wisdom? I put my hands on his shoulders and found that my thumbs touched each other, forming a tapering fleshy necklace of love around his tenuous throat. I went down on my haunches and found a littler me looking at myself from those black pearls gazing out of slippery white.

"I am sorry. I think you are right, and I was laughing at my stupidity for not seeing it."
He turned his head slightly looking at me askance with some suspicion, which is the unbecoming of human life. I nodded my head slowly, and cheer returned to his firm and throbbing cheeks.

"So, we should do that, right?"
"I think we should."
"But don't tell mommy. She doesn't like it."
"Doesn't like what?"

He looked down at his toes as he dug them deeper into the river silt. I started swaying him slowly, back and forth with my arms still on his shoulders and he smiled. The increasing pace tickled a broader smile and then a laugh out of him. The truth about his mother's discontent could wait.

"So, when do you think we should do it?"
"Of course, when they come to bathe!" He smacked his head and stood arms akimbo.
"Of course, silly me." I stood up and watched the silt dance like toothpaste from between my toes. He was watching it too.
"Chee chee, dirty."
I gave him a wicked smile and asked him, "Do you want to touch it?"
He didn't answer and bent down. He held a stiff index finger out and threatened the icing of silt around my feet.
"It's like on a cake", I said, which coaxed him into moving it faster toward the fresh, moist brown. He poked it a little and withdrew his hands in a shock.
"It's soft", he whispered and casually poked tiny craters into it with his finger. He attacked each bubble that broke out of the mud and soon started ferociously scrapping it all over my feet.

I picked him up around his waist and took him to the water. I washed my feet and dipped him parallel to the water surface. He was screeching and slapped the water while his soft hair flew wildly.
When we finally sat down under the tree, he hugged one thigh of mine and I could feel his excited chest beat softly against my inner thigh. I smiled to the back of his head and my joy burst through him and onto his lips.
"There! There they come."

I snapped in the direction he was pointing and watched them stroll with a maddening ease for their noon bath. I thought they were all alone, but spotted the half naked boy between them. They walked over to the bank and looked around to see if they were the only ones there. We were hiding behind the trunk and they didn't spot us. They slowly sank into the water and splashed around a bit. When the water buoyed them, they sighed in unison.
The boy stripped to his loin cloth and hurled himself into the water. He landed in their midst, flat on his back and slapped their bellies. They didn't even cringe.

"You sure?"I hissed into his ear. He started and shuddered around his neck. I mouthed a quick "sorry"
"I am not sure. Do you think it would work?" he asked while returning to watch them.
"I don't know. We could plant milk in the river and wait. How long did you say it would take to grow?"
"How do I know? The idea is mine, but these things I don't know."
"Hmmm"

He sat with his back to the tree and to the bathers. He was hesitating and he picked a twig and started scratching between the grass.
"What happened?"
"I don't know. What if mommy finds out?"
"What if the milk seeds do grow and we have a river of milk and all those cows and buffaloes are freed?"
"Yeah, but maybe someone else should do it."
"Hmmm."
"As in, I am still studying in the 1st standard."
"True."
"Maybe, you should go and do it as I planned and I will make sure no one comes and catches you."
"That is mighty kind of you, but I am not as brave as you are."
"I am not."

I sat down beside him and we looked straight ahead along the road which pierced the horizon into several corrugated roofed factories and mills. A distant windmill rolled and humoured a few crows.
"Maybe I will tell everyone in school tomorrow and everyone will know that it is my idea."
"But who will do it?"
He was silent and lazily scratched the grass. He tore some of the green blades and clutched them in his fist.
"I have to go now. Mommy will be waiting for me."
He got up and dusted the seat of his pants. He tugged his underwear out from between his buttocks and started walking away.
"Bye."
"Bye", he said and walked on. When he climbed over the road he turned around and saw me sitting there as he had left me.
"Mommy doesn't like me talking to you. She thinks you will spoil me. I have to go to school and become a big doctor."
He walked on towards where an otherwise infinite road stopped and festered with the intellectual commas of the human mind.

An Interesting Blog

I wanted to share this blog with avid readers. I find it interesting that Patrick captures his feel about each story that he reads. Coincidentally, we are reading the same book (O.Henry Prize 2006) and history reveals that there have been instances when we read the same stories (from VQR, AGNI, New Yorker, etc.). My interest in this website, I assure you, is only slightly influenced by this adventitious commonness... :-)

Check it out.

http://ireadashortstorytoday.com/

Speed Living

How many books have you read in May? 1? 5?
Have you rushed to read "A New Earth"?
Have you read all of Agatha Christie? Harry Potter?

I hear such questions often and stop to wonder. Each question represents a family of questions intending to reveal how voracious a reader you are, or how up-to-date you are or how much of a fan you are. But hardly does one ask questions to discuss how earnest a reader you are. Earnest is reading with all your heart and mind and body (oh! the body goes beyond the eyes and the hands holding the book!).

Have you read a book with all your heart and mind and body?
Have you tasted the words in a story?
Have you heard the tinkle and rustle of words like "tinkle" and "rustle"?
Have you heard the gruffness and whisper of characters in the stories you read, or were they quickly spat out in the hurry to know how the story ended and the next book picked off the rack?

In the omnipresent hurry of living, I realise that books and reading have also fallen victim to the crazily whirring hands on the clock. Books are meant to be relished and loved. Don't read a book you don't like if all it would give you is an entry into the literati! I love Woody Allen's quote in this regard:

I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involves Russia.

And to what benefit? Wouldn't it be better to have read but 5 books in a life time, but each one relished like your own child? To no avail is the grand title of a well-read man when all he might recall is the title, author and little else. If you could relish books and read many of them, I would like to meet you and learn how. A book is a relationship and I wonder how one can live it quickly. I shant go into the state of relationships as each one of us wears a different lens, but I beg you to read a book in order to make it a mate. Read deeply, imagine the character saying it, wonder what you would have said in reply to that character, be childlike in having clear emotions of love and hate for the characters who dance their lives across the page over the bumps of "m"s and deep valleys of "y"s.

But this involves spending time and a lot of it. Don't treat a book like an I-charge-by-the-hour shrink does his patients. Read the first few pages, and close your eyes. The scene should form and the birds should fly across the sky and the cars whizz past concrete stalagmite. You should be able to hear the lady speak and the child whine (and later stop a friend to say "My, you sound so much like Ms. Bovary"). Isn't life but the various fabrics of romance run through the ornate curtain ring called "I"?

If books have lost the time that was bequeathed to them, I wonder, what next.

I think...

I am going to clear up the links along the left pane... I haven't been maintaining them properly. Expect a few changes in the days to come!

Silk Butterflies

It sickens me. As she moves farther away I feel my breath pulled out of my breast with scalding iron claws. No, it is not an asthmatic torso that wheezes. It is she. The feel of her skin beside me, against my opisthenar, her exhalation rippling down, leafing through the hair on my arms, her eyes in which I see myself, those vacant, large, black eyes which hold everything with the innocence that only blindness can give, all of this and more kills me. She perfects me for her world while making me entirely invalid in the world where we met.
Aah! And how we met! Like a salve to my festering reality, I recall those days when she innocently stood me naked and vulnerable. It could have been a pair of butterflies that bounced of my forearm while she searched for the exit out of the metro rail. It could have been my racing pulse trying to match the starkness of her gaze which was, as I later knew, but a non-gaze. It could have been the trepidations of the Devil and the God alike, while they draped the anchors of prescience around my arm begging me to rush in the opposite direction. To you it was but her fingers; to me a beckoning into a world best left unknown.
Innocence is not a virtue, my friend. Innocence is what leaves you aware of your filth. Innocence is what leaves you feeling sick. Innocence is what murks the looking glass in your toilet-room. Innocence is what stares from behind those moist eyes as it holds me above her, while I lie spent beside her, innocence is what makes me want to give her more while I struggle to find the same strength in my veins. Innocence is what tears my skin when she kisses me without knowing that I work at the garbage disposal unit of New Yorkshire and not at the management circle of the city beautification department. Those kisses that mar the end of my working day, burn like a dollop of frozen acid melting to the retching warmth of my skin. As I reel under this torment of innocence, she slides under the cover and looks vacantly in the direction where she last left me.
I walk towards the bed and vainly attempt to discourage her innocent demarche with a conversation of corporate banalities which I had overheard while carrying the crates across the floor. She continues to look at where I was as if she prefers what I was to her kiss over what I could be to any woman. She slowly lifts her knees and I watch the silk covers slide down her shin while her gown rushes down her thigh, like a figure skater covering the length of ice, but moving backwards. Every word I speak is now turgid with gasps and I realize that my earlier gestures in conversation have migrated to quick movements which leave me undressed. She prefers that I wear my tie.
What followed has never been available to recall and hence, I confess to having but one mnemonic salve. But one thing I always remember is that hours of meshed togetherness leave no telling mark on her eyes. It is the same dewdrop face with those large vacant eyes peering straight ahead unless I call out to her along her cleavage as I lay on her stomach. We spend a few silent moments while our chests fall with lesser sharpness and transform into a roll.
Now, I come to what sickens me. Like the friction of a hairbrush on dry hair, I watch myself involuntarily swell with her departure. And as I study her rise from the bed to wash herself, I feel my entire throat stretch towards her departing thighs. I throw out an arm and voicelessly beg her to return to my side. She is my lungs. Love is not in the heart, my friend, but in the lungs of a breathless man. As she walks under the shower and slides the tip of her fingers along the ceramic, I recall that day, that day of butterflies and anchors, till the coldness of fluid drenches her and leaves me drowning in the want to have run away that day.
I call out to her.
"Anushka!"
She turns around under the cone of watery darts and I watch them lecherously cling to her skin. She looks towards the door as if all that allows entrance can be likened to me. In that sight of wetness, I feel my skin go dry and scream, "Anushka!"
She runs towards me, her hands defining the contours of every impeding object. The wet squish of feet against the wooden floors assures me of a returning calm. She nearly topples over the bed which struck at her knees. She pushes the covers aside and climbs on the bed, on her knees. Wet depressions on the bed mark the ascent of life in my blood. She lies on top of me irrigating my skin in more ways than one.
"I am here. I am here."
This desperate revival is all that is left of me. It is in this revival that I know that I am alive. Love is not the pleasure of knowing that you are wanted, but it is the pain of being bereft of that want. As our hearts beat in the other's breast, I hear the water pour down the drain in choking sobs.

A Zen Koan

Okugawa sensei walked in calmly into the stiflingly packed auditorium. He was smiling as he walked in, his eyes fixed on the floor. He came up to the mike and surveyed the auditorium. It was quite unlike the open field where his Master had introduced him to Aikido. His Master never smiled; hence, Okugawa sensei learnt to smile. But their hearts were the same.

He spoke as if from the pit of a ravine and his voice struck every attendee with full force. Some people gestured awe for the auditorium acoustics; those who knew, smiled.

"Welcome to your free introductory session in this Aikido camp."

His smile seemed to increase although physical limits would have told you that it didn't...

"I have 4 things to tell you and I would like you to reflect on them and decide whether you wish to enroll."

Some children took out their notebook and pen and wrote something like "Aikido Tips" on top.

"After sharing each one of the 4, I will leave the auditorium for 10 min. Your actions will not be questioned or judged."

Notes were made: 10 minute intervals are vital to Aikido.

"Firstly, we will not be breaking anything for the next 3 years. No bricks, no tiles, no iceblocks. We would not be throwing the opponent 30 feet away. I am sorry, there will be no dramatic improvement in your display of martial arts capabilities."

He walked out, though some thought he glided over the floor.

Murmurs rose even before he had walked out of the door and many people packed their bags and were exchanging other camp details where "they teach you how to bend a bar in 72 hours. Can you beat that?"

After 10 minutes, Okugawa sensei returned and was still smiling.

"Secondly, we will not be learning kicks and punches everyday. There will be sessions of meditation and discussions on the philosophy of creating harmony out of conflict."

He disappeared with an ease which seemed to leave him exactly where he was, but merely invisible.

Some of the parents who had come to escort their wards, grew impatient.
"I wanted some good activity for my son, not old wives' gossip. Come on, Hiro."
"My girl needs lessons in self-defense. She can't talk to people who come to attack her, right?"

After 10 minutes, Okugawa sensei returned and gestured the remaining 50 attendees to come closer. He moved away from the mike but thundered in the same tone and tempo.

"Thirdly, there will be no competitions nor any red, brown or black belts awarded. You will get a receipt of your payment and that might be the only document that you will receive from this camp."

He stood there for a few seconds ensuring that this point sank in, before walking out. His pace never altered, nor did he stumble or roll anywhere. It was as his Master had once described: Silk over purer silk.

"Damn! What am I going to show Kunio? See, Kunio my-love, no belt, but I can close my eyes and ponder over the great ... bull! I'm not going to stay here!"

Okugawa sensei returned after 10 minutes, but was now in the customary uniform. He beckoned to the last boy standing.

"No gimmicks of resilience, strength, power, depth and truth will be taught here nor will they, on your part, help you further yourself."

So saying, he started to walk out.

"Master, I am not going to go. In all your four points I still haven't learnt what Aikido is. I do know what it isn't, now."

Okugawa sensei turned around to watch this dark haired boy kneel in supplication.

"Who are you, boy? What is your name?"

"Morihei. Morihei Ueshiba"

[This is a fictional story about how O-sensei merged with Aikido.]

It's Out!!!

Finally, Alvibest May 2006 issue is out. The official blog carries the announcement in detail. Here is the cover page design for the same.

Crazy Days

You know what gets me? Arrant confusion (gotcha!)

I think we are worse of than the days of slavery (did we in India ever have them?) or being ruled by someone else. Think about it. Freedom, everyone says, is the right/will to chose (or something like that, I really dunno). God save me if I get freedom and the inability to choose from so many brazillion (no? that's not 100 zillion?) things!!! And lagniappe to the choices is the various possibilities!!!

I want shoes: Nike or local-maal? Why do I need it? Will I use it? What is best if I am only going to use it occasionally?

I want a good career: Should I switch now? Where should I go? Teacher? Architect (software)? Consultant (business)? Start my own restaurant? Write? Should I wait till I have X amount in my account?

I want a good wife (replace it with a husband, if you aren't interested in a wife. Sorry, married men who realise that they aren't interested in their wife are not eligible ;-): Homely (what on earth is that? Now to sit and choose the characteristics that make someone homely!)? Good looking (whoever says no to this, send me an email. I really love collecting rare species.)? Intelligent? Artistic? Suave? Understanding? What can I do without?

I want peace: Should I go to the mountains? Should I first earn enough? Should I become a teacher first? A writer? A monk? Would marriage bring peace? Think a monk's better? Kids? Surely a monk? Should I strive for fame before I try for peace? Shoot the monk?

I want nothing: Nothing!? Damn! What about food? Books? Clothing? Shelter? Pizzas!!!?

So many choices for nothing!! Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Blog Updated

The Tao blog is now updated with an incomplete rendition of the 2nd verse (commentary is mostly complete). Most of the commentary for the verses are ready, but the accompanying material that I have promised per verse is consuming a lot of my time.

Birth

Filled with the nourishing wetness of zest, I push against the life-giving decaying humus. I burst my silken cloak and lay myself bare with the confidence that I will grow. The harsh heat above and the patient earth below gaze at me with questioning eyes:
Are you sure you want to do this? After all the security of being well ensconced in a tough epidermis, impervious to the ruthless world which feeds you for no more a favour than the fruits and flowers you shall bear them till your natural decay, would you, who contain the wisdom of several generations, want to abrade against the very soil which promises to protect you, rise for a purpose unknown or at best one which is steely destined?
I cleave my tender green coat and push it apart with my cotyledons and embrace the dark world fragranced by the petrichor of promise and a world beyond. The umber of the grains lie lazily, awarding nothing but stiff resistance. Is this how one must grow, breaking through strata of impeding forces, constructive by no means but obstructive by instinct? Is this the world I must face, tiny individuals who collectively scrape my resolve to be perfect, to accomplish what I aspire?
Water trickles down to break my strife and I fill my veins with this divine impetus. Tenuous roots offer me the strength to push against this lumbering earth on which I intend establishing my worth, my full.
I watch my roots nudge the grains and expand to push them apart in order to establish their rightful footing. My zeal and energy take form as a slight and pointed shoot. How rightly they call it so? Shoot. Nothing else could describe the fervid effort of mine. As my roots and cotyledonous arms brace me for my heavenward growth, I patiently press against the soil that bears me so possessively. I wince as sharp corners cut through my shoot, but grow I, nevertheless, do. A faint unknown seems to wait for me. What is there beyond the world of burnt colours and nourishing rot? Will it be the same onerous brown ad infinitum? Will this toil be worth it? What if I wish to return to my early days? I look at the torn epidermis now nourishing me. Is this the divine will to grow or a devilish plot to lead me deceptively towards my own ruin?

I do what comes naturally to me.
I rise.
I stay steady.
I steady myself and pierce the enormous earth with my pinpoint resolve.
I must give my fullest.
I can only do this.
I can only rush strongly, patiently towards my calling.
I would rather do what is instinctively mine, than lie in foreign inactivity.

As the grains fall apart unable to contain my determination, I break free with my roots deeper in the soil than I have ever been, but my head held high for I have been honest to my calling, to my love, to my passion... to myself.

And if this is what I should get for my single-minded march, this beautiful firmament with its never-repeated tapestry, this breeze with a fresh song every hour, these scented whispers from mustard fields leaping into the green velvets of long stalked paddy, this bliss to offer myself, in my entirety... then I shall do this again, and again.

I would do this even if I arrived on a dark and foreboding world of less engaging sensual wonders.

Isn't this the wisdom that I silently bore?

This post is dedicated to a dear friend who readily suggested that I write on such matters... Here is to you, dear void!

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Dear All,
I am off blogging for a while, and how long that might last is unknown to those I know (completely or partially, including myself). But I shant leave without telling you a story. :-)

In the plateaus, which are so called because they are level with the mountains and cannot be called the plains, of Tibet there was this young boy called Ichtang Korya. Ichtang was nearly an omen in his village; see him early in the morning and your day will be pleasant, at night the dreams are memorable at the break of dawn. Adults and girls pulled his cheeks and bullies had no heart to trouble him though they occasionally pushed him away from their path, only to watch his face turn a shade of red that evoked tears in him and guilt in their breasts. He was very obedient and his parents had least trouble in managing him. He studied fairly well in school and was scolded once for not doing his Math homework, but that was three years ago. In short, he was someone who would never make a spicy character in any novel.

But he did.

He continued to be a child while others grew around him. Initially, they found it queer, then weird. Soon they disliked his manner of living and were eager to mutate that dislike into hatred. Some even said that he wasn't like a child and some called him vile. One fine day he vanished in the Himalayas that surrounded his village. So sudden was his departure that people energised their rumours with the shock of the incident.

I am blabbering... :-D See you guys later...
Naaah! Don't get high on speculating. I just wanted to write a 2 line "bye for now" and let my fingers flow. Then I realised that it is 22:05 and I have to sleep. The story was going nowhere!! :-D or maybe it would if I let you into the next two lines of the story:

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maybe later... :-)

Animal Instinct

"We ain't yet humans, man!"
That wasn't meant to invite discussion. It wasn't meant for anything other than pushing that gulp of beer further down. He let his hand drop and hang from the hammock while the beer bottle swung freely between the knuckles of his fingers. His other hand was busy scratching his stomach. He fountained the last sip of beer and let it land with a splat on his chest. I didn't complain. This was his territory, his castle. In a minute the bottle slid further down and settled on the floor with a glassy clink.
I wanted to let him sleep before I left but he turned sharply and asked me, "Have you ever felt that?"
"What?"
"You know," and he turned hastily in his hammock making it swing from under him and releasing his sorry mass onto the floor. I rushed to help him but he simply raised a hand. "I am fine. " He lay there as an imploding lump of flesh, bones and everything human.
"Have you ever worked, slogged for months on end? So much that you can feel every muscle in your body rush to find the softest lump on your bed while your eyes pull themselves to the back of your head and try to bore through them and escape? Have you felt your nails hurt, man? Your damn nails. Throbbing, itching and when you scratch the bed or your thigh it might peel off, it damn pains, but so good. So good. Aah. Have you felt it man? The sun beating on you and you falling under the force of that strike? Your feet sticking to the ground and you simply crashing? Inertia? Just a wonderful fall and the pain of that fall is nothing compared to what your damn slogging gives you? Have you?"
"Well no. I am a writer, so I rarely slog the way you do. I either write or read. And when..."
"And you guys make the theory of being human. Its all bullshit, man. We ain't no human. We are all still animals, hungry thirsty, lusty, scared, aggressive... animals man, like dogs or wolves or leopards. We ain't different. We like to be, but we ain't different."
"I think it is a matter of one's will and core strength."
He laughed and slapped his hands on the floor. He was roaring and rolled on his back and slapped both his palms on the floor.
"God-freakin-damnit!! Core strength!" and he laughed and rolled all his contempt into a bout of spasmodic coughing where he let the spit freely and tenuously drip out of his mouth.
"You guys are invalids. Go pick a tonne of bricks for half a year. Go work in the mines, with a lumberjack, pick garbage, pick shit man and you will know. This world ain't made of air-conditioners and peons, man."
"So what is your point?" I was getting irritated. The last thing I wanted was this man telling me that all that I had achieved in the past so many years was nothing because I couldn't haul coal.
"The point is this, sweetheart, you ain't human. I ain't human. When you are lying in your bed and your flesh leaves you hell-ward and your bones creak as they move together like willow branches in the winter wind, you ain't human then. You are animal."
"So being tired makes you an animal? I don't..."
"You don't get it, man. That is when you are so tired, so beaten up that you cannot pretend. You cannot be all fashionable and sophisticated. You can't be all oh-my-dahling-cool. You're butchered, man. You are stripped off all shiny armour, baby. That is when... what is that word... some cute French thing...."
"What? For what?"
"All tired and tongue flopping on the side and bored and ... some French thing you keep saying..."
"Ennui?"
"Yeah, ennui, on-my-crazy-wee-wee! That is it. You are so cute. Yeah, that is when ennui comes to you or you become ennui or how do you say it..."
"Ennui sets in. ... How does it matter?" Irritation trembled in my voice and made me push myself off my chair.
"Yeah, how does it matter? You right, honey, it doesn't, because we become animal then. So blessed beaten up and done that all we want are animal needs. Food, drink, two long legs around your waist, you know," he smiled, "and rest and sleep and all things animal. You want to prowl, grab, divorce. You don't want no crazy innovation or muse bugging you. You don't want to think straight. You don't care about anything straight, because even the crazy Tower of Pizza is bent when you are with good 'ol ennui."
"The Leaning Tower of Pisa is...well, leaning." I said and shook my head at wanting to clarify things to this muddled creature.
"See? You too with good ol' ennui. Wee. Weeeh. Wee-wee-wee."
He poured the beer on the floor and started lapping it up. I had to leave and got up hurriedly. I rushed to the door and caught sight of his hand waving me goodbye.
"Sweetheart, man is always an animal, ashamed of being that and calling himself human."

A Zen Koan

Mornings made the mountain bleed along a scar of a path which broke away from the monastery above to the valley below. This carmine cascade was pockmarked in yellow at various points. Farmers in the valley looked up and bowed their heads to the diurnal procession of monks. When the monks reached the valley, the monks slowed down but the breeze, caught often in their habit and adding volume to the frail frame that walked within, gave the monks a phantom vigour and mobility which their eyes and hearts lacked.

Sanchen, Pizkog gathered around a low wooden table which served but one old monk. They bowed low to him and then sat equidistant to each other. The old monk smiled at them and gathered the warmth of his cup of tea with hands that trembled more with love for them than of age. He sipped his tea and pursed his lips savouring the fluid in the collapsing caverns of his mouth. When he opened his eyes, he let out a breath of contentment. Sanchen ordered for jasmine tea and while they waited he decided to continue with their conversation of before their occupying the table.

"Pizkog, may we continue till the tea arrives?"
Pizkog nodded his head and looked at the old monk. The monk smiled and Pizkog returned his attention to Sanchen.
"So as I was saying, life is not always about achieving. There is certainly more to life than achieving."
"But isn't that "more" also a want for achieving, now something else? Isn't it but a diverted desire?"
"No, it wouldn't be driven by desire. The more of life is not something one seeks for self-propagation."
"Then why do we seek it? Isn't it either another covert means of self-propagation or escapism with the intent of self-propagating beyond the realms of ineptitude?"
"No not really", said Sanchen and turned towards the monk. "Dear Sir, would you be kind enough to guide us confused farmers on this matter?"
"What do I have to say? Let us wait for the tea, as the leaves of the mountains impart wisdom."
The monk continued to sip on his tea and after every half-mouthful he stretched his chin towards the ceiling and returned with a smile and warm eyes.

Sanchen reached for the mud-cup of water to occupy himself while they waited for their tea. He gulped it in one shot and placed it on the table. While reaching for the pitcher to refill his cup, his sleeve caught it and it toppled over.

"Thank god there was no water in it! It is always better to leave a glass empty", said Pizkog.
"I partly agree, but it would be better to have a filled cup in case one needs it urgently. What about when a man has a violent fit of hiccups? Wouldn't it be better that the cup was already filled?", asked Sanchen.
"But such accidents could ruin clothes and food laid on the table."
"What are the chances that such accidents would happen?"
"I feel the chances are higher than a man having a fit."

The monk, having finished his tea, reached forward and filled his cup with water, swirled the contents and drunk it all. He bowed and smiled at the farmers and ambled back to the mountains.

Honesty vs Stupidity

A long while ago I made this statement to a trapped friend of mine: "There is a very thin line between honesty and stupidity" He put forth his wonder about such a line and I continued thus.
"When one is called upon to present oneself, vocally or otherwise, then one must be true. That is honesty. While a stupid man is one who believes that in the name of honesty he must go all over the world and tell everyone what he believes to be true and shout it down ears, interested or not."

I believe I had made myself clear to my friend and myself. At least to myself. When not requested or (its aggressive brother) demanded, presenting oneself is stupidity. Who asked for it? Or so I believed.

Over the recent times of my life, I have come to realise that being honest even when called upon to present oneself is pure naivete. Before I proceed, I must confess that I haven't been honest always. I have told my share of lies especially when it was in relation to missing cookies or being late (which is a recent disease of mine). But regarding what I believe and what I feel I have, as of today, never been dishonest. I assure you that "never" was not accidental.

But recent times makes me rethink this whole business of honesty. A dear friend of mine coaxed me into reading Fountainhead, something I have been resisting for nearly 10 years now. I still don't find it great, but certain aspects of Mr. OrangeHead make me sit back and think. My friend compared me to Mr. OrangeHead (and I shall have a separate post about the different names I have been given. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, believes I am who I am) and I failed to see the similarity (as I always do!). One thing I liked about him was his honesty. He was clear and honest about what he believed in and his seemingly misanthropic nature helped not care about what people thought or felt towards him.

People are prompt in preaching about honesty. Whether they stick to it or not is a matter which helps the world go around. I do not believe that honesty is the best policy (and did you know that good ol' Shakespeare said that?). I enjoy and love being honest and hence I do that except for days when I have hiccups! What gets my near invisible goatee is the double standards people prescribe to honesty. Everyone should be honest but they will decide when the right time for honesty is.

Recently I have had startling incidents when people have surprised me and enjoyed lying and using honesty as a weapon rather than a simple reality as light as the early morning breeze.

A while ago a person who is up in the hierarchy of things was discussing with me the problems that one particular product release had had. I had been crying wild since day one as I disliked the design and the technical details, but they fell on stone deaf ears. She said, "E, let us put aside all those technical issues and revisit them later. Now tell me honestly (damn! she had to use that word), do you see places where the team fell short of expectations?" I thought she was serious to analyse the situation and listed out areas where the team had not been wise enough to do things correctly and the like. A few days later she used those statements against me and bypassed all the technical flaws that we were supposed to revisit!!! All I could do was laugh.

Its not just this. I am sure each one of us has several incidents when we come across a blatant lie selling better than the truth, or the truth being the last nail on your coffin for the day. Honesty is often equated with ruthlessness. The most common class of incidents that I have faced are ones in which character X would say something and I would refute on the grounds of having data which would prove otherwise. They would try their bluff for one more time. When I go out and bring in the data they would yelp and call me ruthless or heartless or "E, you aren't the same guy I knew!"

What happened to truth? If people don't like being honest then why can't they rather accept it and admit to it. Why keep saying that people like the truth when they actually don't, or they like it as long as it serves them favourably?

Truth has become chattel and whore to a man's whim and it is unfortunate to my sensibilities. Truth has become a function of one's ego and insecurity and it is disappointing to see it become thus.

And then it is also a thing to be discarded if one of the debating parties is emotionally wrought. I have heard my mother say so many times, "Why do you wish to stick to it? See the poor girl is crying." and I would reply, "But then what about this matter at hand?" and I would be asked to take it with me to hell (no, not by mom. Mom never used the word hell!).

Once in college a guy and girl (and I think another couple too) who were going around were caught being inappropriate and it became a big issue. The guy was all set to rake in support and go against the senior batch which was planning to impose curbs on our batch in case the guilty party didn't come forth and apologise. He wasn't ready to apologise. For some strange reason, I was called upon to sort this matter (I think that is when the batch started considering me to be a pain). I stood before our entire class of tickled and nervous students and started thus, "I assume we are all serious. Now, let us get the facts of this together..." What came out was unacceptable to the man of the couple and his girl huffed and puffed and walked out. He came forth and said, "See what you have done now. You have got her so distressed that she is crying and has left the room (like I didn't notice!)" I had to assure him that all I was juggling here were facts and though the class agreed he never did and didn't speak to me for a long while.

I ask not for much but the last act of honesty from an unwilling soul, not more, just one act when they ponder long and finally decide whether they care about honesty or not and stick to it. Let us spare truth and not twist it. Please.

I think it helps at times to be a misanthrope like Mr. OrangeHead! :-)
Naaaah! Not worth it... :-D