I'm a Saboteur

A friend of mine pointed me to an interesting article from one of my most favourite magazines:

http://www.fastcompany.com/online/40/wf_gatto.html

Here is an excerpt:

Look at Silicon Valley. Everybody there is working much harder than you could legally require them to work. Why? Because they are working for themselves. It's exciting; the work itself is exciting. To teach people that we work to get money to buy stuff is insane. We work because work is thrilling.
What would turn this country on its head is a commitment by schools to make room for independent livelihoods of all sorts. I mean that, by and large, you set the terms of your own employment, you decide the relative value of the goals that you're after, you stick your neck out, and you take all of the reward or your neck gets chopped off. That would be a dazzling society. It would be like some of my classes were -- just dazzling.

When he loved...

Arbind stretched himself on the easy-chair and squealed, only to rapidly contract himself with the laughter that shines out of the happiness in returning to child-like freedom. He darted a quick look along the long corridor to ensure that no one caught him in this act of abandon. He smiled: how long could he cloak himself in the garb of propriety. Well, he had learnt that ever since he had met her and loved her. Sweta.
He rose from his chair and ambled along. Doors yawned on the side of the corridor as if to tell him something and then vanishing into the space of the room. He always felt as if the threshold moved to tell him something, something he thought he knew but not as clearly as the wooden beams had known over the decades they had held up this bungalow. Something he didn't want them to tell him, because he would hear nothing censoring his love for her. Sweta.
"Arbindbabu, do rush in. Time for the puja. Chotorani is waiting for you," cackled Binnomaashi between her incessant criticism of the increasing prices of the marigolds and how girls of this generation wasted away so much under the assurance of their husband's or brother's bottomless pockets. He reached out to hold her, but the wrinkled frame shrank away from him and kept moving farther without attempting to do so. He cringed at the thought of how he always managed to let dear ones slip by, especially her. Sweta.
He entered through one doorway which held itself agape wanting to say something but reluctant to do so. Sometimes, words of wisdom only re-kindle the flame one tries so earnestly to put out. But how could anyone or anything expect to put out this flame which burned on the fuel of his blood and memories? What water could put out these pure, white flames? The water of a socially acceptable marriage? She had thought so. She had convinced him too. But he knew better all the while. Some things are not for man to make or break. Such love is not an ephemeral thirst which could be quenched by anyone. In the desert of life, only the thirsty knew who bore the pot of life-giving water, who could quench his thirst. Sweta.
The laughter within the inner chambers stopped him in his tracks. Melancholy had no place in the chambers of festive gaiety. He leaned on the door and smiled but not of the cheer that filled the space beyond this threshold. His joy sprung from the Durga Puja celebrations like these, several years ago. She had made him some wonderful nikhuti payesh and brought it to him in a China bowl with a golden rim. The sight of her walking down the stairs, dotted on alternate steps with a chirpy diya on either side, announcing the arrival of a more beautiful flame decked in the traditional white and red of a married woman, with the bright red circle warding off wicked men and intentions - that sight made his hair stand on end and filled him with a sweetness that couldn't be contained in any bowl from a Bengali household.
"Arbindbabu, payesh for you", she said and left the bowl on the side-table. She stood there for an extra minute letting him soak in her entire beauty and relive the love he felt for her. She swayed to the beat of his heart but quickly shook herself out of it, shuddering under the sudden cold air of reality that enveloped her. She smiled and said,"I must go, Arbindbabu. Isn't it the mark of a well brought-up lady to know when to leave?"
"Isn't it the mark of true love to stay long enough to say that?"
"The heart of a bachelor is always brimming."
"What then can we say of one who has known your love?"
She smiled again and walked away. Their love was in danger during festivities when everyone was alert. They would have to wait till everyone returned to the routine of life.
Sweta.
A silver tumbler falling to the marble floor, brought him back to where he stood; in the dark confines of the room unable to walk past this threshold into the cheer and laughter of a well-lit and correct world of his family and righteousness. He smiled and watched his wife arrange the diyas on a large brass plate.
"Anmolika is the luckiest woman."
"Buss, badima enough. All the devils gather during dusk to collect a list of happy souls which they can trouble. He has given me all the joys of this world, but let us keep it to ourselves."
"Who has?" teased her sister, Munmun, who was twirling flowers and threads deftly on her fingers.
"Chchup, mishti", Anmolika exclaimed and threw a few helpless wicks at her.
He watched his mother breathe a deep sigh of relief. All her fears of several years and the suspicion which plagued every waking night of hers, was laid to rest in the form of Anmolika - an honourable daughter-in-law. She rose to leave for the inner prayer room.
Munmun watched her leave and then rushed over to her sister and threw her arms around her neck.
"Tell me didi, how much does he love you?"
"Chchup, naughty girl."
"Come on, its only us, and badimaashi can barely hear us."
"Haan, I can barely hear what you girls are talking."
They burst out laughing and Arbind couldn't repress a smile. Badimaashi got up and left the room to the young girls. Was this what she was talking about? An honourable life, peace, uncensored joy and mirth... social sanctity?

"Arbindbabu, love is not of this world but relationships are."
"But I will come and marry you, Sweta. Let me settle down and be rid of obligations, and I will come and take you away."
"When Arbindbabu?" she had sighed, "When I am slipping into my deathbed and you are still forty?"
"Before that."
She smiled and cupped his cheeks, "Respectability is of utmost importance, Arbindbabu. Don't underestimate it."
"I will need nothing from this world then. I can renounce it all. Not you."
"I will wait, darling."
"Sweta."

"Chchup dasyi!"
"Come on didi, tell me. Do you people.. ummm... ummm... every night?"
"Enough, Munmun, enough."
"Come on, didi. Please. I won't tell anyone."
"Haan baba haan. Oh! God! What has become of me? A sister like you and the devil come to everyone."
They laughed and hugged each other. Arbind smiled and thought: Anmolika wouldn't hesitate to exaggerate especially if it put me in a more sparkling light.
"But more than that, mishti, is how much he makes me feel wanted and loved. He takes so much pain in ensuring that I am happy and cheerful. He has so much love in him that I am not sufficient vessel to gather it all."
"Then maybe I can marry him, too. Sisters forever."
"Hatt. I'll kill you with my own hands. I will kill anyone who even looks at him an extra second. He is mine."
"Who?" teased Munmun.
"He."
"Who?"
Anmolika looked around and Arbind hastily hid himself behind the door.
"Arbindbabu."
"What babu-shabu and all. He is your husband. You have full rights on him."
She breathed in deeply and Arbind watched the nervousness tremble on her lips.
"Arbind", and she quickly hid her face in the pile of flowers beside her.
"Yeaaaa!" Munmun screamed and covered her sister with the love she deserved.
But what about her? Sweta?

"Arbindbabu, no woman will like to be shared."
"But why should I be torn apart? I shall remain a bachelor."
"Listen to me. Get married to that girl they found for you. She is delicate and beautiful."
"But she is not you."
She smiled and sank to her knees beside his easy-chair.
"Arbindbabu, our love will always live and grow. I will wait for you. Complete your obligations and come to take me."
"But why must you leave Kolkatta for that?"
"She wouldn't like any woman to lay her eyes on you."
"But I love you."
"Arbindbabu, you have enough love for this entire world. Giving her her due will not lessen it nor will it deprive me of anything."
"But only you can contain the love I feel."
"Hence, you can never give it all away and there will always be what you wish to give me."
"Sweta."

"But, Munmun, I always think there is something, some part of him I can never reach."
"You, his wife, can reach every part!"
"No, mishti, I am serious. There is something which is always closed to me."
"How does it matter? If it is closed to you, its closed to everyone."
"Hmmm. True. Chalo, let's get the diyas and torans ready."
"What about the fire-crackers?"
"He doesn't like it."
"Why?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"All he likes to do is eat payesh and hold on to that book wrapped in raw silk."
"How boring!"
"Only on Durga Puja. Otherwise..."
"Oh! Wife to the rescue, huh?"
They laughed and flung marigolds at each other.

"Arbindbabu, I must leave tonight."
"Why now? Why today? Please."
Her lips quivered with the love she didn't want to stain with words. She came closer to him and he felt their toes touch. The fabric of her starched blouse scraped against his kurta and he leaned towards her but stopped. She was crying and he never thought he would be responsible for her sorrow.
"Be happy, Arbindbabu."
"Only with you, Sweta."
"With everyone... and me."
And as a tear sadly rolled down her cheek, he watched the rising fireworks sparkle in that descending drop. The drummers rent the air with the helpless beats of his heart. Arbind remembered the one thing that crossed his mind then and thereafter: What exults others, saddens me. What completes me cannot be accepted in this world.
Sweta.

Notes on a rainy day

Did no one else hear the squish from my sneakers? I curl my feet and press it down urgently. The murky froth hisses out from under my feet. In spite of the rain beating against every noisy surface, my noise is noticed and people look at me.

Hence, curiosity is not hampered by weather and physical difficulties.

I watch the reddish blur hurtle towards the bus stop. People slip and tiptoe towards the bus, using every object and human being as support. The driver doesn't pause long enough for everyone to board and the bus rushes out leaving damp fumes and swearing men behind. Was the driver smiling?

Hence, people retain a sadistic streak irrespective of the situation.

A sudden cackle of palm sized feet cutting through water renders the air. A bunch of little boys cart-wheel through the puddles. They paint each other with muddy water and the world with their laughter. A boy in a smart raincoat strains against the leash of his mother's sophistication.

Hence, people still differentiate between what is good for themselves and for others.

I don't know why she twirls her fingers thus. Her knit brows toss as many thoughts as her fingers weave airy loops. With each flick of the thumb she pulls at the invisible braid that ties them together and he finally jogs down with a sheepish grin. She pouts, arms akimbo and he grabs her tenuous waist. She softens to his grasp and the shower beats a familiar old tune, known only to them.

Hence, the rain, in its fall, does raise romantic fragrances.

I feel a tug and look downward expecting a stray frog or the like. I find a handicapped boy with one arm holding on to my trouser and the other hand held out in hope. I watch him as he starts reeling out his well practiced story of being abandoned and not having eaten for ages and how the rains destroyed his house. I wait for him to complete and look away. What will he do now? He spits near my shoe and drags himself towards the next human leg.

Hence, one's condition doesn't always polish one's personality.

I stretch my foot out into the rain and wash stray threads of spittle. How dare he behave like that? Dirty mongrel! He deserves his maimed legs. I wish no one spares him a rupee. I hope he passes by me and I will kick him with the same foot. A car speeds past us and shoots a sheet of muck on him. I smile with joy and mutter sharply, "Good!" He wipes his face and swears at the rear bumper of the disappearing car. Once he is done, he pleads to the nearest lady, "See? This is how life treats me. Won't you spare me a rupee? If not peace at least I can buy a few slices of bread. Please." I secretly pray that the lady doesn't give him anything and she dutifully turns her face towards the far end of the road.

Hence, prayers are answered and life will always remain partial.

Penne Alla Eroteme

Okee! This is something I have never done before on this blog, but there is always a first. Last night was a night of honour, privilege and satisfaction. Mom permitted me to take over the kitchen (honour and privilege) to turn out a dinner (to our satisfaction). I don't think I can put to words how nervous I was cooking for mom. It had to be good and good enough for her. One deep breath and I started rolling...

Let me start with a few notes about how I cook. I am not a manageable cook. What that means, is that what I cook can not always be reproduced nor is there any predictable order in there. Mom on the other hand is a fantastic cook and very manageable. She knows exactly where to find each and every ingredient (because she leaves them there after use). But one thing we both have in common (and she was glad last night that I inherited her genes!): we talk to our food. Now this is not mere ramble, I assure you. You need to understand how each ingredient blends and their history. Some veggies don't get along with each other. Some of them are friendly with nearly everyone (like tomatoes). Some have a nasty past and you'd do well to lend them a sympathetic ear. Understand them, talk to them. That is the key to every well flavoured relationship. :-)
Secondly, I hate reading out of a recipe book. The whole idea jars in my head. Its like someone else betting on my tastes. Its like trusting your body to a person who has never seen you before (even though they call him a doctor). Urgggh! Read as much as you want but when you cook, trust your gut (well, you'd better as it is at the receiving end) or you'll end up like the bookworm on his wedding night, busy flipping through Vatsyana's tome.
(Yes, Oh! Yesssss!
Honey, woah honey. Wait a minute!
*flip*
Okee, now move slightly to the right and throw your ankle behind your neck. No, the left one!)
Never get carried away on the spice regime. Be tender and understand what they want (you aren't dousing yourself in red paprika, are you?). Sometimes it's just a dash of salt and pepper and sometimes it's rock-n-roll.
Lastly, although I am a strict vegetarian, these also apply to a non-vegetarian meal. You really need to listen to the chicken breast and realise what it's dying wish was: stuffed and cooked in soy sauce or baked with peppers and red wine sprinkled on it. That's the problem with non-vegetarian food; you are always dealing with something that once upon a time moved and had a mind of its own. Well, deal with it.
So, last night found me running the entire concert through my head before I cracked my knuckles and dived in. This is what I recall of it....
Cooking pasta is simple and hence, very easily done wrong. You need to boil the water and add salt to it (I am told that in the good ol' days, Italians used sea water. People near the Marina beach can do so at their own peril.). When the water rolls, slide in the pasta. Don't ask me how much water for how much pasta. Listen to them. I go by my senses which at one point will tell me "Enough". The rolling will slow down now. After about 5 minutes you can slide in long strips of red and yellow capsicum (no they are not the same as painted green capsicum. Listen to them) and let the entire thing cook. I used penne. For more information about various kinds of pasta, check this out: http://www.ilovepasta.org/shapes.html
While the pasta is getting cooked, start work on the sauce. The sauce is the life breath of pasta. Do it right and be nice to the pasta, and you have a wonderful meal and a bonus smile on your face while you go to bed. I had played around with a lot of red sauces so I wanted to try white.
Have a cup of grated cheese ready. In India you could choose between cheddar or parmesan depending on availability. Cheese spread won't work. If you love cheese, go here: http://www.cheese.com/default.asp

In a wok, heat a slim slab of butter (preferably non-salted) and while its melting, pour in some olive oil (Eh!? Did you say gingely oil? May the sky fall on your head!) to prevent the butter from browning. A thick, yellow unctuous colloid will be formed soon and when its happy and bubbling, slide in the finely chopped onions (you always slide in ingredients into hot liquids). Saute the onions and when they are just right (golden brown, like the sunlight which kisses a baby's bottom) sprinkle some oregano and rosemary (herbs). How much? Listen to them. Rosemary talks to you through your nose. When its just right, you'll know. In case you have a cold or a blocked nose, don't cook. Have a bowl of hot soup and crash for the day. Don't make cooking a routine.
So where were we? Aaah! Lovely rosemary. Keep stirring till all the ingredients are well mixed. Now did I add the cornflour before the herbs or after? Hmmm. Not sure. I don't think it matters. Add a little cornflour to the simmering (oh! all of this is done on a low flame) spices and stir in order to avoid lumps forming. Now a dash of fresh basil (or even dried ones) will make a happy family on the stove.
Garlic is avoided in our homes (being the orthodox Vaishnava kinds) but I swear by the bulbs. Anyway, Lord Vishnu was behind the origin of garlic (another post on that some day). But seriously, I cannot live without adding garlic to pasta. Its essential and mom shrugged her shoulders last night. Peel the garlic and slice the top. Place it on a flat hard surface and cover it with the flat side of a butcher's knife (or wooden spatula). Smack it hard but with love. Crushed garlic is the best. In case you cannot find it or consider the entire operation banal, ginger-garlic paste is a fine option. Honestly, I hope you have tried the mixture before in order to understand the proportion of ginger in there. If you are opening the pack straight in here, god save you.
So slide in the crushed garlic or paste (it might coagulate, so keep stirring) and cook for a couple of minutes. Take it off the flame but keep stirring it.
Now comes zee cream. Pour in the fresh cream and keep stirring the sauce. Ensure that the sauce is of a uniform consistency. Use a perforated spoon if you like but just ensure the consistency. Once it is smooth and flowing like a silt river at its mouth, put it back on the flame (yes, low flame). Keep some fresh cream aside and maybe dilute it a bit. We might need it. While stirring, add red paprika. Sprinkle would be the right word when introducing herbs. Anyway, keep stirring. Please don't be lax now. If you got this far, it might be worth the extra effort.
By now, the pasta should be cooked. Pour off the hot water and pour in some cold water on the pasta and capsicum strips. Keep them aside and let them stand. Nothing more to do here.
While stirring the sauce, sprinkle the shredded cheese on the sauce. Add little cheese and then stir in order to avoid lumps forming. Once you feel that the added cheese has blended well, add some more. I was happy with 3/4th cup of cheese and I stopped. Keep stirring. If the sauce is too thick now, you might want to add the diluted creaming that was set aside. Keep stirring, baby! That's the way to go.
Drain the pasta and toss it well in a large vessel. Pour in the sauce on top and mix well with a wooden spatula. How does one know when the pasta is al dente? You can inspect with a spoon. It should not be overcooked nor undercooked. Some people prefer cooking it just short and then cooking it again with the sauce. I don't think it feels right. Its like a marriage. Both come together fairly complete and the other completes them. But, you know by now how to listen to your pasta, so follow whatever it says.
After mixing it very well, cover the vessel and let it stand for some time. This ensure that the pasta retains the aroma and the cheese cools to create the right texture between pieces of penne. Why I choose penne for this is a simple reason. When mixing the sauce, some of it enters the cavity of the penne and rewards a good cook with the occasional surprise of a stuffed penne. Mmmmmm. Don't try this with thin and fragile pasta.

Bruschettas work well as starters and we had them last night (the tomatoes you see are fresh uncooked ones which were in excess after using them for the bruschettas. So I sprinkled them over the pasta to add colour. You needn't do the same). Mom rolled them one by one into her mouth and then announced her verdict.
"Hmmm. Perfect! Nothing in excess. Nothing lacking!"
Phew!

Accompaniment to pasta can take the form of soft western instrumental (preferably wind instruments). Please do not have anything distracting while you eat pasta (yes, even Baywatch is a no-no). I think Mohd. Rafi ballads might also suit the texture of pasta, but surely not Maharajapuram Santhanam (he doesn't seem to blend with anything save curd rice). But as they always say... Listen to them. :-)

Happy Diwali

I wish I could reach out to each of you and wish you personally, but this is the closest I can get. Wish you a very happy Diwali. May there be joy and several reasons to smile throughout the year that unfolds before you - one day at a time...

Happy Diwali (In a language I employ the most)

Diwali Nallvayythukal (In my mother tongue)

Diwali ki haardik shub-kaamnaayen (In a language I enjoying talking in)

Diwalichi shubh-itchcha (A language that surrounded me in my growing years... I really haven't stopped growing! ;-)

Diwali mubaarakaan (In a language I love the most)

I have no clue how to say it in Telugu and Kannada, so help!

I would be obliged if readers took a few minutes off to let me know that they received the wishes!! ;-)

A trip back

"Kahaan jaana hai, sahab?" (Where do you want to go, Sir?)
I told him, and waited for what would be my madeleine.
"Achchee baat hai!" (this can never be translated effectively. It could range from "Sure will" to "Okee-doks")
What it definitely means, is that you are definitely in Hyderabad and that knowledge makes you want to soften your eyes and take in a deep breath which fills your heart with the warm tehzeeb of Hyderabad and your lips with a smile (and such a figure of speech is known as a zeugma). Hyderabad still holds fond memories and the area where I lived was still developing (although all the IT companies had setup shop out there). To return occasionally to watch it more "developed" was a pleasure, like watching your kid return from boarding school and honestly exclaiming, "My, look at you. You have grown so much since I last saw you."
This time my trip was bound to be hectic and hence, I decided to enjoy the early morning trip to my house from the station for that was all I might have to enjoy over the weekend.
The streets were still dark and a match struck, startled me to look closely in that direction. Stray cigarette stubs went alit punctuating the morning air like fireflies. The chill in the air was noticeable and I hugged myself.
"Bangalore ka train tha, sahab?" (Was it the train from Bangalore?)
"Haan." (Yes)
"Half return lete hain is timeko." (We charge 1.5 times the fare)
"Half return to bilkul nahin denge. Gaadi rokna hai to roklo." (No way am I going to pay that. You may stop the auto if you want to.)
"Nahin sahab. Aapse nahin lenge." (No, sir. Won't take that amount form you.)
We were silent for a while. I ran memories like slides through my head, projecting the past on to the streets which were still yawning and stretching under the flow from behind the buildings. Hyderabad sure changes fast.
"Aap Bangalore ke hain?" (Are you from Bangalore?)
"Nahin." (No)
"Hyderabad ke hain?" (Are you from Hyderabad?)
I nearly said yes, but recalled my wonderful origin. I wondered whether I should explain the whole thing to him, and settled for a simpler answer.
"Haanji." (Yes)
"To aap rehte yahaan aur kaam wahan karte hain?" (So you stay out here and work out there?)
"Aisehi kuch samaj lijiye." (Something like that)
I looked outside, watching familiar building bathed in the bluish grey of the morning. Gandhiji sat still with his back arching forward and the paper-boys were busy pushing pamphlets into several papers. I unconsciously started humming "Ye daulat bhi le lo. Ye shauharat bhi le lo."
"Bangalore mein meter ka minimum kitna hai sahab?" ("What is the minimum charge on the meter in Bangalore?)
I didn't want them to feel bad nor end up paying more out of guilt.
"Dus rupaye." (Ten Rupees. Actually it is 12)
"Kyaa sahab. Par Bangalore mein bahut kharcha hota hai, naa?" (But Bangalore is costlier, right?)
"Haan." (Yes)
"To kyaa khaate hain?" (So what do they eat?)
Now, how on earth could I know? Probably the usual rice and dal and buttermilk. I took a minute to answer which he mistook for disinterest. He was a lanky boy who was bouncing all over the expanse of his seat. He cut around corners quickly and kept wiping above his upper lip often. He had tonsured his head recently and now he could pass himself off as cousin to a hedgehog. A few more familiar corners passed before he spoke up.
"Yahaan pe injineer log bhi auto chalate hain." (Out here even engineers drive autorickshaws)
"Sahi mein?" (Really?)
He seemed to think that this topic would interest me. Actually, I really liked the guy already, but I liked the onrush of sepia images more as I looked around the place. It wasn't very long ago that I had been in here, but memories are just that... :-)
"Haan sahab. Sarey B.Sc. or injineer log aaj kal auto chalate hain. Din ka aaraam se 400-500 kama letey hain." (Yes, Sir. All the B.Sc. and engineer folks drive autorickshaws. They comfortably earn about 400 to 500 a day)
We continued talking about the cost of various parts of the auto and he kept pointing out to so many parts and appended numbers to their description. A few temples rushed past my peripheral vision and I wonder whether the gods had woken up. The sky was brightening itself and I could see further down the road as well as on the sides.
I reached my house bracketed in by several new constructions as well as offices (supposedly of Google and IBM coming in. Nothing sure. A 5* hotel is in the offing too. I will miss the cool, neem-laced breeze that washed my house from all sides). When I stepped out and handed him the exact change, he touched the money to his handlebar and raised it to his forehead. "Boney!" I thought. Then he smiled at me and said, "Teekh hai sahab. Mein chalta hoon." (That's it, Sir. I shall take leave.)
"Ji zaroor. Khuda haafiz." (Sure. May god be with you.)
He gave me a quizzical look and spotted the tilak mark on my forehead. It only served to confuse him further. Then he bent down to yank the crowbar and hesitated.
"Sahab?" (Sir?)
"Haan?" (Yes?)
"Bangalore mein auto driver log kyaa khaatey hongey?" (What do auto drivers in Bangalore eat?)
"Khushi se jo milta hai. Waise to dal-roti-chawal hi hoga." (Whatever they get happily. Most likely it would be lentils-breads-rice)
"Bye bye, sahab", he said and smiled as he yanked the auto back to life.
"Bye", said I as I swung my bag over my back.

Musical Tag

I have been tagged by a dear friend who once told me that she couldn't bother herself with completing tags! :-)


Your favourite lyricist and the lyrics you remember the most..

Well, I can't surely pick just 1. I'll give you 3!
Sahir Ludhianvi Sahab:



Shakeel Badaayuni Sahab:



Gulzar Sahab:



and



Your favourite song on friendship:

None, really.

Best song portraying life's emotions {zindagi se bhara hua,zindagi ke baare mein}:



one song which brings tears to your eyes:

No guesses for the poet's name!



A song which gives you hope,reason to try again and again,a reason to say that life is beautiful:)

Lemme think a bit... Actually this song is special for more than one reason... :-)


When you want to be with yourself,silent and content but with music,with song would that be?

I would prefer instrumental here...

If you have to express your love for someone with a song which would that be?

It would surely be very contextual, so I cannot pick just one song. Gimme the context and I could do better than this! :-) The following song is candidate:

Maine poocha chaand se

5 songs which you listen to the most?

Pick 5 from the above! :-)

Honestly, I do not think many people are as involved in blogging as they once were (and that includes me, as well), so I won't force anyone back in with a tag. Anyone who would love to be tagged, do let me know, and I shall add your name right in here...

Eighteen

A while ago I had taken a break from any form of publishing of my works (written, visual, etc.) as I wanted to meditate on something that had struck me with all its love and ferocity. I am still working on it but recently I had this urge to compact what runs in my head into 18 verses which would serve as summary and hint to what I am working on. These 18 verses are structured into 36 questions (in 108 lines. Funny isn't it? 18 * 6 = 108 i.e. the original multiplicand with nothing (zero, 0 ) in between!) which might help an interested person to meditate and ponder further on the intricacies of life. These 18 verses cannot and will not claim to be the one-stop-shop for a glimpse at truth. There is no right answer to these questions, so commenters might do well to refrain from trying to check their answers!

Today is the day spent in worshipping Goddess Saraswathi. Think about it, were it not for her what is it that would have been passed down the ages? Where would all the great works of literature, drama and poetry be? Would we know the gods and goddesses in Her absence (she is also the goddess of speech, hence the Vedas would never have reached us!)?
Not that this is worth Her attention. Not that this is to Her refined tastes. Not that this is the best that can be offered to Her, but this is what I can. This post is offered to Her.

1
Isn't it an attempt at magic,
When we cast life's rainbow
With half-done words, black and red?
In the infinitely finite desert
Slashed by the winds of time
Do hawks and snakes, like paths tread?
2
Sitting in the benevolent shade
Biting the juicy fruit, do you recall
What you had once called rotten has grown thus?
When the lifetime of goodness is but
A day in the life of Truth, what is
Good, bad and this duality to us?
3
Like the swan exclaiming "I am alive"
By gazing into the stagnant lake
Why, in mirrors, search for yourself?
If the "why"s and "how"s matter not
And the beheld is all of truth
Isn't life a well-stacked shelf?
4
After listening to the villagers' words
Did any crow powder itself and
Which donkey sipped honey tea?
Having lost it in the woods
Why gather a dozen strong men
And search it in a well-lit monastery?
5
Though meats for lions, grains for doves
Fish for seals, and salvation for a sage
Don't they all want the very same?
While the stolen lasts four nights
And the arrogated, a while longer
What's time to an untainted gain?
6
What's thought to a hungry stomach,
Or God to a bereaved mother
Or reason to whom in love swoons?
Why measure truth in pounds
Or mountains in thumb-lengths,
Or wide oceans in full teaspoons?

7
With all your bags packed
Shouldn't you know where you are
Before you start to get there?
Why, like dark autumn clouds
Without a drop of wetness within,
Do you rush to thunder and flare?
8
Without knowing why water is wet
Or why the flame glows warm,
How could you ever know honesty?
When in no storm, does gold leaden,
And no grief makes coal of diamond
Why trade virtue in adversity?
9
Why does it astonish you that
No sword can bleed the air,
And a feather, no cudgel maims?
In the cold, lonely winter night
Doesn't every red coal need
Fresh breath to blush with flames?
10
Does the creeper weep tears,
Because the rusted pole
Broke in half and tore it too?
If every joy and grief were like
A sip of water, can an unbinding
Memory, brew unrest in you?
11
Why enter the marketplace
And walk amidst baskets of goods
Without knowing what you want?
To a river clearly flowing its course
On to the chosen sea, do shunned
Green meadows and deserts haunt?
12
When one knows what is, is
How can one ever discriminate,
And how can one not do so?
Though boiled rice by a grain is told,
Would you buy a jewel chest
Going by a single ruby's glow?

13
Like an overflowing cup of tea
How can the chatter of the mind,
Allow the Divine to take its seat?
Ever wonder why fishermen, old,
Teach you to tackle and bait, but
Silently bite into the carp's meat?
14
In this world of unending action
Who can be happier than the
Dispassionately passionate worker?
When every act of love and labour
Is touched by the deepest flame
How can this man ever ail or suffer?
15
Have you watched two lovers dance
Stumbling and twirling and tripping
But laughing in their togetherness?
When there are no words, no ideas
No honour, no status, no point to prove
Can there be fear in Truth's soft caress?
16
In a haste to understand it all
Why do you cast him in your shadow
When the Divine casts no reflection?
What use is any alien resolve to call
All the Divine and live in a haze
When deep down lies a trembling scission?
17
Having saved your son from seven deaths
With seven sacrifices and seven fasts
Should you now cry at his grave?
Ever know from where desire comes;
Where borne the effort and ease or,
The fate you fear and fortune, crave?
18
When there is none to make you think
And none to make you feel or realize,
Why make a God of a wordy ploy?
Although these eighteen known shall
Breathe life and joy, would a soul
Ignorant, not live and enjoy?


Yadakshara padh brashtam maathra heenantu yad bhaveth
Tat sarvam kshamyathaam deva, Narayana namostute
Visarga bindu maathraanee, padh paadhaaksharaanee cha
Nyoonaani cha atirikthaanee, kshamsva Purushottama.

Missing Report: Navratri Celebrations

Is it always the case that the days past always seem romantic and the present day will be the romance of a later time? No really, nearly everyone seems to talk in those terms:

"You know, those days when..."
"Its really nothing like how when we were kids...."
"You should have been there when..."

But is it really mere romance and the perks of a claim to nostalgia?
I am now in Bangalore (don't bother keeping track of the places I have been in the past 2 years) and ... where is the Navratri? I am not interested in the sales (actually, I am), or shows or fireworks. What happened to those simple joy that everybody was party to?

Golupadi...

To those who aren't familiar with that, it was basically an assembly of planks along an incline, much like a staircase, on which a variety of dolls and trinklets were assembled in the most colourful manner. The golupadi (hereafter called GP, because I anticipate I will be using it often) was covered in a cloth (usually a veshti) and we found great pleasure in tucking it in alignment with the edges of the GP. My uncle is the finest at assembling the GP. The GP at their house was enormous and would cover the entire living room. The GP was not the only thing to focus on. Around the GP on the floor, parks, beaches, swimming pools, marriage processions and the like would be assembled. Let me describe the process in a little more detail.

On Amavasya night, we'd start lowering the cartons from the attic/loft. When we were kids (and this is no romance) we got to climb into the attic space which couldn't hold an adult. So it was a privilege to be crawling in there. I would be on my knees crawling all over and pushing cartons closer to the mouth of the loft, and dad would lower it with the help of mom. Then, mom and my sis would start unpacking stuff and marking the cartons (to ease the process of re-packing). Mom would have packed some of the porcelain dolls in one of my old shirts or shorts and then there would be squeals and sighs from the floorspace about how I have grown up so fast! Geez! Give me a break.
Once the cartons were all on the floor, we would complete the unpacking and start assembling the wooden GP (this was later replaced with a nut-n-bolt iron GP). What followed was mayhem while deciding which doll should go where. The night was usually consumed in this chatter and whimpering about how "my idea never gets an ear".
The next day mom would light the kerala lamps (polished with tamarind paste or vibhuti) and the rangoli would be spread well. Years of watching her and my sis do the rangoli helped me in competitions that my companies held.
As the name goes, Navratri is all about what happens at night. The house would be well lit with lamps and the smell of sundal (a mostly-dry dish made of legumes) would fill the air. Ladies from all over the neighbourhood would come over and bring their daughters along (this is also why I liked the Navratris ;-). The girls would walk in in their fresh pattu pavadais (set of silk blouse and skirt) and look so devastatingly beautiful. Did you by any chance catch the advt. on the hoarding about the reversible pavadai? Wow! That kid looks so beautiful. I personally think pavadais were invented to make fathers and in general guys develop jelly knees! Anyway, so these lovely ladies and their mothers would walk in, admire the GP and all the arrangement and either sing or recommend that their daughters sing (which worked fine with me) some carnatic piece. This went on for 9 nights and everyday there was a different sundal at our place. I am not particularly a fan of sundal unless there is some element of spice in there. No, I am not talking about the girls.
Another part of the evening found my sister and I walk into the houses of people who had also assembled a GP. These people would usually come over home to invite us, or we would go to their place and invite them. So, we'd walk in, admire their GP (I invariably spotted areas of improvements which were promptly shushed by my sister). I got to be cute and smiling and allowed every elderly lady to ruffle my hair while I smiled cutely at them. My sister took great pleasure in showing me off as her stuffed toy and for reasons best left unknown, I let her. We would sit there for a while, collect the packets of sundal (some places I got a chocolate or an apple for accompanying my sis) and then bear my sister singing a song. Frankly, she's not bad, but somehow she always managed to go off-tune at a particular point in the song. Those days my voice was easily matched with my sister's (and I even got to talk on her behalf when she didn't feel like talking to her "friend" on the phone) and I would try to fill in those places where she erred!
There was always the fun of picking the best sundal, and I would make it a point to visit that "auntie" once more!! Saraswati puja gave us legal excuse to stay away from books (although of late I find it very difficult to stay away from my instruments and books) and we enjoyed the act of going to each and every room and painting every item with sandal wood paste and kumkum. Then the party would end.

So where has all of this disappeared? It seems to linger a bit in Madras, although most of my fun times and memories come from the Navratri celebrations in Bombay. Madras was fine too, but nowadays there isn't much of this "visiting-collecting-singing-inviting" role being played. Pattu pavadais seem to become drab after the age of 6-7 for girls nowadays. Some lingering whiffs of those wonderful days still hang around the corners of my world, but it is definitely nothing like what it was then.

Now in Bangalore, our neighbour was telling my mother last night, that she has never been invited to a Navratri evening at anyone's place. I rolled my eyes over and over again, till I felt dizzy!

Now people have shopping festivals and the like... I miss the festivals we once had which were available to everyone... In case you are celebrating it the old fashioned way, do let me know. I promise to behave and will surely sing a song. You can even give a shot at ruffling my hair (not much of it remains). All I want is a golupadi, some sundal, lots and lots of girls in pattu pavadai and a willingness to accept my invitation to visit our golu. Anyone?

Now showing...

Before I get to this post, let me point readers to the conversation on an earlier post and my response to it (for sake of clarifying).

Its been a while since I deliberately watched TV. Passing by the screen on your way to the wash basin or similar activities forgotten in the drudgery of the day, are not counted as watching TV. The past few days found me returning to the TV nearly after a 2-3 year hiatus. I wonder how long this would last! I wanted to share a couple of things that I enjoyed.

Friday night presented "Shadows in the sun" starring Joshua Jackson, Claire Forlani and Harvey Keitel (in the order of appearance). The story had 2 things very appealing to me: it was about the travails of a writer in self-doubt(though not much was discussed about that) and it was set in (ummmmaaaaa) Italy! One thing disappointing was that there was very little of Ms. Forlani (isn't she pretty? And her eyes always seem to laugh whether her lovely lips give her away or not). Whatever there was, was of her in very short shirts and mostly bouncing away on her horses. I liked the lightly paced story and the very convincing portrayal rendered by Harvey Keitel (as the ex-writer Weldon Parish). Joshua is very cute and with that unshaven face, does appear quite sexy (if I may say so). The end was straight out of a fairy tale and goes as predictable as most movie endings go nowadays (am I becoming cynical?). I enjoyed the sunny settings and the very Italian way of living life (I still to find sufficient argument against my opinion that the best of life is packed in the boot shaped land). There are some light moments (like Joshua being thrown into the lake) but it was the dialogue towards the end that I liked (not all of them!). At one point, Weldon Parish says: "You don't choose an art, art chooses you." I liked it because I belong to the old school of thought. :-) I also liked the quite elegant way in which a father doesn't get possessive of his daughter and enjoys her move towards a man (as if that is the one of the most important things for which a daughter is raised).

What is it about standup comedy serials nowadays? Is it just me or are they all getting so predictable? Friends, Seinfeld, Caroline in the City... you name it. The dialogues and jokes are getting so awfully predictable that I fail to laugh anymore. No, seriously, study the dialogues (I realise that studying standup is not really an interesting task) and you will find a pattern: do something, and then do just the opposite to make it appear funny. The typical "What can go wrong now?" prod that humour writers use is starkly visible. I can effortlessly predict the nature of the next shot (maybe not the exact dialogue) and the whole joke is lost. Compare these with pure fun like Tom and Jerry or Calvin and Hobbes. When tom runs around a corner, and Jerry is waiting there with a flat wooden plank to knock him, can you say what will happen? Do you know that Tom will be smacked into the shape of a coffee table with his face as the top? Did you know that he would fly off in the shape of a baseball? Did you expect that his butt and tail would stay stuck to the plank while the top and feet kept running? The possibilities are infinite and hence the novelty of the shows. I don't know, these comedy shows are not really that anymore to me.

Discovery Travel and Living is the best of channels I have ever watched. Nearly each and every show is spectacular, but there was one that caught my eye recently. I hate these American Idol, Indian Icon, Popstar of the Year kinda shows. It is outrightly annoying and such a sham. But this show on D-T&L called The Runway, is very interesting. For one it is about fashion designing and two, the judges are knowledgeable and clear in their decisions (unlike some judges on some shows who stick to being nasty and stupid and think that that is cool). They explain their judging criteria and methodology and I find that very impressive. Since I enjoy designing, I was able to follow the activities of the contestants and was able to reach a judgment on my own before the judges announced theirs. Our judgments matched and that made it appealing to my sensibilities. Its all about theme, stitch, cut, pattern and design. In short, its about work and not people's attitudes and how they respond when they fail and all that bullcrap. Very enjoyable show.

Cookery shows excite me like no woman does (sorry about that, ladies). The sheer colour, settings and the aroma (what? you can't smell it? :-O ) send me on a high. The shows on D-T&L take the cake but other shows (Zee and Star) are interesting too. I like the sets in which Kylie Kwong cooks. It is so correct for the dish that she prepares and you know she is passionate about the food that she cooks. Unfortunately a lot of it is non-veg, but is sufficient to roll me on my own adventures in the kitchen. One thing that these shows seem to tell me: Never cook by following instructions; let your heart flow. Works well with me! :-)

The inevitable

Swathed in light blue, the skies laughed as God and Devil stepped lightly over the clouds. The nimbus dipped oh-so slightly and spread themselves to grasp the wide feet of the God and Devil. Have you felt the loveliness of a child's breath on your neck? Have you? You might then share the smile and joyous tears that the nebulous white shed in the sheer bliss of holding the Divine pair. Young thunderclouds flexed their bellies and stitched together frivolous tufts with the needle of the bolt in order to prevent the Pair from falling. The older scanty clouds smiled benevolently at the knowledge that falling and floating were but Divine will. Larks and hawks darted between the fingers of the Devil and the hawk fed on the slower bird on the palm of God. The Devil smiled and the hawk flew away with the remains. The blood mixed only with the rains of the younger clouds. The older clouds knew that none would remain through the distance of space and time to the rock hard earth and let the blood flow through.

It was early noon and the Pair was above the sun. What fed the sun couldn't be affected by it. They were involved in a deep discussion about the inevitable and the cupidity of the human mind to ensure the working of their will.

"Brother, tell me why did you let them think if you never wanted them to will?" asked the Devil. He snapped his fingers around a beam of sunlight and lo! out flew a skylark.
"Isn't it fun to watch them quibble over their petty lives which is but ephemeral? I was afraid someone would read this man's words and start ruining the fun."
"You are at once gracious as you are wicked. No wonder people worship you."
"That is something we will return to on another day, my dearest brother, but why do I sense a tinge of envy in you?"
"Dear brother don't you know that although envy is attributed to my ways, I have no reason to be envious." He smiled and turned around after catching God's frown.
"So in the matter of the inevitable, what is your say?"
"I feel that you create the inevitable, and I create the human will and the human folly is always in pitting the ways of yours with mine and often confusing one for the other."
"Bravo! Bravo! Well said, oh king of the spoken word! In all the kind words that I can utter and in all the truth I might speak, when have my words danced a tango like in yours?"
"And you wonder why I have no reason to be envious?"
"Let us put a human mind to test. Are you interested?"
The Devil saw the setting sun shake its head in despair. How many days had the sun been audience to God's tests? Did the sun shine brightly with the hope of sheltering the ways of the God from the human eye? Such a loyal servant of the God can only redeem such pitiable truths by burning itself and not uttering a single cry, thought the Devil.
"The day is yours, brother. Can Time stop you?"
God swelled with pride and tossed a subservient cloud farther into space where the luscious blue precipitates to darker and gloomier shades.
"Come. Let's go."
As they walked amongst markets full of men and women they watched several people swear by the name of God and curse a shrewd bargainer as the Devil's child. The Pair smiled, but for different reasons.

As they walked past the shops into the settlement along the banks of the Danube, God clapped his hands and every human pair of eyes looked heavenward at the young thunderclouds.
"I know what we'll do. There lives a man and his wife out there. Both of them are known widely for their charitable ways. Its his day today. You know what I mean?" he winked at the Devil. The Devil knew exactly what God had in mind and made his plans accordingly.

God pointed his fingers to the earth and slowly raised a mendicant from his shadow. He breathed over his palm and into the beggar's being. The beggar bowed low and walked towards the hut.
"Let watch the fun now", said God and rubbed his hands in glee.
"I'd prefer sitting on top of the hut and watching it, if that's ok with you."
"Well, I have to be with the beggar, so I'll stay around him on the ground."
The Pair walked their paths but it was never a departure. How can water and wetness be separated?

The beggar walked up to the hut and called out.
"Anyone home to give some food to a hungry beggar?"
Bending under the door of her hut, the lady walked out to see who was calling out to alms.
"Aah! The generous lady of the house is here. My name is Heinrich and while passing through the market filled with stingy devils", and here God looked up to see a non-chalant Devil on the roof, smiling, "I heard great tales about your generosity. Is it true what they say?"
"We offer what we can in the name of the large-hearted God", and it was time for the Devil to look at the guilty frown on the God's face.
"So would you have enough to fill my shirts pockets?"
Frau Oliva looked at his shirt and noticed the shallow pocket with a wide mouth. Half a loaf of bread is all that it can hold, maybe a full loaf, she thought to herself.
"Definitely, Brer Heinrich", she said and turned to re-enter her hut.
"Beware of hollow promises, lady. The God shall take away your husband who is still in the forest and feed him to the wolves, if you go back on your promise."
Frau Olivia shuddered under her skin. How did he know that my husband was away in the forest? He must be very powerful and capable of doing harm to my husband. Let me fill his pocket and see him off.
She returned with two loaves of bread and offered it to him. He grabbed them and stuffed them in his pocket and turned to her.
"What? That is it?"
"No, no Brer Heinrich. I was merely waiting to see how much space was left and what should I bring next."
"Some potatoes would be good."
She rushed in to bring a bushel of potatoes and offered him a handful. He grabbed her basket and stuffed it all in his pocket. He bent over to pick one that had slipped away and stuffed that one too.
"What else do you have to offer?"
She rushed in and brought all the grains, wine and vegetables that she had stacked and he kept piling them all into his pocket, but the pocket would never fill. She went out into the kitchen garden and plucked all the tubers and gourds, even the ones which cried out for some time before the ripen. She rushed back, her hair tousled by the impending misfortune on her husband and her hands trembling under the weight of his imminent death.
"Take all of this, all of this, but please be satiated."
He filed them into his pocket and looked up for more. She sank to the threshold and was the shade of the mercy she sought from the God above.

God smiled at the Devil and spoke in a voice none could hear.

"See? When the inevitable is right before you, the human mind thinks it can still rearrange Fate, rearrange My Will."
Devil smiled and whispered into the woman's ear in a voice which the God couldn't hear.
"You missed looking under the wicker basket."

She looked around startled wondering who spoke to her and decided it was the all knowing beggar. She ran into the hut and tossed the basket aside to find sacks of grain buried in the floor. She cried aloud in happiness and dragged them out to the beggar. He frowned at her but opened his pocket. She poured the grains carefully with the silly fear that a few grains that might fall out would refuse her husband a chance of returning safely. After emptying 6 sacks of grain, the beggar looked up at her with a smile of triumph.

Again the Devil whispered in her ear, and she rushed to the rear of her hut. She founds four cartloads of vegetables. She yoked herself to them and pulled them to where the beggar stood. It is amazing, how a God fearing woman can age in the matter of a few hours, under the pinning thumb of fear.

She emptied them one at a time into his pockets but there was always space for more. She collapsed at his feet and wet his feet with dearly begging tears. God knew that this game that the Devil was playing in response to his would only amount to the wrong person dying tonight. He thought a bit and smiled.

The beggar finally spoke.
"You are indeed generous but my pocket has space for just one pumpkin. Give me the best you have and I shall walk away happily."
She shook her head and her lips scraped the earth for some mercy. The Devil smiled and whispered again. She looked up with some hope and thanked the God for whispering in her ear. She dragged her worn self across the ground and pushed the pile of washed clothes out of the basket near the door. There, under the clothes, lay a bright pumpkin. She clutched it to her breast. She dragged herself on her elbows and raised the pumpkin to his pocket. When she was just about to stuff it in, God blew the hair away from her face. Astonished at the amorous act of this beggar, she let the pumpkin slip. It fell into his pocket and tore it apart under its weight. Out spilled all the grain and vegetables that she had poured in generosity.

The beggar stepped back and was trembling in anger.
"So this is how you treat a mean beggar? This is how you wish to show off your well being? What greatness have you gained by ridding a poor man of his only way to carry his mouthful of bread? Arrogance hasn't brought a man to His doorstep. Your arrogance shant bring your husband home."
He spat on the earth and walked away.

A while later amidst the clouds the lark heard its Master's voice.

"As I said, brother, you are at once generous and wicked."

Tell me...

I wonder, as I have little else to do in this wonderful world. I was pondering over the possibilities that are open to a man's character. Reader's opinions are invited (a level between requested and demanded ;-)

A, is an alpha-male. He is physically gigantic and is an achiever. There is nothing that he or the people around him consider impossible for him. He was a wonderful sportsman in his younger days. He was a wonderful businessman and always made the right moves in the market. What he set himself to achieve, he achieved.

A was also a man a great virtue. People knew him to be very generous and kind hearted. He never wronged anyone and held some very solid beliefs. He wasn't very religious, but respected everyone in a manner they should be. He had no apparent weaknesses. He did drink and smoke. About women, no one ever spoke ill of him or even suspected that he might be immoral.

A got himself a wife in an elegant woman from a rich family of kings. Such a woman was she that he was the envy of several cities along every direction of his town. She was very talented and beautiful too. He loved her and took great care of her. He believed in family and respected the institution very much. One day (let's say 20th June 2006) they planned to have a child and went about the usual biology of ensuring one in the wife's womb. Even after his wife dies, he doesn't allow another woman to enter his house.

B, is a woman who is extremely beautiful. Her beauty is unmatched but she is born amongst the servant community of that village. Men would kill for her attention even if it were only for a quick 20 minutes. She knows about her beauty and doesn't resist enjoying the attention of the men she fancies, be it for money or for the sheer joy of knowing that they are her slaves in bed. She undoubtedly believes that she deserves the best amongst men.

My question is: do you conceive the possibility of A slipping to B's charms during the phase (sometime between 15th May 2006 to 15th July 2006) when he is planning a child with his wife and have a one-night's stand with her and impregnate her? Here is a man who has all the respect of the world and holds high values. Do you think he would have slipped? Here is a man who loves his wife so dearly and is currently working with her towards a definitely emotional bond, a child (not sure whether you can imagine the emotional high involved therein). Do you see him slipping? Here is a man who believes in being respectable in society and earning the constant awe of the world, and B belonged to a low class in society. Do you see him slipping and allowing evidence of his mistake (the child that B bears him) exist?

My next, though related, question is: If he still did slip (let us assume that he did sleep with B and impregnated her), do you see B, being the kind of woman that she is, to allow A's child to grow? Do you see her delivering the baby and then vanishing without staking claim to a share in A's life? Esp. after his wife dies (say, she died in the 6th month of pregnancy)? Why would she give up the luxury of a life with him? If all she wanted was more and more men, why would she let his child grow in the first place and jeopardise her beauty as well as several months of no men!?

Given a sketch of both these people, do you think it makes sense if I told you that A had a one-night stand with B and both of them let the child grow within her and be born? Do you see that act (the one-day/noon/night stand) being in accordance with their character and temperament?

Do ponder over this (while I work on another story) and let me know...

The folly of motivation

I had been harping about this ever since I remember, but a recent column (unable to find an online version to it) by Dr. Debashish Chatterjee in the Ascent supplement of the ToI made me jump around shrieking "Yes". The column hardly scratched the surface of the matter, but it was sufficient to get my morning steeped in tarantism.

Motivation and billion dollar industry that thrives on the whole exercise of motivating is what I call parasitical. Current motivation therapy (which a friend and mentor of mine calls group-therapy) is the must subtle form of the strongest bromide. Let's look at what motivation-therapy entails (in its stupidest form). The primary assumptions are:

1. You don't know yourself enough.
2. I know a lot more about you.
3. You are no different from the other person across the table.

The most stupid thing that motivation gurus can assume is that, everyone is motivated by the same thing. The chicken-soup gang goes one step further and points out the really crass and deprived lot and makes you feel better with whatever silly things you might be doing. See? You aren't blind, so feel happy? Heard about the guy who was deaf? You are much better off. I hate it enough to want to puke when I hear the man in suit on stage go: "Don't listen to your negative side. I know you can do it. You know you can do it. Just go ahead and do it." Yuck!

Motivation is a means for creating psychological dependencies on people (gurus) or mantras (statements, quotes, what you have) and hoping to cover the void and not fill it. What one is never told is that the void in a person cannot be filled from without. It simply cannot be filled by anyone but the self, because the void belongs to the self. Its as much as I cannot make you love that woman next door. I can tell you a lot of good things about her and point out to you that she is great and sexy and all that. But if you fall in love with her because of what I said about her, then you are the right person for all these motivational gurus.

Greatness is not great. Truth is the only thing that exists way before we were born and long after we are gone. In dialogue (internal or external) one can create a void which Truth can fill. In that filling, arises a clarity that is personal and hence unique. When clarity has rid the mind and the self of all that is not true, on such a broad canvas the strokes of effortless realisation are painted with least conflict. Action driven by such clarity and truth automatically brings you to the pinnacle of what you are and not what you think is fashionable to be or what someone else thought so for you.

Has anyone bothered to notice certain things about "great" people and motivational gurus? Great people (philosophers, industrialists, sportsmen, scientists, et al) followed their own calling and didn't keep running back to gurus or read tomes of self-help books. Motivational gurus have hardly ever achieved the "greatness" of the "great" people. Why? If they can motivate you to chase your dream and become famous or rich, why haven't they done it? I agree that not all motivational gurus do the "rich and famous" trick, but nearly everyone does.

Has any motivational guru ever realised that you cannot motivate a group of 100 attendees with the same talk? You have to sit down and discuss with each and every individual and understand where s/he comes from and what throbs in them. Motivational gurus would make sense only when they help the native realise what is the truth about him and set him free from fear and other destructive elements of the human psyche. They don't have the time and patience for this, and of course, this won't pay much.

Beware of motivational gurus who deal in cliches and label things good or bad without the wisdom to explore alongwith the individual into the depths of what makes things good or bad (and if he is good, he wouldn't have labeled anything good or bad!! :-).

You cannot be motivated by someone else. You can be drugged into a high and get yourself to achieve something, but that is exactly what steroids do to athletes. Of course, he out-sprinted everyone. Of course, he came first. Can you deny that? But was it his true self that won? Does it matter to have the true self winning and not the projected self? What matters? Realise that and you will realise that no one can motivate you. Discern between motivation and realisation.

Get Organised

I found these sites (and their services) very interesting to my unorganised mind! :-D

http://pocketmod.com/

http://www.officeinteractive.com/

Never marry a writer

Or at least someone who spends a lot of valuable time in (valuable?) dreaming and foreshadowing. :-)

This weekend saw me munching goodies (and that is the single point of the event that is framed well in my mind sans blurry edges) at a ... what do you call them? Well, lets just call them the "interested family". So we were at the house of the "interested family" and I was quite busy munching on goodies like "ribbon pakoda" and "thengai barfi" and "badam milk". I had reason to munch on the latter as well - very well prepared liquor of saffron and badam slices.

Seated on this side was my mother serving as sole protection to her little lamb-boy who was, as disclosed earlier, munching on goodies. On the other side (other side of the goodies) sat (quite upright) father, mother, sister and the cynosure of the "interested family", a young lady whom we shall all call (but not loudly) G. Now G was quite well trained for this event and definitely gushed with customary shyness and "No, no" and "Yes, yes". Her father was all praises about her, while her mother ensured that every statement from her husband received a nod of approval from me. Nodding also helps move desiccated food down the foodpipe.

G's sister was a darling and I would have adopted her had the situation permitted such actions. She too was all agog and jumping as she thought she was supposed to. She giggled at the right times (which always coincided with my looking at her) and whispered (probably nothing) into her sister's ear, prodding her sister to look deeper at the carpet pressed at four points by the table with goodies.

Talk turned to my profession and the other matters I professed to. I was as businesslike as a Marwari under a pile of Lays chips. I shot out numbers, statistics, trends, forecasts and more often, technological babble. G's father received each shot of incoherent, morsel-coated jargon with widened eyes and must have felt that such jargon ushers in prosperity. I enjoyed giving him more and more of the tell-tale goodness.

G, in the meanwhile, looked pretty and comfortable in the well meant cordon assembled by her family. Occasionally, she raised her head and I wonder whether she ever got to taste the barfis. I offered one (no, not the plate, just one) to her and she declined it saying that she wasn't hungry. What? Were these items on the table, leftovers? :-o It seems she had learnt carnatic music, which was rallied with my mother talking about patents. It seems she was interested in painting, which was sent back to their court with my mother embarrassing me with her account of how I won the Camlin All India painting contest at an age, where marriage was something only adults did! Why bring THAT up now, mom? It seems G wrote a lot of poetry and stories, and I shot my mom's nascent attempt back down her throat with a glare laced with a smile. They won. They had scored one point over us. How did it matter? They were missing out on the goodies, with all their chatter.

Soon my mother looked bored and decided to turn spectator (which she was anyway, just that she was used to switching channels). She suggested that she let the "boy" and "girl" talk for a while and "get to know each other". I was wondering whether I could carry the bowl of ribbon pakoda when all hopes were dashed with G's sister offering to clear the table for the "getting to know each other ceremony". What!!?? Why do I need a clean table? Are we going to arm-wrestle?

We spoke for a while. She asked about what I thought of life, and what I thought of a marriage. I was already wrinkling my forehead and was nearly going to complete her next question of "What do you think about love?" Geez! Why does everyone come there and cause indigestion!!? I asked about her career and why on earth she was even interested in this alliance. She gave me reasons which I found frightening!! She told me things about me, which made me wonder "Who is she kidding?" Then she told me something and all I could imagine was a large room with her lying on a couch and I sitting on a chair near her head with a notepad and pen in my hand. Here goes...

"You know something, E?"
She didn't wait for my yes or no.
"I have always imagined this meeting. How you would walk into the house. A slight gust ruffling your hair and then you narrow your eyes to the wind and smile at me lopsidedly."
"Am I the one lopsided or would it be my smile?"
She laughed sweetly and thought I had a sense of humour, but she didn't answer my question.
"And then you would sit on the couch with your right leg over your left."
But wouldn't that prevent me from reaching over to the goodies? I didn't bother asking her that.
"Mmmmm. Such a clear picture in my head."
She was looking at something over mine and I turned around to spot her father's veshti/dhoti hanging to dry. Huh? That inspired her?
"Do you know?"
Again she didn't wait for my reply.
"I wrote a poem for this occasion. Do you want to read it?"
You guessed it. She didn't wait for my answer and rushed to pick a notebook from under the mouse near her computer. No, real old fashioned notebook.
I read it slowly and wondered what "surreptitious" meant. Lilac blossoms? What did they look like? And "gaze meandering down my heart"? Huh? Wouldn't that mean that I would need to dance my head a lot to ensure a meandering (and I thank my geography teacher for teaching us about meanders in the 8th standard class)gaze? When I came to "And I yearned for you, my heart" I must have gulped visibly for she grabbed the notebook from me in well rehearsed shyness. I nearly choked on my gulp and managed to ask her, "That's it? Was there more to it?" She gave me a pondering look not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a dumb question.
"It was good. Very nice. Very touching."
Thereafter our conversation was like the Sensex in May. We soon realised we hadn't anything in common beyond parents who loved to sing our praise. She soon realised that I had nothing to do with literature or the arts (beyond a stint in that Camlin competition). She had nothing to do with technology or the markets. We surely had nothing to do with each other. G's sister poked her head around the door and giggled as she ran back to... somewhere. We decided to call it off.

I think G's mother's ears were already ringing with loud off-key epithalamion, for her expression remained unchanged to the "I don't think this will work out" statement that I let lose. G's father was saddened and patted me on my back (I wonder why. Was I coughing?). Mom was diplomatic and pacified everyone like in one of her serials.

As we walked out, a gust did tickle me on its way past and I turned around to see G tear the page off her notebook. As we drove away, mom carefully asked me what we had discussed. I opened my mouth to answer and all I did was burp! Aaah, such fond memories. :-)





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As I said, never marry a writer. :-)

For art's sake

He clamped his lint ridden mittens over my eyes and leads me carefully over the slippery rocks that I had barely managed to see from the jeep. He had pounced on me and shushed my eyes into denying even the beveled landscape which frilled the road on which we parked our vehicle.

"No, no. Don't look. Shhhh. Shhhh."

I could feel his heavy breath curling its way down my neck and twirling the soft down of my nape in their transparent fingers. I tilted my head hoping to slip away from the warm air which was his, but how do I escape the memory? Isn't it the memory of a breath that tingles way after the life breath has ceased to oscillate between him and the world that we now made ours? Isn't it the memory of last night which makes me stop and pull my stomach in? Isn't it the shy guilt of such memory which makes me reply with:
"No, nothing. I was just being careful of where I walk. Nothing."
He slowly rolls his thumbs along the edge of my ear to their rear and directs me with the firm grip he has on my head. Do I hear something squealing?
We walk carefully and I am aware of nothing more than the gurgling waters of either a brook or an open sewer. The smell of dead trees and biting frost denies me the power of discriminating between the possible source of the rolling sounds. How much we depend on our senses, and in the mummification of these very senses, how beautiful the world promises to be... until we are re-sensitised? Another strong feeling lurks in the cold black that he has ensconced me in... his growing excitement. Andre' is only excited by paintings, colours, textures and, hence, women.

What will it be this time? As we clomp over twigs straining to crackle under our weight but muffled by the dampness of an unwelcome winter, I wonder how it would be to live forever like this? Blind, deaf, tasteless, mute and being guided through the unknown by a hand that creates and relishes in the joy of beauty? Wouldn't it be remarkable? This absolute faith in the unseen Force which can be felt and realised by none other than "I"? I nearly trip over my foot wedged between slippery stones and I feel myself held upright by the vice like hands holding my head. He is panting, and I hear the song of excitement rumble through his nostrils and pulse its way through the mittens and against my eyelids. In all this human rush, I hear the squeals again.

"Alright. Now slowly open your eyes and look only ahead of you."
He loosens his fingers around my eyes and I feel them gradually peel away while leaving a familiar sinuous pressure around them. I roll my eye balls within and slowly open them to a stinging blanket of pure white under soft blue.. or is it blue over white? My eyes flicker straining under the sharp gaze and the urgency that Andre' exudes in knowing what I feel about it.

"Beautiful. This is so..."
I can't open my eyes fully, so I sink to my feet and lower my head.
"Wow! You feel that way about this?"
He holds me around my waist and spoons himself over me. Slowly he raises me to my feet.
"Wait till you see this."
He lets go of me and I continue to adjust my eyes to the blankness of beauty. I slowly smile and find any and every face I can recall on this large white canvas. Not a bird and not the wind has sullied the smooth surface of this expanse, but my mind rapidly splashes landscapes and pyramids and upturned faces all over. With equal dexterity, the mind restores the serenity of the canvas and indulges in another effort of conjuring faces across the white.

The squealing grows louder and I turn to watch Andre' a few yards away holding a conical glass flask in his mouth and struggling with something in a bag. A glint of metal in one hand and a feel a shiver run through me. How can the unknown stoke fear? I wonder what he is doing but he turns his back towards me. The squealing is unbearable and threatens to scar the quietness of the white spread ahead of me. Then suddenly there is silence. I turn to look at Andre and watch him do something with the conical flask. He shakes his left hand before turning around and in the same motion discards a bag to the ground and holding his flask aloft. I raise my eyes to spot the flask with a red fluid in it. I shudder down the length of my spine and find the echo of that shudder rise up my alimentary canal in a distasteful manner.

"Andre'" I scream and turn to look at the bag on the ground.
"Beauty, my love, must be created in the breath, then in the mind and then created for others to behold."

He swings his arm and sprays a blanket of red through the blue and onto the white. I hear the snow sizzle under the scalding weight of a murder in the name of art, murder of a ferret which helped create art with its life.

Beauty Incarnate

If ever...

"Arun, get married. What's the point?"
Sanjana held him in place with her eyes and her hope that he would concede. 12 years since she first set eyes on him, 12 years of watching him evenly age under her gaze, 12 years of watching him always look different from the last time she met him.
"Precisely sweets, what is the point?"
"Arun, please. We have been through this. She loves you. She cares about you. She strives to keep you happy. She so sweetly worries about you. What more could you possibly want?"
"How about someone I love, I care about, I want to strive to keep that person happy, I want to worry about her?"
She breathed in deeply and felt her heart shudder in her throat and resound deeply beneath her ears. She had to get back home. She had to leave now anyway. Vikram would be waiting for her to pick him up at school. He would never let anyone but his mother drop him to school and pick him up.
"Arun, think about it. She's right for you. When do you hope to ever find that one girl who will be all that you ask for? What if she doesn't exist?"
Arun smiled and slapped her lovingly with his glance askance.
"I know she does exist. If ever she gets to realise that, I will marry her."
She struggled with the straps of her handbag and stumbled off the wall on which she was sitting. "Careful!"
"Don't worry."
His smile spoke for him... I love to worry about you.