Today and a little of Yesterday

Are we living in an unfair or an unkind world?

The holiday season is here. Every where I see greetings. I do not celebrate Christmas, but cannot help think of this or any other festivals that I do celebrate. When depressed I have always told myself the world is unkind. It is not my fault that I am miserable. Could the universes be conspiring against me? As much as I try to convince myself that, I come to believe the contrary. Can I shrink myself into being happy? Can I be happy?

I do everything I am supposed to do. I will continue to everything I am supposed to do. I will live my life. Is it to the ''''fullest'''' is not a question I can answer.Hopefully someday someone will answer it for me.

Once in a youthful zeal I had declared that 'The best kind of happiness, is that when you are not trying to be happy.' Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was right. It doesn't matter, for I have realised that, the answer does not matter. Very little does when you are happy.

long time no blog

I haven't been writing for a while. I am also thinking of taking a Writer's bureau course.
Hopefully I will have a story ready by next week.

Aniruddha

He was terribly scarred from a bout of adulthood chicken-pox. He was probably the jolliest person I ever knew. I speak of him today, for I dreamt of him recently. I saw him in a railway station. He was a tout and he helped get me some tickets. It was not a peculiar dream. It was kind of dream that is not special by itself but triggers a memory or thought that engrosses you for long.

I remember he was a good student, but worked hard at being one. He was not gifted like some others in my class who rarely had to study and to score good ranks. His parents if I remember correctly were Bengali and maharashtrian. It was a love marriage unlike most of our parents who were in arranged marriages. He one day I remember announced that he had memorised the schedule of the Indian cricket team for the entire year and challenged others to test him. I did question the use of this exercise with predictable pessimism, but he was too excited to notice.

It was not natural at that age, being teenagers, for us to question our future. We were certain that we would make it. How? I don’t remember that question ever coming up. We were, as boys that age often are, intoxicated with what little life we had lived. He, however, was not one of us in this matter. I was utterly under qualified to make this judgment then, and still am but I do believe he carried within himself a self-doubt that clearly undermined his very existence. I venture to make such a bold observation for I am convinced that I carry a similar doubt within myself. May be I always did.

I shall, I tell myself, remember him fondly for a long time to come. He will be another horse that ran. He will be another Nero that fiddled. I need him to become whatever he wanted to, for that is the only way I can be sure I will too.

Just some stuff

I missed watching Forrest Gump on TV. I really, like that movie and have often wondered what works of literature it is based on. In spite of having watched it a dozen times, it still touches me.

“Shit Happens” is what he says. That probably summarises half of philosophy and all the self help books in the market. I particularly like the scene in which he begins to run and never stops for several years. The simplicity if the act is profoundly significant mile stone not only in cinema but also every man’s individual spiritual quest.

To do or undo anything is a choice every one of us make everyday. We consider ourselves wise and knowledgeable for having analysed the question and arrived at a reasonable conclusion. Is it anymore reasonable than the decision taken in passion and faith or the ones taken in throes of intoxicating love. I analysed the question and responded to myself that this is a profound question that needs further attention.

I am stuck in the vortex of thought and analysis. I tried meditation today. All I did was analyse meditation rather than meditate. I wonder if I will ever be able to fight myself out of this rather unexplainable predicament. I also wonder if I am still fighting or have already given up.

one liners and other stuff

I have often fancied that I come up with great one liners. I admit mine may not be as good as ‘Got Milk?’ but they are certainly better than ‘Cheese, milk you can chew’. This rather peculiar talent has over the years helped me win many an arguments with no merit to my side. I just decided to document these one-liners as and when they come. I must warn you that not all of them are funny or good. Many of them may not even make sense. I promise every thing I write down made sense when I put it down although it may not at a later date.

I have been working on this one far sometime now and it is stuck and is not moving ahead. “Passion is the purpose of love, Love the purpose of beauty and Beauty the purpose of Life.”

*****

A practitioner of the illusionist branch of Hindu philosophy said, “Even nothing is not simple.”

*****

I watched Peter Sellers’ “Being There” recently and was very impressed. It really is beyond comparison to any other work of Peter Sellers. The Pink Panther series is often considered his best work but one must really watch “Being There”.

The irony and satire that the author invokes is so real that you have to watch it several times to understand the story. I hope to read Jerzy Kosinzksi’s novel on which the movie is based. If anyone happens to know a link where I could find it, do leave a comment.

Writing Exercise 22 september

I have always found it difficult to describe this room as bright or as dull. The other rooms in my house on the other hand are easily classifiable. This room, room 3, as I refer to it is well lit but lacks any god air so will sit on the wall till I do something about it. I wanted to link up the tube light in the room to the UPS of the computer but have not gotten down to it yet.

Obviously, it is dusty because of the books but the maid keeps it fairly clean. She is probably scared to touch the computer which is why it collects dust aplenty. If I do get down to painting, I think this will be the best place but am not sure. This room certainly does not give me the space I might need to paint. On the other hand, room 1 is fairly empty and could use some filling.

I am afraid I am again building unhealthy expectations on the painting class. I tried not to but recently have stopped trying and just realised that I have been obsessing over these issues. I probably don’t have to worry and it might all wash away with the first few classes.

I am still thinking about the class at chitrakala parishat. I really think I should drop by there sometime and make enquiries. It can also make it a habit to visit the exhibitions. It can be a short and unexhausting outing.

AUDIO POST

I have just completed a story and have decided to post it in audio format. You can listen to the story "Shruti - A Story in Two Parts" in the links above. The story is in three small files audio (immeem).
Hope you like the story.
Bye.
K Dwija

I SEE YOU - A Short Story

Ramya and Soumya were going to Govindapura today. They were going to visit the temple of Bala Govinda and return on the same day. As their parents put the basket in the trunk, Soumya got into the car. Ramya was ready before Soumya.

They drove through the city faster than usual, as the peak-hour traffic was yet to begin. The city seemed like a lost child just waking from sleep to find the world had moved on. Ramya was wearing a dark blue salwar-kameez. She always liked mornings. She missed them ever since she started her job. Beginning in high-school, she got up early to attend tuitions. She just realised that she didn’t like mornings then. Over the years, the necessity of waking early had turned to a habit and in the final years of college a pleasure.

Ramya remembered the house with the tiled roof that she passed by on her way to college. It had a scent she liked. In all those years, she had not been able to find out where the scent came from. It wasn’t pleasant enough to be called a fragrance but nevertheless she liked it when she walked past the house everyday on the way to the bus stop. She always thought she should find out what was it a scent of. Was it a tree? Perhaps it was a shrub behind the high compound wall. Maybe it was just the earth near by. She many a time thought she would regret not finding out its source. She didn’t regret it yet.

As we travel out of Bangalore, I cannot but feel a little sad. Day or night, summer or winter, as we move out of the city we become gradually orphaned. The belongingness that the city provides to its dwellers wanes away into the wilderness of unplanned houses. This perhaps is true for every city, but is more pronounced when leaving Bangalore because as you hit the highway you begin to miss the trees.

Returning to Ramya, she was still wondering about the scent of the tiled house when she was hit by the scent of petrol. They had driven into a petrol bunk to fill the tank for the trip. Ramya hated the smell of petrol and immediately closed the window, but Soumya would not. Ramya screwed up her nose more in anger than the smell. Soumya seemed to take demonic pleasure in Ramya’s discomfort.

The smell of petrol was soon gone and they well on their way. They could see the rocky hillocks completely devoid of any vegetation. Ramya’s mind wandered elsewhere unlike Soumya who seemed to enjoy the surroundings.

I have always wondered if there are places left on this earth where one could still get lost. Maybe there still are in the Amazon. Here you don’t have to travel long before you see a sign-board or a hoarding. Every few miles the hillocks melt away and appears a town or sometimes a village. The same shops repeat themselves; all the shops seem to be named after the same god. The things that make one town distinct from another are probably lost, or maybe never were there in the first place. We are still very close to the city to call the people provincial. They look and dress the same as Bangaloreans. We have to travel farther than what we have planned today to see different people.

Ramya had agreed to come on this trip very easily. She agreed with her mother on the need for this trip. She of course liked the vibe of not only this temple but all temples. She was quite vocal about her devotion to the family deity. She didn’t have to be persuaded to come like her sister.

It is not unnatural these days to come upon a flyover or a bridge quite unexpectedly. They came across one just as they were arriving in Govindapura. As they drove under the fly-over, the shade that enveloped them seemed out of place. This has always been a hot land. The scorching summer sun is something you come to rely upon to torment you. This sudden relief jolted the sisters’ attention. Although Ramya seemed relived Soumya considered the coolness of the shadow almost an intrusion of her thoughts.

They took the deviation off the highway and were now on the small road rounding along the rocky terrain. It was a quiet road but not calming. They would be at the temple in a few minutes. Summer here cam get to be very dreary. Although a lot happens, it does get monotonous in comparison to the splendour of the monsoon. The sky seems like a desolate landscape and the land as abandoned as a cloudless sky.


******

Bala Govinda is a beautiful child. Here stands Lord Krishna in all his splendor, gaiety and mirth. Often the idol of this small infant which is the center of this town, assumes roles very unnatural to it. The eroticised romance of Krishna seems appropriate for this child, as does the retributive wrath of god. People come here to pray for many things, but the one that legends have supported are the prayers for a child. Childless couples come from far and near to pray here to be blessed with a child. Ramya and Soumya were here because this was their ancestral family deity.

Ramya prayed with visible fervor. She made obeisance before our little child and reveled in his beauty. She arranged the fruits and flowers they had brought on the tray in a neat circle before handing it to the priest. The incantations the priest made seemed habitual. Soumya meanwhile sat languidly by the temple wall.

Soumya had walked right into the temple. She saw that Bala Govinda had been same as he had always been. She sat down in the shade and seemed to return to her thoughts. In a few minutes, she began to miss our little child. She rose and walked up to the door of the sanctum-sanctorum. He was still the same. She wondered if he has been so since she was a little girl. She tried to remember if he seemed different when she was a little girl. Shouldn’t he have seemed bigger to a little school-girl she wondered, but could not remember. She seemed almost reluctant to walk away this time.

******



They started back shortly after lunch. Although they had time for a siesta, they could not tolerate the heat and decided to leave at the earliest. Soumya was slow at starting back, but when in the car she resigned to the growing distance from our little child. She hadn’t wondered if she would miss this place or Bala Govinda, probably didn’t need to. She seemed capable of drifting into any place at will in her thoughts.

The road seemed utterly alien as they traveled back although they had been on it just this morning. The newness of the surroundings seemed uncharacteristic because nothing had changed. As the passed under the fly-over, the enveloping shade seemed stifling.

Soumya slowly wandered about the idea that had occupied her most of the day. She relished hovering over a thought, to hold it at ransom. She felt alive with this. Not only was the sun hot but also the rocks and hillocks around them seemed afire. They were just as scalding as the sun and added just as much to Soumya’s wandering thoughts.

These hills seem strangely inhabited in spite of the fact that they are not. I cannot but think of these rocks as tread upon. I cannot but think of these lands as lived upon. Maybe someday a long time back someone did live and love over this land. The romanticism of these hills is regularly interrupted by the towns that appear every now and then. These towns were bee-hives of activity. There were small restaurants selling fast-food and each one of them looked and smelled different. Almost all the towns had mechanic shops aplenty. The shops that were closed were no less interesting for they had advertisements on their shutters. Many of those things advertised reminded Soumya of her the ads she saw as a child before cable TV. The towns seemed blanketed with mediocrity, not poverty, not wealth but eternally middle class. The hint of prosperity and glamour we see on the city streets was totally absent among these lives.

Returning to the city was not as easy as leaving it. It was swarming with tired people. It is not very rare when even the cars and bikes, shops and streets seem tired. We never know where this city begins when we enter it. Most of the outskirts of Bangalore seem little different from any town, but it is not long before you are hit by the noise of the city. The city stands up and demands to be taken to notice.

Soumya noticed little of consequence. The trees seem frequent and punctuated by giant buildings in garish colours. The streets are filled with people all of them filled with thoughts. The people are a sight, but the idea that they are all involved in themselves, each walking man has a life, and each man is a world within himself is difficult to comprehend. There is no place for our little child here. If Bala Govinda ever belonged to someplace, it certainly would not be this place. There are just too many lives here to accommodate a celestial lover, or so was Soumya thinking when the parked the car in front of their house.

******************

It has been a while

It has been a while since my last post and I have been busy. I just finished the story about the two sisters who visit a temple and will be posting it soon after finishing touches. I have been quite depressed this week and the weather has not helped. The heat of the Indian sun almost killed me once and seems out to get me again. I get extraordinarily depressed when it is hot. Rain on the other hand seems to calm and caress me.

Any way I will have a story for you soon.

Faith and Logic

It has been a while since my last post. I am still working on the story about the two sisters. I have been reading ‘Road less traveled’ the last few days and a question came to my mind. Do our beliefs need to be logically sound? Is the logical fallibility of our faith a sign of spiritual weakness? I remembered a quiz I took a few days back on the philosopher’s magazine so I include the link.

http://www.philosophersnet.com/games/god.htm

I come from a place where faith is not seen as independent from logic. Every argument of faith is accompanied with a logical treaty. Very unlike western religions, Indian religions are very logic oriented. All inter religious dialogue is logical be it in Buddhism, Hinduism, Jainism or any eastern faith. This may sound irrelevant to a westerner for in the west religion has always stood outside the fence of logic, mostly out of choice. Not so in the east. I now wonder whom should the logic convince. If the argument is beyond one’s intellect, is it of any use to him. Is it enough for an argument to be convincing to the holder or should it sound convincing to everyone. Does a man’s faith need to be coherent with whatever the standards of the season?

I always believed that ones faith should be one’s own business and no one else’s. If I find an argument to be rational then, I have no problem accepting it irrespective of how it may seem to others. To base ones faith on what others may define as rational, to me is ridiculous. After all, we once thought that alchemy was rational. In spite of my firm belief so, I cannot but wonder, if I could be wrong. There should be a reason for the enormous importance given to teachers in all societies. What could it be but to introduce sense and rationality to the populace? Have these teachers succeeded? I don’t think so. There have been more misguided teachers, than inspired ones.

Maybe that is what is lacking ‘Inspiration’. Every man’s faith should be inspired rather than merely logical. Inspiration breeds passion. The greatest of men have given us inspired logic, which has defined how we live and think. I once heard that true inspiration comes only when a man is in love. There it is now. The trinity of faith- love, logic and inspiration. This argument is now becoming complicated as many of my arguments do. I always thought faith was simple, still do. Maybe it still is. It only sounds complicated because we want it to.

Perception

All of our knowledge is tainted with our perception. Everything we know is our perception of it. Perception defines what we see, hear and think. A simple proof of this being, when we are caught in a mirage we believe it to be the truth. If that is the case, can we ever know the truth?

I know a man who believes that the earth is flat. He is not an illiterate or an ignorant man. He believes the earth is flat because he believes in a scripture that says ‘The earth is flat.’ I tried, in vain, to convince him that what he sees is not the scripture but his interpretation (perception) of that scripture.

If everything we know is our perception of the truth, if everything we learn is our perception of the fact, we never will really know anything. Wait,….there is something we do learn. We learn more and more about our perception, our mind, and our thoughts. Come to think of it, to know oneself is the only thing one really needs to know.

The mind trap that keeps us from the truth, takes us to the one place that matters and all one needs to do, is to be aware. Everything we do, everything we don’t, everything we think, everything we like is telling us something about us. We only need to listen.

The Truth - A Story

There once was a man of moderate means. He heard that, there had arrived a wise man just outside his home town, and decided to visit him hoping to learn something. He set out the next morning towards the hillock where the wise man camped.

On the way, he met a huffing puffing fat man and stopped to ask him directions. The fat man began to curse at the mention of the wise man and so our man walked away and decided to find the wise man himself.

Soon he found the wise man, sat down after making salutations and asked the question he had planned to ask. He asked, “Oh, wise one, what is truth? Where shall I find it?” The wise man replied,” There is only one truth, my child, and that is the word of God.” The man was a little perturbed. He said “But wise one, I have never heard God say anything. I have never seen God.” The wise man replied that in such a case, whatever the scriptures said was the truth. Our man again picked up his courage and said,” But wise one, I am not very learned. I do not know what the scriptures say.”

Then the wise man smiled and said,” There is yet another way of knowing the truth. When in doubt, first close your eyes, pray for a few moments and listen to your conscience. Whatever your conscience says is the truth.” The man was very pleased. This was something he could easily do. He thanked the wise man and was about to leave when, he heard some commotion. A mob was climbing uphill and coming towards them.

The wise man said “Did you notice the greedy looking fat man hurry downhill as you came here? He came to me asking for more ways to make money. I told him that he was a greedy money-lender, exploiting the poor to build his riches and that he should mend his ways. The man instead has instigated the town people against me with lies and is coming here with that mob. Run away to save yourself and I shall do the same.” The man immediately said “But wise one, whatever he said is a lie. You really are a wise man; we can tell the people the truth.”

The wise man smiled and said, “You have one more lesson to learn. What God says is the truth. What the scriptures say is the truth. What your conscience says is the truth, but there is yet another greater truth. What you perceive at that moment as the truth is the only truth. The mob perceives me as a conman; it really believes that is the case. That now is the truth and we have to live with it. Run now my child they are coming.” Saying this, the wise man ran away.

The Stalker - A Short Story

He ducked and hid his face as she came out of the pizzeria and watched as she walked past with her friends . She had been inside for an hour and a half. He had guessed correctly that she would have pizza for her birthday lunch. He had been trailing her all day.

She had gone to the Ganesha temple after her bath. He particularly liked the orange salwar-kameez she had worn then. Orange was very becoming on her. He had followed her in his car as she walked back to her house. He waited for an hour, eating packed sandwiches, before her friends began to arrive. He recognised most of them. The short girl who lived in the next street. The tall slouchy girl, who, he knew, was the class topper. He knew her cousin as well who came in at last.

She was dressed in jeans and T-shirt like most of her friends, when they came out and her mother drove them to the pizzeria just before noon. He was certain the mother would not stay. As they walked, window shopping, after lunch, he casually drove past only to park ahead and wait. He had followed her around enough to know that she was headed towards the cosmetics shop around the corner. On every festive occasion since her fifteenth birthday, she had come here to buy nail polish. That was two years ago.

She took her time picking the color of the nail polish. As she came out holding a little shopping bag, he was ready with the engine running. They’re right away hailed an auto-rickshaw and set off. He diligently followed. He had no idea where they were headed but he had a tank full off petrol and was prepared for anything. He was little surprised when they stopped before the mall. He parked in the basement and hurried up the escalated to almost bump into her. He casually walked away to watch from a distance. After some wandering, they entered the multiplex. All shows were sold out but he had not anticipated that she had an advance booking. As the girls went into the theater, he went into the food court and ordered a dosa.

As he sat there, he saw several girls off her age with boys. He wondered if she had a boyfriend. He was almost sure that she didn’t. He had trailed her around diligently but he knew girls her age were capable of hiding things if they wanted to.

He returned to the multiplex entrance by the time the movie ended. He did not have to look for her. She always stood out in a crowd. Off late she had developed a womanly beauty but she had been remarkably beautiful ever since he first laid his eyes on her.

The group had some snacks and parted. Some of her friends, he saw, left as she stayed with others a little longer and returned home in an auto-rickshaw. He knew her mother had planned a party for the evening. Her mother did not fancy surprise parties. He parked his car in the neighboring street and walked past the house several times. She did not leave the house all evening, instead had many guests over for the party. He sat in his car and day-dreamed of being in the party. He was tired. He was getting too old for stalking girls. The party was over by 11:00 PM. Of late, he noticed her parties lasted longer. He watched the windows of the house a little longer. Her window did not face the street and he could not get even a glimpse of her. He did not use his binoculars lest the neighbors notice.

It was midnight when he returned to his apartment. He poured himself a neat whiskey and gulped it down in a single breadth. He carried the bottle into the kitchen and emptied it into the sink. That was, as he had promised himself, his last drink. He placed her birthday present on the shelf among the eleven others. They were many dolls and frocks. Not just birthday presents, there also were diwali presents and even a bicycle. Just one more year, he rejoiced. He opened the album he had made and looked through all the photographs. He would have the ones he shot today processed and paste them in the album. As he looked through the album, he could not help but shed a few tears. He had every moment documented every birthday, every diwali, the summer she got chicken pox, her first day in college, everyday. He saw the photograph he had taken in the middle of the night of their house. One window was lit up. He knew she would have nightmares when he had said there three rows behind her and watched “The Ring”. He had sat up in his car outside her house all night long and watched as her mother got up twice to calm her.

Years ago, he had sent her presents by mail. Not only were they returned but also he got a call from a lawyer saying he could not send any presents. Lawyers had a lot to say those days, as did her mother. The judge said little but ended by saying he could not see her again. All that would change a year from today. He could see her when she turned eighteen. The law said so. He would be sober for every single day till then. Meanwhile he would look from a distance as he has been looking all these years.

Man and himself

I recently watched the movie 13 Tzameti and was very impressed. It was quite an experience to watch a truly disturbing movie with no obvious symbolism or indulgent shots. This movie got me thinking of human cruelty.

Cruelty is something very interesting. Everything I ever read speaks of love and compassion. Buddha, Jesus, the Bhakti movement and literally everyone who had some sense have preached love and compassion.

Yet my mind returns to cruelty.

Can man achieve his potential to love without exploring his potential to hate? Can man be truly compassionate without exploring his potential to hurt? How much must a man hate before he comes to love?

I found the answer in Ashoka. Ashoka is remembered for his transformation from a killer to a saint. Would his transformation have truly happened, if he had been any less of a killer? It then hit me …..NO. Is then, hate the path to love?

My mind now raced.

If thousands had to die to transform one man, how many need to die to transform everyone? Man today stands with a million weapons in hand. Man still has the taste for war. I repeat. If thousands had to die to transform one man, how many need to die to transform everyone? Is it even worth a try?

Imee Ooi

I just heard some hauntingly beautiful chants from Imee Ooi on Youtube. You should check it out.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=-c9-XaA2f00
http://youtube.com/watch?v=svYQ3Z1dPEw
http://youtube.com/watch?v=qiAT07i_lus

My first post

I am an aspiring writer and I will be posting my works on this blog.The first post will be a story called "The Stalker". It is a story that I wrote a few months back . I hope you will like it .I am currently writing a story yet untitled about two sisters' visit to a temple. I hope to finish it soon and post it here.