drops of moments maketh the ocean of life...

Every moment is a result of so many other moments. There are some moments, which are born bastards of some unassuming moments while some are serendipitous love babies of a romantic fling between frivolous moments. Whatever may they be, these moments happen so that they can dig out some remote uninhabited corner in our memories and settle themselves to be evicted only by the flames of a pyre. But to try figuring which moments caused which ones is like trying to answer what came first; the egg or the hen. Rather than delving into the unnecessary dissection of them, let's just experience the enigma of the mysterious juxtaposition of the moments in life. Every moment of melancholy is nostalgia of another moment of joy. And every moment of joy is a celebration of the absence of sorrow. So what is there to choose? Negating one moment is denying the other its very existence. That's why experiencing these mysteries life offers is the only way ahead. And some of these enigmatic truths are so absolute in its profundity that they are the sole reason that philosophical clichés exist. One such is--"Nothing is constant but change." While accepting a change is the most difficult of the challenges life throws at us, there is nothing to make it less difficult yet the inevitability of the change makes it look like the easiest thing once the moment of change passes away. This oxymoronic fundamental, is what keeps the rope of life stretched for us to hang onto. 

The 330 million gods and goddesses are not a mere figment of imagination or some crackpots’ invention out of sheer stupidity and joblessness. It was just a technique, devised by the ancient Hindus, to exemplify the enormity of the number of moments we go through in the course of our lifetime. Instead of us surrendering to god at every moment, which is difficult for an ordinary person to do, lets just make every moment and emotion divine. That’s why you find gods with different personalities and temperaments reacting differently in different situation throughout the  scriptures even though essentially these gods are supposed to be enlightened and all too aware. Radha became a goddess, not because she was a character with a strong storyline, but because she was the embodiment of a profound aesthetic idea: the agony and ecstasy of union and separation from the Lord.*

A battery does not have any meaning if any one of its poles is not recognized. No matter how many pieces you break a magnet into; in every piece, its south is always at the opposite end of its north. It’s nature's way of telling us that if life is a sinusoidal wave then all we need is a surfboard of a desire to live.

*This line is an excerpt from the Times of India column, Speaking Tree, written by HIMANI DALMIA in the Times of India, Pune Issue dated 27/08/2009, under the title, The Cosmic Intimacy of Radha and Krishna.

Life's Whispers

To reconcile with your own beliefs, after you have drifted away from it, is so difficult. When life teaches you a lesson and you refuse to learn from it life decides to screw you up a second time. And this time the screwing is 'Big Time'. A corny cliché, but it explains a lot. Your mind is plagued by your stupidities and to cover them up you end up adding more stupidities. Self pity slowly fucks the hell out of you. But what gives room to all this? Dishonesty. Yes. As much as I hate to say it, it is dishonesty with yourself. Expectation is just a garb to hide the dishonesty within. To clean up the dishonesty first the expectations need to be burned. But expectations are not that easy to burn. When they first creep into your minds they get bound and coiled on your thoughts and actions. Making you a slave to the whims of those on whom you have rested your expectations. Be it friends, job or your own achievements. And to free yourself from the slavery you need to become a master to your desires. This is the key. Mastering your desires will clear the muddy waters you are swimming in. It allows you to think and act rationally. It reveals one of the essential truths of existence—survival of the fittest. Once you realize this your expectations becomes insignificant. You get the superhuman ability to laugh at your own self. You see life beyond mere emotions and bonds and idiotic rat-races. You begin to regain a kind of zeal for life that only children possess. You want to do things only to please yourself and unknowingly you are actually spreading happiness.

SOS

I looked at the sky. The blue was enchanting. I looked farther away I could see a hue of pink at the horizon. Clouds had covered the sun but a few rays had managed to penetrate through the clouds. It looked like someone with gold fingers were trying to squeeze cotton. A cool wind blew over my face and suddenly I realized a spiraled hole being formed on my chest near the heart. It looked like the hole that lies at the centre of a whirlpool. The hole functioned like the Black Hole— having infinite gravity that can even suck-in light. I couldn’t fathom what was being sucked. But  the blue of the sky suddenly became a mockery of its own beauty.  The cool breeze became itchy. I thought the oxygen levels were going down. My breathing lost its rhythm. But I was alive and something told me I was not going to die. I reached my hands out to the heavens calling all the gods I had adored to come to my rescue. But all that I saw was my gods standing helpless and pointing at something. What the fuck were they pointing at? Aren’t they supposed to swoop down and help me. But they allowed me to suffocate. My hands were sweating and the sweet smell of the mud wetted by the slight drizzle of rain turned foul. The whirlpool had now turned into a cyclone. Uprooting the people from the grounds of my mind and heart. They started swirling around me circles. I tried stopping all of them but I couldn’t. The tornado was too powerful. I looked up at the gods again. What the fuck are they still pointing at? Why don’t they move their asses and do what they have to? Oh celestial divine idiots! Come down here! They started laughing but would not stop pointing. The skies started to darken. Then the rains  came down. Not from the skies but from my eyes. The rains the cyclone together became an unstoppable force. Then a lightning struck. And I saw the gods again for a flash in the darkness. Another  bolt of lightning struck. But it hit me this time. The gods were pointing at me. Why? I forced myself some breath  and tried to look at me. And I knew what could save me.

A hand glove

Fascination for a hand glove. A laughable matter isn’t it? Laugh, laugh. But the fascination is true. Why? I have no reasons. When? You  rather you ask me- SINCE when? Anyway, I don’t remember that too. But fascination for a hand glove, I did have. And please don’t think it’s a lie. Because if it was, it would not have been for  a  hand glove. Nobody lies about hand gloves, do they? Who knows? Anything can happen in this world. If a person can confess that he has a fascination for hand gloves then there can be those who will think this is all a lie. Lies Lies. No it is true. My dear hand glove. And it comes in so many varieties. The ones with fur—soft and smooth; made from the hides of innocent little beasts—give such a pleasure. Aah! Then the rubber ones. Gives you such a feeling of power to put your hands in the gutter and garbage. There are so many more. Before I forget let me also mention about the free gloves you get with hair dye bottles. They are very common. So I suggest even you can try and feel the pleasure of wearing a hand glove.

 

But why am I so attracted to these deceptive things? They are hand gloves for god’s sake. There are not someone’s hand. Oh! No wonder! Now I know why. Whenever I held on to it too tightly it came off. And I thought the quality of the hand glove was not good. Mercy!! Have mercy on me my dear hand glove. I doubted your quality. Oh my five fingered friend, brother, love(I am not being incestuous—each glove is different you see!!!). You came to me in so many forms. And I found a defect in all of them. I fit my dirty big hands inside you and made holes in you. I kept you unwashed because by then I wanted a new one. Oh I am so sorry my hand glove. Ok fine. I know a sorry won’t suffice. I promise I will wash you clean and not wear until you easily fit in my hand again. I will stitch the holes I made but I need time. I will do it but I need time. I will shamefully add  Roberts Frost here…I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep.

a Ha, a Ha Ha, a Ha Ha Ha

When laughter abandons, what is left is a void. A vacuum. An empty hole. That’s when when one tries to fill the vacuum with the syllable, ha. But the laughter attains a sinister sound. It echoes within the boundaries of the vacuum and the syllables  crash against each other emanating a noise that could haunt the graveyards themselves. A smile takes on the role of a mask that betrays every emotion. Happiness and sadness merge into one and becomes a collective non-entity. A craving for both happiness and sadness arises. This contradiction takes away the spirit. What remains of one is the vacuum with a few syllables left in it.

The Tribe of WeAreCoolisstan

I work in the numero uno company of India Inc. A company, that was at the helm during the IT revolution in India. (I am not saying all this to praise myself. Not that I don’t praise myself. I do. And I wish I can, right now, about so many other things but that can wait. And anyway there is nothing proud in being a vegetable among other assortments of exotic vegetables in this revolutionary place. So now you know I am not praising myself. ) So let’s assume the obvious that the best always hires the best. Now coming to the point, I am here to write about this hired “best”.

The Best can be segregated into a variety of categories. But I would like to form three categories (the common denominator for all being that they are intelligent and bright engineers). One, the civilized and the classy. Two, the uncivilized and the unsophisticated junglees (I don’t blame them more than the circumstances they have been through for being in this state). And finally three, those who border in between the first and the third. I had no choice but to come up with this third category because I failed utterly in placing them in either of the first two categories. So, to be technically right I will not call them a category but a tribe.

The confusion arose because these tribal people at first sight look like as if they belong to the first category. But only when you approach them you will realize that they are tribal. They will perform rituals like chanting “We are so cool.” Their language and activities are also distinctly tribal. They will not allow you to be a part of their tribe. They don’t do it intentionally but they do it because they can’t understand the language of the higher category. They detest the junglee category and don’t allow members from that category intentionally. But the junglees can defect into the tribe if they work a little hard to pretend they are from the first category. But the thing that is in favour of the tribe is the sheer numbers they exist in. Nearly, 47% are from the tribe alone.

This makes it even more difficult to access the first category. Especially if you are from a place which too had junglees , and want to desperately get out from their clutches. You end up meeting the tribe. The illusion of tribe is so powerful that you are easily fooled into thinking they are from the First category and hence shake hands with them. And once the handshaking is done you are doomed to be part of the tribe. Even after you realize your folly you can’t do much. If you break free from them and still don’t find the first category you will not be accepted into the tribe with the same warmth. You will become the outsider and a misfit. I am currently the outsider and the misfit (God bless me. Amen! ) So I am requesting you to be aware of the tribe of WeAreCoolistan. It’s dangerous. But if you are a junglee then I request you to please go and read Theory of Evolution by Charles Darwin.

The Nostalgic Grip

It grips you. It holds your heart tight and squeezes it. The squeeze is nice in the beginning but you start feeling the pain soon. In a flash an unfathomable depth of memory starts pouring out its content. It feels like sitting near a bonfire on a winter evening. The warmth gives an unspeakable pleasure yet the smoke hurts your eye. Nostalgia is neither a dream nor a nightmare. It's a sweet bitter reality. It ambushes you in the most predictable moments. It's ironical to use ambush and predictability together but there can't be a better way to explain its appearances when one moment you think its lurking in the corner but does not show up and yet when you are really having the time of your life it suddenly shows up. One of Nostalgia's favourite moments is your loneliness. It's the best bait you can attract it with. Not that it will show up surely but the stats are definitely on your side. Nostalgia, when its feeds on loneliness, is a pain that you will enjoy. It's like looking at mirage when you are dying of thirst in a desert. It's a desert rose.

The defecation of thoughts in a toilet of chaos

Wow, I finally allowed myself to wallow in excreta. Yuck! Chee! But hey it’s not a crime, in the land I live, to shit in the open. I am not implying that our ancient, 5000 year old civilization calls upon us to display our turd to the world at large but the lack of space and the urgency to relieve after the spicy Indian food, drives many to squat in the open. But as with the other things of my Mother Land this habit has been adopted by all the classes in some way or the other. Yes, yes. Even by the privileged that have that wonderful gift of the west to the toilets of the east. Right. The Western-Style—hallmark of the toilets of the rich. Even the slightly lower but better than the class of open –air, who use the usually-stained Indian-style have drawn inspiration from public defecation. Now let me clear a few things before you close your nose and run away. What we, most of the time, defecate is not the undigested matter from our stomachs but the undigested thoughts of our mind. And the resemblance is strikingly similar. Even the odour is unbearable. And it is this kind of public defecation of thoughts that has been mastered by the Western/Indian-Style users. And why not? We are from the proud land of Vedas; the book with some of the greatest thoughts in the world written by equally great and unknown people of this ancient land.

So, why these shameless acts of indecency and derogation? Everybody seems to want to contribute this dumping of fecal thoughts. I am not talking of those that do have some usefulness left in them but of those that are blatantly plucked out of the minds and discarded in the open. I hope this statement will save me from any imminent dangers I may face for mentioning of the Holy Vedas in the presence of some unholy things. And I am so thankful to Lord Ram that his Sena of thugs is not here to slap me and kick me and punch me in the name of blasphemy. Oh. No, no. I don’t have sympathy for the Managlore girls who got beaten by the saintly. I mean, how can I? They were destroying the culture of this pure land of holy cows. How dare did those foolish girls think they were free in this free land? Oh, come on, didn’t they see the Holy Public Crappers, crapping their thoughts of purity. Of course you can’t go to a pub for a drink and a dance. And arre baba, you definitely can’t dress up in an “Un-Indian Way”. I mean, please, you have to clothe fully to be raped. Otherwise who will rape you? And by the way rape, bribery etc. are more important and holy than drink and dance. Of course, have you noticed any Ram Sena or any other Senas or Brigades attacking a rapist? I don’t know if lord Ram is happy with the modern Vanars. But St. Valentine definitely isn’t. All the poor saint did was to spread some message of love. But our dear Holy Thought Defecators made a toilet of this too. Young men and women are not supposed to be together on Saint Valentine’s birthday (or death day, I don’t really know.) Why? You are asking me? Hell, don’t be so stupid. Don’t you know St. Valentine is a Saint not a Sant or a Rishi. Still don’t understand? My god! Okay let me tell you. St. Valentine is not a son-of-the-soil of our generous Mother Land. What difference does that make you ask? Well it does. How can a foreigner’s message of love be allowed to spread in a land which has so many great sons of her own? It doesn’t matter even if a foreigner is married to a son-of-the-soil. She still is a foreigner. We can’t allow ourselves to be ruled by foreigners again. Thousand years of slavery by the foreigners is enough. Let’s start our own brand of sons-of-the-soil slavery and racism. It’ll be more fun to sling our excreta/thoughts at one of our own. But I do agree some of the Holy Crappers over do it. I mean there are those who blow up buildings and trains and people just because their faeces fell next to the faeces of the other Crappers. Oh the never ending wars of the toilet goers. But as in the case of any toilet we also have a few toilet cleaners. Who brave their way into the putrescence and rottenness and clean the excrement. But the stains are tough. But they do their job with diligence. It’s an unrewarding job but someone has to, isn’t it?

I pray to Ram/Allah/Christ/Blah/Blah/Blah to please ask their respective senas, mujahedeen, and crusaders to stop defecating in the public and let the others, the followers of humanity, breathe some clean air and allow the few toilet cleaners to finish their job before it is too late.

The Rose by Don Williams

Some say love it is a river
that drowns the tender reed
Some say love it is a razer
that leaves your soul to bleed

Some say love it is a hunger
an endless aching need
I say love it is a flower
and you it's only seed

It's the heart afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
It's the dream afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying
That never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed
That with the sun's love
In the spring
Becomes the rose