Zen Koan - Reflection

It was that time of the year when little Aiko loved lazing under the firs, though it was mostly the mystery of the wet-needle-thrower that brought him there every day. He would rest quietly on the damp sere leaves, with one eye open waiting for his invisible tormentor. Suddenly a dew drop would fall on his furry back and a twitching shudder ran up his spine to whip his head into a spasmodic search for the phantom. He would look all over and search for monkeys and bark a warning to no one in particular before spiralling his trot back into the centre where he would rest, waiting for the next clue.

Today was also the day when a particular batch of students were to leave Sensei Hisa's school and make a life for themselves. Some found a life in there while others thought it impossible to treat this school as anything beyond a rung in the ladder of their progress. It was rumoured that the king's son was also one of the students but no one was able to spot the royal scion based on the Master's treatment of his students. Today there would be the ceremony when the Master would hand over each of his students a bamboo leaf with a directed but cryptic message. Most of these leaves simply rotted away with the household beetles treating it with no greater reverence. Some of the students lived their lives entirely based on that singular message, and grew to be great commoners. Still others used it to guide them through times on their path to noticeable greatness. The Master never refrained from continuing this tradition but always explained to the bamboo shoots as to why he needed their leaves.

Hideaki was looking forward to this occasion as the Master was also known to pronounce who was the best student. It didn't happen always, but Hideaki was planning on pressing the Master to confess to Hideaki being the best. He might also pursue, based on the the number of creases on the Master's forehead, to educe a greater accolade of the best of all times. He had outshone everyone in every subject except in bonsai, where Daisuke had surpassed his capabilities. But Daisuke was just a common help in the Master's school. What better could he do than bonsai and winnow.

The Master was busy composing the individual certificates while the boys waited outside, some discussing about the fair that was being setup at the outskirts and some about the maidens who came to wash clothes near the streams. Some were studying books in the hope that their Master might take that as a sign of sincerity and award them suitably. Hideaki was rehearsing his speech of gratitude. He would flex his muscles to let his Master realise that he hadn't erred in conferring the title on him. The Master's door opened to snap everyone into their ranks. Even Aiko dropped his trail of the phantom and darted towards his master in foot-long leaps. The Master stood for a brief second surveying the assembly before re-entering his chamber. The students paused a while longer before following him in.

The Master was seated behind his low table with a stack of leaves beside him. He was casually looking at each boy as they entered. When they were all seated, he arched his lips before addressing the batch of students.

"I suppose you realise that today is your last day here."

The boys nodded in silence.

"Hmmm. May it not be. This school has a purpose, and that purpose is to let you learn enough so that you may carry on with the life chosen for you, without much hesitation. Nevertheless, the school also includes in its purpose that of welcoming the student whenever they feel a need to learn more about life. Do remember that nothing stops. Such is the breath of the Buddha."

He paused to make sure that everyone had heard him although none had understood him. Like a tan, there are some Truths that will fall unnoticed on the mind but create an impression over time. He was in no hurry.

"I would like each of you to eat your fill today before you leave. Now I shall hand over the certificates to each of you."

He then proceeded to call each student, handed the certificate to them and blessed them with a life without regret. Once he was done, he nodded his head to the students. They would wait for him to nod once more before they rose to the music of rustling robes and left the Master's chamber. Hideaki was unable to hold himself back.

"Master, do I have permission to speak?"

The Master nodded with a smile.

"Master, it is my honour to be your student and no greater honour can be done unto me in this life."

The Master's smile neither grew nor shrank.

"Master, if this is impudence, may I be struck down by the God's wrath, but I in earnest and borne by the eagerness of establishing the greatness of what you have taught us, seek to know whom you consider the best amongst our batch."

Murmurs rippled through the class and the paper stretched between the strips of woods of the amado trembled. The Master looked around.

"Does anyone have something to say?"

No one opened their mouth.

"Then silence is the best to practice."

He turned towards Hideaki and smiled.

"Hideaki-kun, I think we shall not go into why you wish to find that out or what you intend to do with it, like I didn't ask why some of the boys here wanted their certificate when all they were thinking about were the maidens of Kyoto nor what they intend doing with the certificates upon receiving them. I hope everyone realises that Hideaki-san's request is acceptable in this gathering."

The Master paused before continuing.

"Without doubt, Hideaki-kun, you are best student of this batch. I was about to pronounce this just before this batch was to leave and I am thankful to you for having given me the opportunity."

Hideaki was holding his joy back in the pressure of his clenched fists, but he still had more to know.

"Master, if I may explore further, may I know whom you consider the best student from all your batches. Perhaps it is someone from this batch. It would serve me and others to have someone as an example to live up to."

The Master smiled and closed his eyes to visualise what was going to come. His eyes lightened behind the closed lids.

"An example for the world of this school, eh? Quite a noble intention. In that case, the finest student that this school has ever produced is Daisuke."

This time the murmurs were loud enough to stop the school-helps outside. Hideaki was shocked and was unable to hold himself back.

"What? The winnower? Master, perhaps I didn't make my question clear. My apologies. I wanted to know who amongst all your students was exceptional in all that was taught and can serve us as an example. Daisuke hasn't even learnt the art of sword-fighting from you. I am told that he did attend a few classes of yours before he was relegated to the role of a help. Surely, you do not consider him an example for all of that you have taught."

"I understood your question quite clearly, Hideaki-kun. Daisuke has learnt the crux of all that I have to teach as well as something that I haven't taught anyone."

"But he is just a winnower! What is there to learn about winnowing? He doesn't know literature or fencing. How could he be an example?"

"That is for you to figure out, Hideaki-kun. Surely, someone with your sharpness cannot miss that."

Hideaki, for once, had the sympathy of all the students. They couldn't digest the fact that all of them had to look up to a mere winnower. They rose silently and left the chamber. The Master studied the length of the sun rays and realised that it was just a few minutes before his morning bath. Suddenly, he heard some commotion outside. He smiled and walked toward the entrance of his chamber.

Outside, he saw a circle of students with Hideaki and Daisuke at the centre. Daisuke was on his knees with a mound of grain scattered all around him. He saw Hideaki standing arms akimbo towering above Daisuke.

"Come on, I challenge you to a duel."

Daisuke turned slowly to where the Master stood and sought his permission in the silent speech of his eyes. His Master gave his assent in an equally imperceptible manner. Daisuke requested someone to loan him a sword. No one offered so he requested a few minutes before he brought his sword. Hideaki granted his wish with a huff. Daisuke ran to fetch his sword. Hideaki maintained his back towards the Master. When Daisuke returned, Hideaki demanded an explanation for the delay and Daisuke simply bowed his head.

Hideaki took his position and commanded Daisuke to prepare. Daisuke did just that. Hideaki's eyes were filled with a fury which found no reflection in Daisuke's. Daisuke was busy watching Hideaki. Hideaki lunged forward with a scream and attacked Daisuke. Daisuke warded the attack and moved quickly with his sword. Every attack of Hideaki was countered and Daisuke attacked Hideaki in return. Soon Hideaki gained an upper hand and toppled Daisuke on his back. Hideaki burst out laughing and shouted, "What are you going to teach me now, winnower?"

Daisuke rose to his feet and bowed low.

"Shall we continue?"

Hideaki grew serious and attacked Daisuke. The duel grew furious with Hideaki unable to find enough space to pierce his sword into Daisuke's flesh. Daisuke's eyes were fixed on every single movement of Hideaki and every move of Hideaki was countered. After a few minutes, Hideaki was tackled and tossed to the ground with Daisuke's sword placed firmly an inch away from his throat.

"Are we done?" asked Daisuke.

When Hideaki looked away, Daisuke dropped his sword and ran away from the circle. Hideaki slowly rose and the crowd dispersed. Hideaki went and sat on a nearby stump and dusted his elbows and ego. The Master walked up to him and placed a hand on his head.

"How is it possible, Master? Did he have some secret lessons? I have always found him sleeping when the other boys did. He woke up not much earlier than the rest of us. During lunch he would also eat and rest on his pile of hay. The only time he seems to have had for himself was the few minutes he took to get his sword. What could he have learnt in that time?" Hideaki asked and paused. He looked up at his Master and continued, "Is it black magic or some secret communication between him and you? Please tell me Master, else I will not be able to be at peace."

"Daisuke came to this school and after a few days asked me: "Master, how does the rice know how to grow and bear seeds?" I had asked him to meditate. He returned in seven days to let me know that he would like to work in the fields. I granted him leave as his education was over. I have not taught him anything secretly and what purpose does black magic serve beyond placing an individual at a disadvantage?"

"Then how is it possible that a winnower could wield a sword like that?"

The Master smiled and said, "Come with me."

He led Hideaki to the ladies' dressing room. He held Hideaki in front of a mirror and said, "There are two aspects to Daisuke's knowledge and learning. One aspect is in front of you."

Hideaki didn't understand and looked puzzled at his puzzled reflection.

"I don't understand, Master."

"Can you show me your best moves?"

Hideaki proceeded to demonstrate the nagare moves of the okuden class. Finally, he plunged his sword towards his reflection.

"Good, so now you see?"

Hideaki was still puzzled but, like a good student, repeated his moves in the hope of catching something that he had missed earlier. He noted that his flow was perfect in the reflection and his elbow was now bleeding.

"Master, I only see my reflection, and yours."

"Good, so now you know."

Hideaki pondered over and wasn't sure what to realise.

"Forgive me, but are you saying that Daisuke has been studying my reflection?"

"No."

"Me?"

"Not entirely."

"Then?"

"I shall answer this, else the next facet of his knowledge will be totally lost to you. Daisuke was busy becoming your reflection. Do you now see what I mean?"

Hideaki looked closely at his reflection and repeated his moves and stopped as soon as he realised why Daisuke wouldn't take his eyes off him.

"In life, all knowledge is a just a reflection of what is. All demonstration of knowledge is best done when it is a reflection of what the other person knows. Daisuke would not do more than what was required in the situation in which he was placed. All he had to study was how you moved and how the sword moved and he simply had to reflect it."

"And if I hadn't attacked?"

"Does he need to?"

Hideaki nodded his head.

"And the second aspect?"

"You should find out, else how would you justify being my best student from this batch?"

Hideaki bowed his head lower and proceeded to walk out.

"In case you are still wondering why he was away for a few minutes before returning with his sword, he went to remove a few logs of wood from the fire which was heating my bathing water. That gave him enough time to tackle your challenge and then return to a cauldron with water at the right temperature."

"And the second aspect he learned by meditation?"

"No, by being a winnower."

Hideaki walked out of the school gate meditating on that when he remembered his certificate in his kimono's folds. He extracted it to read what his Master had written for him. It was a haiku.

With dust in the eye

Or bloody sword, what reflects?

What you see is seen.

Sonnet - 2

Strange comrades make they, white death and black life -
In white absence does black be born. Yet they,
Under friendless-foeless Time's scathing knife
Lock palms, now right, now left, in silent sway.

Thus scurry my thoughts as I watch unmoved
Of one mate gone and the other arrived.
Where goes the pink, with life's music removed?
And the calm, with death's lissome shroud deprived?

Uneventful death is life's dreaded act
And lo! behold another falls. They cry
A desultory wail, spiting Fate's pact
To keep alive one's love till love shall dry.

Though scythes will fall on unshent and sinner
They will befriend the fearless and wiser.

Wholesome Foursome

The greatest loss I suffer due to undue work pressure is the paucity of time to entertain my guts (literally). As the hand on the clock moved in predatory circles, I managed to steal a few slivers of time and made myself more of these little merrymakers. Well, all I'll tell you is that a good amount of potato, cheese, corn and some more (the more maketh the little pleasures of life) went into the making of a happy evening! Bon (visual) appetit!!

Sonnet-1

In sadness' tell, I, a weighing heart carry,
Such threads enweaved, held in another's clasp.
Every smite a painful tonne's decree
To buckle, founder, but bear all's rasp,

For in Fate's tutelage, love's a queer whip
That bringst little joy but anxious wantings.
Dare a moment of trust lie sweet on Time's lip
The next shall cleave, lese majesty it brings.

Myriad ferules make coral scars common
And mind sillies to seek purpose in pain.
What such life heralds, what seeks the soul broken
Will one ever know, what be good Fortune's bane?

When grey sorrow bows to a blacker one,
Sole joy I limn in grief's colourful run.

Why?

I wonder why
I confuse names
But never yours
With another face
Or another voice
Or another smile.

I wonder why
I still wish to hear
You laugh at me
And call me cute.
Pity me and my world
Scold my tormentors
Shoo away the black crows
Of destiny that
Mingle with my shadow.

I wonder why
Your approval matters
Why I still seek
Your "ok" even after
A hundred "go ahead".
Teach me the magic of
Infusing power and hope
With a bi-syllable.

I wonder why
I feel empty without you
And every dream
Has you at the end
Or at the beginning
If it were a nightmare.
Let me curl up to you.
Be my pillow for this
Lifetime's sleepy travels.

I wonder why
All that you give me
Can be counted
On several fingers
But what I have to give
Doesn't have me unfolding
A single finger.
But my hands are
Firmly holding you
In my heart
And I wouldn't
Move a finger for the
Banal purpose of counting.

I wonder why
You never get to hear
My heart call out
Your name
Before and after mine.
And then just keep
Calling out yours,
For mine is lost in there
Somewhere.

I wonder why
You will never know
That I keep
Wondering about
The silliest things
In our life
And imagine how beautiful
It would be
Every single day
Only if you had stayed on
To hear me tell you that...
.
.
.
.

I wonder why
Like a lonely boat
Unmoored
Unanchored
I buoy to the
Painful thump
Of your departing feet.

Plug-in

This is my nephew trying to clean his ears. The best thing about him is that he is stupid to the core (stupid in the dear sorta way). He had this earbud plugged into his ear and he was walking around. Much to my sister's delight I must confess that he is as weird as I am. So I see this little nut walking around with a erabud hanging out of his ear and I asked him "V what do you want me to do? Should I hang my handkerchief there!?" He gave me this sheepish grin and went to sit on his Pooh chair while watching my mom do her puja. Suddenly, he decided to operate it and that is when I shot this!!!

Brahma in this Age

I couldn't help but shoot this image of Brahma on the mobile. The lady was reluctant and turned around before I could complete the shot. It was absolutely hilarious to watch One of Brahma's heads on the mobile!! This was shot backstage at a recent dance performance that I had attended.

Rawness

I earnestly resist the lazy temptation of casting it all into the "American" mould (and they would spell it as mold). As much as I use several American inventions and thank scores of them for making life easy, I also look around myself and try to figure out which aspects of humane life have they really touched and enhanced. Now, when I say "they" I really mean the West.

A friend of mine and I were discussing how the "Americans" have made everything so vulgar (including the words they seemed to have invented). Junk food, to start with, is very tasty but devoid of nutrition and only worsens the health of an individual. Nuclear power transmission was well conceived (although mostly as a part of the notorious Manhattan Project) "there" (though the transmission to a grid was first done in USSR who don't really form a part of "them") the current state of nuclear warfare and devastation owes a lot to "them". Art has become crass and silly thanks to "them". Jokes are better when they are laced with "American" words for various anatomical parts. People consider themselves cool and the like only when they speak with a false accent and use four letter words as punctuation. MTV, Ms. Spears, Janet Jackson, divorce (if you wish to believe that the man with the higher rates is responsible for your son following suit)... name it. The tone seems to be of "do whatever you feel like doing" which only brings us closer to our animal self which we alternately justify or condemn depending on which side of wall we are on (and sometimes the same person condemns some of them while rooting for the others). Why, a perfume brand is now called FCUK. Like I need to be a rocket scientist to figure out why the lady in red was smiling when her eyes fell on that vial of vulgarised aroma!

But then that would be silly (no, not the rocket scientist part). I think what "America" has done is to take their philosophy of capitalism beyond the industry (and capitalism is so misunderstood to its own undoing). What works in the context of an industry (create goods in demand and sell them for a profit, re-invest and continue to grow the business) doesn't work well in facets of life outside the industry. Art is also created based on sheer market forces. How else would we justify Harry Porter, chick-lit and other short-lived sensations aired on the Big O show? Look at the crazy world of movie making (there was a post about this, a while ago). Look at how children interact with their parents in the West (they want to do what they want to do and are entitled to their individual rights with least concern for their parents). Old age homes are justified on the simple rational that it doesn't work out to be worth one's while (and one's time and energy are vital and valuable as resources in the capitalist scheme of living). With notions like "only you matter" and "you are the most important person in your life" a possibility of cooperation based on intangibles is wiped out (and what might they be?). Life becomes a sheer barter and profit making venture which cannot be censured on the grounds of logic for what simpler logic can a man call upon than the need to satisfy his hunger which seamlessly extends into satisfying his needs and like one cloud merging with another at no particular point, into a satisfying his wants. No argument on earth can logically deny a man the means to satisfy his wants unless it brings direct harm to another person. But extrapolating that to every walk of our life doesn't always make sense. That "they" have actually made a business out of nearly everything "they" touch (academics, visual arts, sports, music, journalism, etc.) has ushered in a lot of good and professionalism but doing the same to several other aspects of life (interpersonal relationships, entertainment, sense of worth which is quite a senseless thing, etc.) has overshot the possibly intended purpose and has become a moral famine where everyone seems to be doing well based on what they own or achieve but a dirth at the core.

When I look at the commercialisation of nearly every aspect of life, I tend to wonder whether this makes any more sense. Surely the commercialisation of human sentiment and pride (which goes by the name of self-help and positive thinking and a lot more) feeds immorally on people. People are more comfortable at a material level and have gradually allowed their finer side to be corroded by the tell of the West. Undoubtedly, people in the West have a fine finish and many (and many more, though the Joshua Bell episode still makes me smile) have retained their suave side of conduct, but as a philosophy the West has contributed and promulgated a lifestyle of irreverence and short-sightedness, focusing on the gains and profits of today and this lifetime rather than on moral correctness. This is not an attempt at preaching from the moral high-horse (or rather, condemning à cheval) but at trying to go beyond the obvious rawness in display to the underlying motivation.

I read Ginsberg's "Howl" and I see no sign of anything beautiful though irreverence screams out in glitzy neon. All that is described in there, if it were true, only speaks for a highly irresponsible world made possible because everyone is free to do what they want. While great industries and movies are made there, the need to educate the individual into becoming a responsible individual is clearly lacking and where dropping out of school to found a company is considered sensible and right as it makes an Ellison out of wannabes. But is that the point and purpose of life!? What is!? The lack of a holistic approach and lack of inculcating patience and restrain is the hallmark of present day education. Although this is the case with education systems all over the world (as far as I have bothered to seek and find out), the "American" way of life itself popularises the "go-getter" attitude which, again, is fine in commercial business but falls flat in most other aspects of life.

I think it is vital to realise that no one philosophy works well everywhere. That faster processors sell more is fine, but that sex sells and hence have skimpy women in advertisements for coffee or wheat flour doesn't make sense and only takes us closer to our animal nature. "As long as it sells it is ok", doesn't work everywhere. What is the point of prosperity in a void? Popularity and prosperity are good motivators for certain things but when applied to every aspect of life, it doesn't really work well.

When a person caters to the banausic and base needs of one's animal side, what one essentially is doing is making righteous the pursuit of such needs and hence causes an entire generation to sway in confusion without a firm spine to provide direction and robustness. It is not a matter of morality in the religious sense but morality in the core fiber of being human. Such a rapid degradation can only be herded in when the lack of strengthening the core is associated with success of various sorts and one mistakingly marries them together and makes the former essential for the latter's realisation. The sheer rawness that "they" demonstrate in every aspect of their presentation only facilitates several generations of incomplete individuals living irresponsibly and irreverently.

Ménage à trois

He thought he had arranged it all. I could see that his pace was that of someone who had ran the entire scene - cast, costumes and all - in his head, tweaking portions of it here and there to extract a nod from some faceless critic of life's videos, and growing impatient in the wake of the moment when he would carry it all out and step on stage for his bow. He could practically hear people speaking - in the hope that their words went unheard - about the remarkable demarche that he was about to carry out. He went about nudging my armchairs to correct the distortions that my room caused when superimposed on the motion picture in his head. He smiled at the coffee table and swooped to change the page of the newspaper lying there to the review of some unctuously saccharine romantic movie that was showing in Minerva. He snapped back to his position, cocked his head to the side and smiled.
"She's coming, yes?"
"Yes, Jai, and if you stop running around in circles I might still be conscious enough to receive her."
"You will, you will. You fine? Don't let her know I am here. Ok? Maybe we should move the sofa a little behind."
He rushed to push it, with me on it when I warned him that he might just have turned to pulp the roses he had hidden behind the sofa.
"Holy shit!"
He ran around to cradle the rather malnourished bouquet in his arms.
"What are you planning to do with her?"
"Come on Andy! What else? Shhh... shhh. It's a secret. I will let you know when I'll let you know. By the way, do not forget to give her the biscuits. She loves the smell of them."
I couldn't grasp his excitement. I had a fair idea of what he planned on telling her, but the need for such elaboration was beyond me. I continued to sew the button of my shorts back in place. It was always a pleasure running the needle through the button holes watching it sink in, dragging an otherwise flimsy thread until it fastened around the bridge between the holes of the button. Something about this task made me feel a great connection to life, a rather organic analogy to the whims of life itself. Where the holes had little of the button in them, they allowed for the button to ...
"Andy, she's here!" Jai hissed into my ear and proceeded to straighten my tee. I slapped his hand away and tilted my head towards the rear of the sofa.
"Coming!"
I casually walked down to the door only to notice Jai's footwear mingled with mine. I hesitated - why bother!? It wasn't my fault but a mere facilitation of a possible act of God. I opened the door to find Anita push her mobile into her jeans' pocket.
"Howdy!"
She hugged me before giving me a quick peck on the cheek.
"Should I assume that means you are fine?"
"Come sit."
It wasn't often that I was welcomed into my own house.
"So, what's up?"
"Andy, I have something to tell you."
"Don't waste the three words on me."
"Shut up, Andy."
"There, I told you!"
"What are you doing?" She was staring at the sewing kit on the sofa.
I lifted my shorts straight into her view.
"God! You really are gay aren't you?"
"Yes, and so is every tailor you allow to measure your bust for a blouse."
She shook her head and smiled.
"I am planning to get married."
"Aha! And the person in context would be?"
"You don't know him."
"Are you certain? There are very few men in your life whom I am unaware of."
"You don't know him."
I peered deeper into her eyes and watched her move back at the same pace.
"Andy, I can trust you."
"And I would normally ask on what basis, but we'll let that pass."
"I am leaving Bombay with him."
"And that would mean he", and I leaned back on the sofa, "would be aware of this plan too?"
"Of course."
"What do you want of me? Other than these biscuits?"
I offered the plate to her. It would have been odd to have some of them without offering it to her. She took one and I continued, "I remember you liking the smell of these."
"Hmmm. Were you not gay, you would make a very caring lover."
I started to protest but was uncertain about what. Like a pair of misguided trains simultaneously entering a tunnel, I felt the need to slam home the point about men also needing caring partners and the twin correction of my preferences, but I shut up. She patted my cheek and proceeded to explain.
"I can't do it here in Bombay."
"I understand", I said without having a clue to what was driving her out of this city.
"Mom and dad will call you first, once they notice that I am missing."
"Because I am gay and know everything about the women in this city?"
"Whatever. They will. You should tell them that you think I have gone to Delhi."
"But you are not going there?"
"Of course not, silly."
"And you would be going where?"
"Cal... Doesn't matter."
"I understand."
"Can you do that?"
"But what about the luggage you are leaving behind?"
"I have packed what I need and it is at... his place."
"Hmmm. What about the luggage you are carrying with you?"
"What about it?"
I shrugged and sighed.
"What are you trying to say, Andy? What? You are trying to act like some priest now?"
"Because I am gay?"
"Shut up, Andy"
"I told you about those words!"
She grew silent. She wanted this court's hearing. She definitely wanted to say her say before she disappeared. All I had to do was push the needle slowly through the hole diagonally across such that the button had one less degree of freedom. I could actually hear a thread snap when pierced by the needle tip.
"Listen Andy. I didn't do anything wrong here. I was simply having fun and cannot babysit all those who didn't realise that."
"Like Jai."
"Jai? What about Jai?" her eyes narrowed, "What has Jai been telling you?"
"Nothing more than I know about you. Biscuits, roses, DDLJ, the works."
"Andy", she stood up and was getting ready to leave,"What is done to relieve boredom is not used to fill life's bathtub."
She walked out of my house and shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
"Damn you, Andy! I hate you, but remember that I am in Delhi."
"Or Calcutta."
I heard her swear and felt the urge to come up and vent her anger, but her heels clacked away.
I continued fastening the button in place when I heard the crumpling of plastic sheets from behind me.
Jai jumped in front of me and laughed,
"Damn! That girl really bought into my story. Damn silly, man. I had told her that she should meet me in Calcutta and we can start our life there. Gosh! She is so easy to..."
"Shut the door before you leave, Jai."
The first impact of a glass bowl falling to the ground is to splatter it radially outward - like Jai's mouth and eyes.
"I only wanted to wish her the best in life. I knew about her plans of escape. I did, Andy. I was close to her."
"Hmmm. So who is the guy?"
Jai turned around thinking of a possible name.
"Does it matter?"
He shook his head, his back still towards me.
"Nope, it doesn't."
He opened the door and before shutting it he turned his face to the hinges and said, "You really are lucky, Andy. I so wish I was gay too."
This time the needle broke my skin.

Manumit

I, Eroteme, wish to apologise for my children (still unconceived) who might bring difficulties to your life. I realise that they may trip you or your children, or your children's best friends while one or more of you were traipsing down the alley. I take full responsibility for the candy they might steal from the shop (thereby causing an irrecoverable loss of Rs. 2 or - if we take inflation into account - Rs. 20 to the shopkeeper's family). I suppose they would grow to be artists - and will hence offend your tastes - or techies - and will either introduce bugs in your product or mix vials of the wrong concoctions while preparing your medicine. Hence, I would like to apologise for that. My daughter is most likely going to break at least a few dozen hearts and I would like to apologise for her lack of faith in polyandry. If my son does the same, I am sorry that he couldn't respect your daughter's (or son's, in case my son is homosexual) lack of faith in polygamy. Do pardon them as I have not raised them well. I would also like to apologise for any evasion of tax that they might indulge in as well as for the tax that they paid which helped that country fund a war or the renovation of the presidential suites. I would like to apologise for the vehicles they bought instead of getting onto a cycle and refusing to participate in the fight against global warming. I am sorry that my son - were he to be half like me - will consume more food per day than three fourth of what Somalia does. I apologise for my daughter voicing her opinion against the government (she is quite likely to do that). Last but not the least, I would like to apologise for any SMSese or grammatical mistakes that they might allow to pass in their written communication. That might be the only event that might make me conduct a DNA test. In case the test does confirm them to be my children, I would like to apologise to them and all true children of their assigned parents.

I suppose it makes sense to apologise for something in the future which we might actually cause. than for something that happened a few centuries ago. How I laughed when I read this! I actually had to create a new tag for this post. How stupid can someone get when they accept responsibility for something that one hasn't even witnessed; even the people whom this Mayor represents have not witnessed it? No one living has witnessed it let alone participated in it. What are they apologising for? Why on earth did we have a whole drama of tears and the "two pauses"? And to think that people actually fell for it and consider it a noble act. How stupid can people get?
It is like the whole caste based politics that happen in India. A person who wants to study medicine/engineering should be first capable of doing so. The govt. can pay their fees or help prepare them through specially designed classes/tuitions, but allowing people of lower calibre to enroll is stupid and defeats the purpose of education. Why not directly give them a degree? Why should the present generation pay for something that a few people did in the previous generations? Why should the present generation apologise for anything that the previous generations did? If we are going to use the argument of building our worth and edge based on the advantages that our previous generations have accrued for themselves and hence, for us, then we can keep extending it back to our caveman days and resolve matters with brilliant stupidity.
Every generation has its grabbers and losers. What we need to learn from history is how not to continue with any form of exploitation or any act of depriving another human being or living entity (animals and plants included) of the right to their space on this earth (well, weeds are exempt). Foolish indulgence in self-aggrandisation or self-pity is just that: foolish. If people can't move on and live their life anew, then they really need psychiatric help and not Hallmark cards and apologies. Probably they should approach the govt. to provide the means (time, money, guidance, etc.) to accomplish what they want to do. How will an apology and the related drama help if nothing changes after the speech? How on earth, pray tell me, will having an Annual National Slavery Memorial Day help? So we all gather around in a park and talk about what happened 200+ years ago and then? What? What do we plan to do?

Stupid human beings!

World's Kitchen

"A poem shall blossom anywhere
Like love in a leper's heart.
Seek not a venue for Muse to bare"
So said those who don't impart.

How can this world's incessant woes
Trip you on your journey there?
If wings you have, push from your toes
And soar through magical air.

I listened hard and believed deep
For naivete is a poet's soul.
This world was painted bright anew -
In words I lost my wordless hold.

So here I face the furnace blaze
With diced carrots on a basket's bow-
A knife's flat in fiery display
Mute players of a futile crambo.

For what ballad shall tilt my quill
In this cthonic culinary lair?
Oh! Pit me not with mettle's fill
I am a man, in a commoner's wear.

Pray tell me, how shall I mould
An elegy or a lament's tear
Midst rotting parsley on fish, cold
Tubers' effrontery on fire's smear?

With a wounded quill, I rush away
Skipping a step up and out.
From one to another I foray
Driven by a jejune knout.

"All the world's a grand cookhouse
With fires stoked in watery basins.
A soulless meal that all espouse -
Made and fed while life sickens."

So said He, and turned to stuff
A fresh apple in a swine's snout.
I for my part, know 'tis enough
To live life without soul's grout.

I enjoyed this

I have sinned, and I am now going to make it scaldingly terrible by sharing it with you. Suffer my shameless confession. It is not often that I get to do this and - a sinner am I - enjoy it. Rarely would you find a man on his knees baring the thoughts that course his humane mind; rarer still a man who enjoys it not in vanity - for what vanity doth one find in a beauty, chattel to none? - but in the helplessness of his impassioned self in the presence of something which horripilates my entire being. I read this with my soul and couldn't help but smile. Shall we feast on it together?

A post which I admired too much, today.

An update

People might be interested in this article while reading this post.

Yaar Enna Sonnalum

This is a song that is very dear to me. I learnt it from a girl whom I have known since she was a little kid (and who is also responsible for this post). The song is sweet and I got to discuss its meaning with my mother and my soul's reflection. Corrections are welcome. Here is Maharajapuram Santhanam rendering it in his voice.

Raga: Manirangu
Tala: Aadi

Lyrics follow interspaced with an approximate translation. The usual way of employing "zh" while transliterating Tamil is dropped in favour of the "yy" which is closer to the actual way of pronouncing it. Stick your tongue-tip to the roof of your mouth and say "yuh".

Pallavi:
Yaar enna sonnalum, anjaadhey nenjhamey
Aiyan karunaiyai paadu.
Raaga aalaapanamudanum paadu - mudinthaal
Adavodum jathiyodum aadu.
Arumai-ena vandha piraveegalo pala
Aayiram sonnalum varumo - aadhalin
Yaar enna sonnalum, anjaadhey nenjhamey
Aiyan karunaiyai paadu.

No matter what anyone says, fear not
And sing the praise of Lord Krishna.
Sing with (the right) raga and aalaapana - and if you can
Dance with suitable adavus and jathis.
Dear have been the myriad creations
But shall there ever be a creation like This - Hence,
No matter what anyone says, fear not
And sing the praise of Lord Krishna.

(I am not sure what Oothukkaadu Venkatasubba Iyer meant when he wrote "Dear have been the myriad creations/But shall there ever be a creation like This". There are two interpretations I can think of now. One, that amongst all the creations that this Earth has beheld, Lord Krishna is the most beautiful of all. Second, that there are many creations on this earth but we are fortunate to be created like this (and like none other) in order to sing the praise of Lord Krishna.)


Anupallavi:
Naarada naadhamum vedamum naana (some places naadhamum is replaced with gaanamum)
Gnaana kuyyal ondru oodhuvaan.
Neeradhar kayyalaada, gopiyarum paada.
Vegu naer naerena solli thaanaaduvaan - andha (naer is pronounced nearly as nay-r)
Aiyan karunaiyai paadu.

Narada's music and the vedas are debunked (when compared to)
(The beauty of) Narada's music and the Vedas shy (in comparison to)
The Divine music he plays on the flute.
His anklets would tinkle, the gopikas would sing
And he would unabashedly ask them to dance with him - Such
A Lord Krishna's praise you should sing.

(Again, the meaning of "Vegu naer naerena solli thaanaduvaan" is open to interpretation. Vegu means "very". Naer means straight, direct. "Solla" or the brahminical "cholla" means to speak/say. "Thaan" sorta means himself. "Aaduvaan" means would dance. It might seem silly to translate that as "Lord Krishna would say things to the gopikas directly and then dance away" although one could interpret that as "Lord Krishna would directly (free to) say anything to those (besotted) gopikas and (be casual enough to) dance away!" and indicate the freedom and impishness that he was allowed. I chose the meaning above, which might not necessarily be the one intended. Please refer to comments section for explanation. Naadhamum and gaanamum (in the 1st line) mean the same so I will wait for Oothukkaadu Venkata Subba Iyer to descend and clarify.)


Charanam:
Thoalai arindhu, kani doora erindhu (thoal rhymes with coal)
Verum thoalai thunindhu oruvan thandhaanallavo?
Melai pidi avalai, venumendrey therindhu
Virumbhi oruvan thandhaanallavo?
Kaalamellaam thavam irindhu kanintha kani
Kadiththu suvaithu oruval thandhaanallavo - indha
Gnaalamum aayiram sonnalum naam adhai
"Namarka edharkku" endru solli
Naamamum aayiram solli solli
Aiyan karunaiyai paadu.

Discarding the fruit, after peeling the rind
Didn't one (devotee) offer him just the rind?
A fistful of flattened rice, didn't the all-knowing one
Eagerly receive it from the one who offered it?
After bearing the penance of ripening didn't
(She) further test and taste them before offered it to him? - This
World might say a myriad thing but
We should respond with "Why should I care",
Recite his thousand names and
Sing the praise of Lord Krishna.

(This stanza makes reference to the stories of Vidura, Kutchela and Sabari, though the latter is to do with Lord Rama. I suppose Oothukkaadu Venkata Subba Iyer (OVSI) funnels all the gods and distills them into Lord Krishna, such was his devotion for Him. Vidura is fabled to have once received Lord Krishna in his humble abode. He was so moved and touched by the Lord's arrival that he pulls a bunch of bananas and proceeds to prepare them for the Lord. He peels them, discards the pith and offers the peels to Lord Krishna. The Lord smiles and eats every one of the peel. When Vidura's wife brings Vidura to his senses and Vidura realises his mistake, he offers the pith to Krishna to which the Lord replies: "But the fruit is not as sweet!"
Kutchela was Krishna's childhood friend who was very dear to Him. Kutchela was very poor and always remained so while Krishna went ahead to enter royal palaces and lived in opulence. Nevertheless, Krishna never lost his love for Kutchela. Once Kutchela decides to pay his childhood friend a visit and reaches the court of Krishna. Kutchela walked all the way and only managed a handful of flattened rice (go here and search for aval) as a gift for Krishna. Krishna, the all-knowing, rushed to greet him and washed Kutchela's feet and pampers him. Krishna grabs the rice that his friend has brought for him and relishes it as if enjoying a banquet for kings.
Sabari's story is part of the Ramayana. Sabari, an old lady, is overwhelmed to see Lord Rama arrive at her doorstep. She ambles away to collect some sweet berries but doesn't offer all of them to Lord Rama. She nibbles at each and offers only the sweet ones to him. Such was her devotion and love that she doesn't even consider it an offense to treat the Lord with partly consumed food.
What OVSI tries to bring to notice is that, Lord Krishna who has been so kind to such simple demonstrations of devotion should not be forgotten no matter anyone says. He strictly advises singing His praise as the only way to be close to Him.
It is not about whether one agrees with OVSI (or Thiagaraja, Bhakta Ramadas, et al) or not. His devotion is unquestionable and it brought him peace and Divine gifts which don't belong to us. Whether what he says will work or not is a question that arises in the minds of all but the devout. It doesn't matter whether it will work or not for he was able to leave us with this gem of a composition.)

The Lost Arts: Making Meaningful Movies

I must confess to have played no role here. I assure you that I was not involved in any of the movies made in the Golden Age of Indian Cinema and I'd rather be dead than be involved in any movie made nowadays. But I miss those movies.
I wouldn't want to make it a Hollywood versus Bollywood (or any other {state-specific}-wood) issue. I see a fall in good the density of good movies being made both in the West as well as in India, though I believe that the fall is more sharp in the local market.
I wonder whether you have seen Do Bhiga Zameen or Do Aankhen Baarah Haat or Pathar Panchali or (down south) Paasa Malar. A movie is usually a rendition of a story and if that is done well, then I would be more than happy. There are those gems like Saaransh or Arth which (I think) also had an original storyline.
I used to have a rather clear sieve in my hands: if the movie is made by Mani Ratnam or has Kamal Hassan involved in it or is by Satyajit Ray or ... well, you get the picture. I think I have backed out of the 1st criteria now, to a great extent.

Movies in India have nearly always been musicals and still are so. I hope that never dies but with the lyrics of today, I'd rather they were sifted out of the movie and rendered as a separate album. The songs of yesteryears had soulful lyrics and a beautiful lilting score to them. Consider Aandhi or Abhimaan or Anand (I actually have all of them in the same cassette). For that matter, consider any movie from the 70s and 80s. I loved the lyrics of this song from Mere Apne. Simple and beautiful. The movie too was about two friends who go ahead and form different gangs with a common bonding with Meena Kumari (who acts as this really old lady). Compare that with the run-of-the-mill gangster movies nowadays. I think after Sathya and perhaps Company the rest of the movies are so tiring. With songs like "Crazy kiya re" which are good to hum for a month or so, I don't see the coming generation connecting to any song. For some reason "Mehbooba Mehbooba" in spite being a hip song of that generation (and I am amazed how Helen still maintained her respectability in spite of the typical cabaret songs she featured or acting the role of the vamp) is still a song people recollect and enjoy. Or do you remember "Laila o Laila"? We would try to recoginise the lyricist by just listening to a song. Now it doesn't seem to matter whose mind stirred while composing a lot of sounds strung together as a song. I am not able to put my finger on why songs of today fail to strike chord but I will put my money on the inherent acceptance that nothing is meant to be permanent (quite a New York attitude) and everything can only get a 15 minutes of fame. I think the creators of yesteryears strove to make their creation memorable for years to come. Like writers of that generation and this. The virtue of permanence is a discarded goal.

The dialogues of the earlier day movies were consciously written to be high impact and the kinds one would want to repeat in close friends circle. I still remember the dialogues of Pran and Raaj Kumar. The latter's baritone voice would make even simple dialogues seem dashing and sexy. I still remember the way he addressed Meena Kumari in Pakeezah: "Aapke paon dekhe. Bahut haseen hain. Inhe zameen pe mat utariyega. Maile ho jaayenge" Smooth. I used to love the way he used to pass his hand over his throat and lash out his lines. Very suave. Down south, Shivaji Ganesan was such a figure too. Why, even Sholay's "Kitne Aadmi the" is such a memorable line or the quirky "Poorey pachas hajaar! Aur yeh inaam isliye hai ke yahaan se pachas pachas kos door gaon me jab bachcha raat ko rota hai to maa kahti hai beta soja ..soja nahi to gabbar singh aa jaayega." :-) Nowadays, very few movies have noteworthy dialogues. Unfortunately, Rajnikanth movies down south have some silly line that people love repeating for long ("Inda Baadshah orr daravai sonnaal, noor daravai sonna maathiri"). And Ajit's dialogues (of the "Saara sheher mujhe loin ke naam se jaanta hai" and "Mona daaling" fame) are still twisted and turned into some very funny one liners. Here is a link and another. I know, I am drifting... :-)

In short, I really wonder why movies with some good and gripping storyline aren't produced more often. I really miss watching a movie with a plot that makes me nodding my head in approval. And of course I miss movies with songs with good lyrics and music which isn't too much of noise.

Ranked

It gives me immense pleasure to note that Google lists my earlier post titled The Folly of Motivation amongst the top 20 search results for "motivation therapy"!!! Now let me go read that post... ;-)

Dance of a whim

Give me but one life, filled to the brim
A mouthful of smiles, jouncing with vim.

Bend down and pat icing on snails' shells,
Grab striped sunlight midst leaping gazelles.

Pick her ribbons, have her chase me down
O'er streams of rain, and hills verdant-crowned.

And lie panting under clapping shades,
Our care hurtled onto green-dewed blades.

Splash loud songs to scented virga's tune,
Hand clasped faces as he busks a rune.

Give me a fence to heavenward heave -
Hair in the breeze, a memory to thieve.

Sit on the porch when supper's well done,
Smile at moths vexed in a firefly's fun.

Wish cold nights and thick blankets together,
Curl up tight and shield one from the other.

Thus I ask, not more than one filled life -
With Pleasure's joy and unrestraint, rife.

The Lost Arts: Reading

I care not how humble your bookshelf may be, nor how lowly the room which it adorns. Close the door of that room behind you, shut off with it all the cares of the outer world, plunge back into the soothing company of the great dead, and then you are through the magic portal into that fair land whither worry and vexation can follow you no more. You have left all that is vulgar and all that is sordid behind you. There stand your noble, silent comrades, waiting in their ranks. Pass your eye down their files. Choose your man. And then you have but to hold up your hand to him and away you go together into dreamland. Surely there would be something eerie about a line of books were it not that familiarity has deadened our sense of it. Each is a mummified soul embalmed in cere-cloth and natron of leather and printer's ink. Each cover of a true book enfolds the concentrated essence of a man. The personalities of the writers have faded into the thinnest shadows, as their bodies into impalpable dust, yet here are their very spirits at your command.

Through the Magic Door, Arthur Conan Doyle - 1907

If I were to die now (how I wish!), and in morbid delusion were to believe that what one does in one’s last minute would continue into one’s sojourn in hell or heaven (or any other other-worldly resort), I would pack my deathbed with a few wonderful books and if there remains some space which, I sincerely doubt, going by my list of what I consider good reading, I would stack a couple of pizzas – probably edgewise. I wish God and/or the Devil enjoy reading too, for reading in company can be at least thrice as exciting as reading alone. I wish they have a reading club or a grand reading room with the view of the ocean (don’t care whether it is milk and honey or pure brine). I would die (I think, I was doing that anyway) at the thought of having someone come up to me and say, “E, drop that. Read this. Woolf just wrote it. Isn’t she amazing!? Look at the beauty of it.”
So I read it and say, “But R, isn’t it something like in her essay ‘On being ill’?”
“No way, the style is different.”
And then we go about reading both pieces and I love to imagine being the one coming out right at the end of the debate!

Before I forget, it might be worth your earthly-while to read ACD’s Through the Magic Door.

I am not sure what my first book was. Quite likely (if I wish to believe that I haven’t changed over the decades), there wasn’t just one of them, but a few strewn over the place so that I never have to travel more than two steps to reach for a book. Beyond the Noddys and Tinkles, I poured over scores of Amar Chitra Kathas, which my cousin loved collecting and binding into volumes of several issues. This was one of the reasons I liked him. And then there were Enid Blytons.

My sister and I competed with each other in finishing the most number of books in a day, much to my mother’s ire for she thought that too much money was being spent in paying the library. Dad was the more book-loving types, though mom was the one who was always with a magazine in her hand. I knew dad liked fine books, but never remember seeing him read one. Frankly, I am unable to figure out who is the greater bibliophile.

Reading is rarely an activity worth noting till the age of 12-16. Until that phase, reading is primarily for fun and the joy of seeing colourful pictures or, as is the trend in current market-driven days, to being part of some hype-cycle (to borrow a term from IT market analysis). Pottermania is not a reflection of an increasing interest in reading. It is but a need to be part of a community and the happening world. Given that most people rushed to read the end before they chewed through the meat of the book, I doubt whether reading the book is what drives people to stay overnight outside the closed doors of a bookstore. Hence, I would consider it criminal for children to pick a Midsummer’s Night Dream and appreciate the play of words in there. They should enjoy the colours and possibility of the impossible which their adult lives will mercilessly shear off them.

I will be conscious about not spending time in telling you what is a good read, for that is a matter of one’s tastes and refinement, but there will be a lot of telling regarding the dying habit of reading.

Reading , or the form I refer to, is a derived pleasure, like making love. Unlike a scoop of Tiramisu or a Chopin (and I shall explain how), reading has to be deliberate. One must ponder over each word employed, each sentence stretched across the page to realize the entire pleasure that the writer intended to provide. A Chopin can be soothing when played in the background while you do something as mundane as hanging your clothes out. One cannot read Nabokov or Plath in such a casual manner.

Does every written work deserve that attention? I would answer that in two ways (and at times adopting both of them together):
If you feel it doesn’t, what are you doing with it while there are so many other tomes crying out to transport you to a differently beautiful world?
If you do not give it that attention, how else will you know that it doesn’t call for such deliberate focus?

While reading a piece one should reflect on the trinity. They are:
1. What is the writer trying to say/depict?
2. How would one normally say it?
3. What is the beauty of the way in which the author has said it?

If the patterns of ink on the page match the answer in my head for each of the above, I would rarely derive any pleasure from reading that work. The deviation from each of these in a piece is what, to me, raises my spirits and makes me cling on to the book longer. I would dwell on a sentence, read it again, pace the room and return to it, call a friend and share this with her, read it again, think of a few dozen scenarios where I could employ this sentence and then read it again. Again, like making love (except maybe the part of calling a friend, unless we are in an orgy). It is the element of surprise between what we think and what the author thought that makes me pull my legs up and under me and hold the book with greater reverence.

I still remember reading short stories by renowned British authors and then P.G.Wodehouse and enjoying the world they created. I would then enact some of the scenes I read and drift away into a life of very real characters. As Stephen King says, writing is telepathy, though I would like to point out the reading is more so.

I would forget about food or my carnal need of sleep, while holding a good book in my hands. Forgetting about food is a big deal for me, but good books were a much greater deal. Those were days without the Internet and cable TV. During hot afternoons when we were forbidden to venture out, we found the finest entertainment in a shelf full of books from which we would pull one and slide into our bed. Then we never compared notes or discussed writings. We simply read and felt an invisible streak of gold line our cloud-like spirit. It was the glow of having been in another world that we would carry on our visage and recognize the same on another fellow conspirator’s face. It was a rather silent crime to have escaped to a different space while our parents we were obediently behind closed doors.

Amongst friends we would share the books that we borrowed from libraries and establish our own private circulation. We would read for hours on end and though they were mostly Hardy Boys and Nancy Drews or The Three Investigators, they revealed to us a world we had only known to exist. Most of our initial reading informed us about the ways of the Americas, and we knew what a jalopy was and what a hot-dog was. Later, I evolved into Max Brand and Saki.

Reading like most enriching but non-profitable activities calls for the luxury of time and energy, and surprisingly in an age with gadgets to automate most of our tasks, there is a paucity for them. Here I recall Flaubert’s wonderful observation, which I had quoted in an earlier post, about spending one’s life reading and re-reading just 6 wonderful books and thereby realising a more fulfilling life.

I do not recall when I became so involved in books, but it surely wasn’t during my school days. Even our English teachers in school taught us what was necessary to score at least 80% in exams (nowadays, I hear people get 98% which appears so absurd). I would have preferred if they had sat with us and encouraged us to enjoy the language employed and the imagery created. The trinity I mention above was something I created on the spur of the moment while trying to explain to a dear friend why a particular author was wonderful. That is when I realized that it is applicable to any sincere reading process.

I am overjoyed to find fellow lovers (readers) who appreciate the pleasures of reading. I enjoyed reading Francine Prose’s Reading like a Writer. She enthralls the reader with the joy of reading and how she herself derives immense pleasure by going over each line in the passages she quotes. Please do find time to purchase this book and a few others by Michael Dirda on this subject.

What I seem to miss nowadays is the joy that one gains from patient reading and newer joy in re-reading. People want to either watch the television or listen to their iPods, get on Orkut and read scraps written in SMSese. My uncle would read every single line (except maybe the advertisements) of The Hindu. He used to say that there is a lot to learn from the fine writing that was contained therein. Reading has become a chore or a ceremonious vacation which needs to be announced and scheduled in one’s calendar. Young children seem to do very little of reading outside of their school syllabus, and even that is summarized in what they call “guides”. Reading literature and fine works of the masters is the only way civilization can be nurtured to productive evolution. The finesse that reading grants is not easily available through other modes of entertainment, and reading is not mere entertainment. I really wish there were more libraries than malls. I wish schools could encourage the habit of reading. I wish parents could sit with their wards and burst open the world of magic to them that comes from the simple turning of a page after thorough reading. Reading is the cheapest way to travel all across the universe and back and being rewarded with a richer mind than before embarking on that journey.