Apology

As a blogger you often develop an insecurity to keep your blog updated and it gets difficult when you are running short of your creativity juice, and worse at times when you lack the thing called writing talent. So in that case like most bollywood scriptwriters and music director you tend to go for what they euphemistically say inspiration. On two different occasions, going through such phases I came across two brilliantly written blog posts I have ever read and couldn’t resist playing a plagiarist. Fortunately (yes fortunately I mean) author of one such post came to know this and that person is gentleman enough to carry no hard feelings for my mistake if I admit it and delete the post. I said fortunately because it will serve as a long time lesson. I already have deleted both of those posts and this publicly written apology is to make that gentleman feel that I am ashamed of it and this post here is a testimony of that. Sir if you are reading this, I hope you may forgive me for it.

Who is driving my car?

Ram Mohammad Thomas, a Dharavi teen, providentially wins a major quiz show transforming his fate overnight. … catchphrase “D: Destiny it is written”. Pleasant feel good fiction, as the artistic liberty settles on a joyful end. The imagination got moderately acknowledged but the adapted movie, though critically unworthy, was showered with awards. Seems like the exhaustion of protracted war-for-peace, fright of international terrorism, chained natural cataclysm, the greed driven financial panic, the looming climatic catastrophe; all so chronically synchronized to co-ordinate with the eschatological doomsday forecast, have created an imperceptible whirlpool sucking optimism to the depths of the globe. Action is defunct, assurance is the prerequisite. Consequently things promising hope are bestowed supreme attention, be it either a Slumdog endorsing predestined destiny or a relatively newbie politician orating excellent changes to be.

Inspite of following a joyful climax the concluding catchphrase “Destiny: It is written”… scares. If it is, then how come are we real? Aren’t we too characters of a fictional plot performing as per the whims and fancy exercised by the creator, hypothetically assumed as God? Where is the space for free living? “When all we are, are random variables fit into the equation of hope and fate then why pursue desires?” A friend said… good lines!!. Never been able to believe in the supposition of God, as always even then I thought of advocating free will, but we didn’t debate over its unenthusiastic connotations.

To free will, destiny thing is bullshit phrase akin to “Marriages are made in heaven” which is impugned by witty T-shirt answers ‘So are we here just to have sex? ’ But at times temptations subdue my all encompassing will… are these subversive forces the masters governing me? Individual temptation yet again is genetic instigation.. so is my life genetically coded in the 23 chromosomes… again prewritten…well if only I could decipher my DNA to match my will.

What if I say being pre-destined do I have anything to fear? .... precarious thought!! Fatal upshots of a written destiny were edited by granting an individual some say in his own destiny. The theory of reincarnation plotted by present actions came into folktales. Errr… a loop hole.. this present itself is already “Written”. A catch-22 situation indeed. Seems like neither destiny nor free will is the answer… then where to search… may be in some very elusive place between these two simplistic poles. No definite rules …the whole game is a flaw.

Saint to Devil

Endurance for momentary cheers,
and impulsiveness for sighing alas.
An year to see the Jesus,
a single day made me Judas.

Taking words as predefined terms,
I changed to devil from saint.
But my hopes of revival dashed,
learning there’s no difference ain’t.

No difference speaks of equality,
so are all we equals as if clones?
No forgiveness, some are more equals,
said the looted farm of Mr. Jones.

Nursery Rhymes Revisited

As the mighty gray clouds concealed the sun,
and the slow wind swiftly begin to blow.
Everyone in hiding is out on grassy streets,
expecting mild showers to come and go.

There comes young Cinderella from fairy tale,
carrying her single slipper waiting for a match.
She thinks it will be her lucky chance today,
But outside pleasant fables life is a dismal catch.

Here comes little Johnny carrying his baseball bat,
praying rain to go to Spain as he wishes to play.
He naively thinks it only takes a little sugar to laugh,
But let him grew up and ask a lot more someday.

And Jack descends tumbling down the steep hill,
breaking the crown and spilling a pail of water.
He painfully expects Jill coming after for him,
But she doesn’t as now he is not what she’s after.

Last Time when I died

Last night I had this very bizarre dream. It was that I was in a battlefield, holding my position in a bunker firing my Simonov on the opponent on the other side. Blood and dust surrounded me amid the howling of fire. After taking a few shots I wondered which battle is this, what is that I am fighting for? I examined my blood stained dusty uniform to find a swastika mark on it. Ok so I am a bloody Nazi, but which place is this? There is no sea around so it can’t be Normandy; neither can I find snow so it is not Stalingrad either, and since Germans had mostly air attacks on UK so it can’t be London too. I guess this godforsaken place is Sicily, where else? It means I must be fighting the bloody Americans. Good!! Where is General Patton I wanna directly shoot him and end the battle. But wait, I admire him. I also admire George Scott who refused the Oscar playing Patton. I admire both of them so why kill any? But hey I am a soldier, right? I too must be fighting for a cause, whatever that may be.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ I need to focus. I aimed my gun at an enemy. Shit man it is the face of my childhood friend. I don’t wanna shoot him. But what if he does? I can’t take any fucking chances. No No certainly I can’t. It was the bollywood effect that instead of hailing Hitler I shouted ‘Hail Mogambo’ and took my shot. Holy Arjun! It was perfect. Headshot. My childhood friend died, not much pain ahhh . Simultaneously I felt both a guilty sigh and triumphic ooze. Lord we men, what a basterd we are? We are more ethical then we think and far more immoral than we could probably imagine.

I don’t know whether it was guilt or triumph but I lost my focus. Consequently a bullet stroked me, piercing my chest, blood oozing out of it. It hurt like anything. Oh lord! How unfair I am goanna die, and die so young, how sad. But an inner voice explained me don’t panic, don’t panic! It’s just a dream, a play and nothing lasting. Yes and all of a sudden the pain was over. Hurray. I begin to think what should be my dying words. ‘Jesus Christ!’ or ‘Hey Ram!’ or what about ‘Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan’. Confused. I just muttered “Sorry mate! We are just a pawn in the game” and decided to die.

But wait it’s not over man. It’s a dream and I saw the aftermath too. The scene was my grand burial ceremony. Several guns were fired. Ohh Great! I must have been a high ranking officer and not just a private. Generals with stoical faces were giving me salutes. I tried to look for Hitler, he was absent. That disappointed. People came and gone but at the end this lady remained. She came to my grave and put some flowers and a photograph of me and her together. She wept for a long while and when tears refused to shed then she too left. Meanwhile I kept on wondering who she was? Girlfriend? fiancé,? Wife? Or as I was a soldier on a war, was she a whore I was sleeping with, who fell in love with me? I tried checking her fingers but my vision kept on blurring. First I was killed and then puzzled, such is life. A bitch. And for the first time after that shot I regretted dying, even in a dream. I know I will wake up alive in the morning but I will never know why the hell she was crying.

Something gotta give Up

“What makes you come here son?” he inquired in a deep voice, the reply “I need help”. “So does everyone who comes to me, take the couch and try being specific” he paused to recollect his thoughts but the misty disorder veiling his heart didn’t produced any. “There is something happening inside my heart, something strangely painful and it is making me weak” “Son the heart is an egoist; it feels its need intensely and strives ruthlessly to satisfy them. Have you lost something?” “I have a dream but I lost my hopes” “Ah!! Another dreamer. You love your dream .Right? And it is probably threatened?” “Yes. I said I lost my hopes” “You are never so defenseless against suffering as when in love” the words seemed disrespectful but he couldn’t help not agreeing. “While adoring your dream you had pawned a part of your narcissm” “But sir once that dream gave me a triumphant conviction” “And now pain. If you can’t make it then let it go” “But I don’t want to” “Wants, desires, dreams all are elusion my boy, the life and death drives. They commend to us because they save us pain and give pleasure, but we must accept without complaint that sometime they will collide with reality and will be dashed to pieces” “I agree but then what about this pain” he unable to force himself into unbelief “Don’t alleviate it with imprudent attempts. Let it grow. Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise. All this sadness of heart is the birth-pain of a new attitude trying to be born” His words knocked him. After few silent moments the voice broke “Are we done?” “There is something which I cannot say aloud or perhaps even think” he lied because he thought he was.

I and the dead

Now days too have gone hazy with the already dark nights,
Rendering my vision of who I am into a blind murky sight.

Where was it when I had last encountered me I can not say,
As I’m persistently busy escaping from myself as long as I may.

I scheme external calmness while restiveness haunts my soul,
I deceive entirety while deep inside I experience an empty hole.

My past are moments wasted, future is not worth breathing for,
And to stitch worn dreams the unscathed present is a thin chord.

My existence is a helpless trade-off between people and time,
While sands of later swiftly fleets, formers wish not to be mine.

Harmonizing these two phases I’ve lived as one through my plight,
Nakedly switching morals amongst shades of black gray and white.

When the diverse colors merged sweeping my conviction along,
My spirit died beneath the ripples of resignation mounting upon.

Secretly the dead man inside me asks the dusk of last day to end,
For his death will ensure if dawn of new life may perhaps begin.

That blissful Naked Man…

Long back ago there was a prince, a king in the making, who kept moving towards his throne with little steps called achievements. He kept on keeping on, but not after a target but for the sake of moving. Yet sadly in the course of his little accomplishments, caught up in his talent show, the prince got greatness thrust upon him as people began to believe him and expect a lot in return. He never even once asked for those believe but they indebted him with hope. Thus what just began as a journey of selfhood, with the burden of expectations turned into running behind undesired aims set by spectators. His life wasn’t his but a puppet show. Never once was he asked what he wanted to be, he was told what he should become. He tried to be him, people made him to be them. When he asked rest he was made to run and when wished to fly he was chained to hustle. He asked for silent solitude, he was given an echoing audience. He wanted to be a wandering nomad, he was shown the throne. Unable to sketch a way out, the king in making gave up dreaming and toiled on the path which he hadn’t chosen.

On that path he found himself lost in the labyrinth of anticipations. As it was not his path he was ensured to fail, it was only a matter of time before the axe would fell and one day it did. And all that was there impending since long was over. All the hopes, belief and anticipations died. He had robbed the hopes of many people and thus in return was robbed of their belief. The kingdom abandoned him. The prince had failed for the first time in his life and the failure hit him hard on the face. He wept behind closed doors where no one could listen. Finding it hard to meet the eyes of spectators he went into a state of isolation, hiding behind the ruins of broken dreams to escape from his past. He had once pined for solitude but when that was granted it turned out to be loneliness, which he morbidly accepted as a punishment. He reduced himself into a dead man deprived of everything. He first took pity on himself but then with time he got institutionalized to that state. He realized that now he was not expected to fill in someone’s shoes and since the kingdom had no expectations henceforth he was free. He realized that now he is a naked man with nothing to loose, invisible to spectators; and this realization made him feel blessed. For the first time in life he was naked and therefore liberated, he felt the centre of his life within him. He recognized that what he failed to achieve was not his own wish. He never dreamt to be a king.

With this insight a new hope was generated within and this time it was special, it was his individual hope. He gathered the scraps from past as memoir of failure and stroked another match to go anew. This time he promised himself never to let anyone be a part of the voyage and only listened to his heart to discover directions. Thus the naked abandoned prince moved ahead with resolute passion. Once again he could feel; he felt new life in his soul. On his new journey the only spectators he had were his principles. But habituated to external drive he lacked motivational incentives and thus looked for it around. Once in his path he met someone inimitably spotless, someone first of her kind, close to being called integrity. He found in her seraphical thoughts and was mesmerized by the delightful moments he had talking to her. Those moments instilled in him the vital inspiration which worked out for him and success begin to follow. Enchanted by the magical experience he got smitten enough to forget his promises and made that someone the centre of his journey. He dreamt to make those moments a lifetime event; he wanted to carve up a moment that would have last till his end. But then not every story has a happy ending as not everyone deserves everything. A lettered man he was and thus could never verbalize his truth convincingly.

At the end it had all turned up to be an all-sum-to-zero game. After all the triumphs finally the prince had became weaker than a man should be. Those successes, which at first he had thought of exclusively for himself and later to split half it with only one person, once again brought him in the same old arena of expectations. Once again the spectators were around with revived hopes to welcome there one time missing prince, the king in the making. In his isolation the prince had forgotten that one cannot escape from oneself, one can’t be free of oneself as there is no way out of oneself. While the kingdom was jostling to shine the older throne, the armored prince with his lonely heart cried for shedding his covering as he desolately missed that blissful naked man once he used to be.

The Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.

Once while being interviewed an ebullient Salman Rushdie, my last post’s buddy, said that during his Oxford days he learned more from the Friday night shows than course books. It may sound unfounded to many but not me. I too can claim with conviction that in this case I have reciprocated him, infact I have even gone few steps further in embracing the first one and almost ditching the later. Once while taking one such learning filmy-session through a 2004 neosurrealistic classic ‘Eternal Sunshine of the spotless mind’ directed by Michel Gondry, a brilliant exploration of human memory and relationship, I came across the above mentioned lines. During the movie when Mary Svevo, played by Kirsten Dunst, recited these lines of Alexander pope to Dr. Howard, though totally involved watching, a fascinated I paused to take out my diary and pen it down. Later, as habitually, while surfing through the wiki pages of the movie I came to know that these arresting 4 lines are a part of a 366 lines long poetic epistle ‘Eloisa to Abelard’, a terrible tale of a rebellious love (though the word terrible was unnecessary, love as always is, in any form terrible).

To fathom out the entire poem is a colossal task and will require an understanding far above my meager intellectual capacity. For the time being the uninitiated reader needs to know only this much that Eloisa while suffering from separation and realizing that now a helpless Abelard can never reciprocate her love prays not for forgiveness but forgetfulness.

As now there is no Mrs. Lizzy around to explicate me such enigmatic verses, a seeking me tried googling it out, and not to my surprise there were plentiful explanation by many generous souls. What I found is this that the above lines are in a sardonic tone. Vestals were the virgin maids of ancient times who were devoted to the services of temples soon after birth. They were held as symbol of purity and peace. Ordinary people tangled up in the blues, as man is inherently sadistic, envied them for their so perceived peace of mind. But here Pope doubts there happiness. He argues that what other saw in them as happiness was actually there ignorance. Since they were ignorant of the world around they knew of nothing, neither true happiness nor real sadness. There life was nothing but a hollow and futile existence, as to be blameless is also to be empty, meaningless and blank, without the weight of choice and consequence. If we want only what we're given -is that happiness? No. Sometimes change can be costly, and not always rewarding, but standing costs dreams and desires.

At the any stage in our life we are nothing but the sum total of our memories. We are happy when the memory we cherish dominates our psyche. Similarly unpleasant memories make us downhearted. In a way life is all about collecting good experiences, because we will all relive them umpteen times through our reflections. But the problem with human mind is this that it is more a RAM based device, where the secondary storage is lost in the piles of recent data’s. Sometime a small bitter moment takes over the years of togetherness, as all the sweet memories are buried in the sand of time. It is only in the afterthoughts that we realize the true worth of a relationship gone bad by a small clash, but then mostly it is too hard to make corrections as there always is the ego factor. When Friedrich Nietzsche quoted “Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders” he too displayed similar attitude as a poignant Eloisa. He considered the forgetful lucky as they forgot even there bitter memories but then at same time they were also reduced as creature of the moment, with no treasure of past to live upon. At times when some recent experience troubles us we too urge for forgetfulness to get over the painful part but a mere reflection will suggest that how hollow life will be without memories.

The above mentioned movie approaches the same human dilemma in a splendid manner. It is the story of Joel (Jim Carrey) and Clementine (Kate Winslet), a couple as distinct as two extremes, while Joel is reclusive Clementine is vivacious, but both of them find happiness together. However once a small misunderstanding blows out of proportion and an impulsive Clementine had all the memories of Joel erased from her mind by a surgical process ( a liberty which artistic independence allows the storyteller). An angry Joel reciprocates her by opting to obliterate her memories. As if “Look at it out here, it's all falling apart. I'm erasing you and I'm happy! By morning, you'll be gone”.

But in order to wipe out the memories the operating machine first needed to map those particular memory cells thereby enabling the holder to view them one last time while in an unconscious dream like state. It is only when Joel revisits his memories with Clementine, he has afterthoughts; and he recognize that though few moments between them were bitter but majority of them were happy and he understand that it was Clementine who brought meaning and magic to his mundane life through her vivacity. The rest of the movie take place in Joel’s mind, and from here the neo-surreal part begins. Now onward it is shown how in his mind Joel with Clementine struggles to rescue few of their memories from being completely washed, and while leaving them again he realize that these memories are all that are left behind as their life together, and once they are gone a life once lived is gone as well.

The one message that the movie pass is that if only one can stand apart and watch his whole life from a distance than one can realize that how wonderful a life it was, inspite of all the so thought mistakes committed. A second inferential message could be about accepting people as they are because they are still the same wonderful person inspite of their imperfection and if you have found happiness with a person once you will find it with them once again. All you need is to wipe the dirty spots which come in a relationship and this wiping doesn’t needs a spotless mind but a pure heart. Because in real life there is no surgical process to clean dirty spots of memory it could be done only by defocusing from those spots and viewing the larger picture which requires an open heart. And hence it is more important to have a pure heart than a spotless mind.

There’s A Hole In My Soul

These days I have been in retrospective disposition, the first thing I do when sems are around and when I’m only supposed to struggle for GPAs. My retrospection reinforced my yearning if I could go back to the start……IF. But life certainly has no ifs and buts… My contemplation concluded that my past nine months could be best summarized by the opening lines of ‘The tale of two cities’ where Dickens starts paradoxically with “These were the best of times these were the worst of times”. Recently times have changed and I hope may be the worst is over and expect that the best is yet to shower. But such hopes just remind the cynic in me about Morgan Freeman’s “Hope is a dangerous thing my friend”.

About friends wise men say our best friends are the books we really had great time with. Holden Caulfield, The Catcher In The Rye Guy, rephrases them in his trademark rebellious way as “What really knocks me out is a book, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it”. I must be a fortunate being, as unlike Holden I have some really great people to hang around even outside the world of books. But there is one such friend from the world of literature whom I spared some space in my self contemplation, one living legend, Sir Salman Rushdie. Now why so? … you will know.

Despite W. H. Auden's assertion that "Literature makes nothing happen," Rushdie's The Satanic Verses, is one of the relatively few works of fiction to have made a significant and permanent impact outside the enclosed world of literature. It has led to the loss of over twenty lives apart from making its author go into hiding from the Ayatollah Khomeini's fatwa. Above all, coinciding with the ending of the Cold War, it has played a significant role in redefining the West's image of itself, which now is no longer the threat of Communism, but that of Islamic fundamentalism. Islamic clerics used this work of fiction to reinforce their image of the United States as the Great Satan. Anyway enough of throwing light on well known facts, when right now I don’t give a damn to world affairs. This piece of plausible contemplation is solely about me and a hole inside me, where Rushdie has a role.

The formation of this hole started almost a decade ago during my early teen days. Teenage, as it is, a rebellious stage of life when you question all norms. So even I at its very inception, impressed by my thirteen year old imagination, questioned the religious hypocrisy prevalent around and begun to flirt with the idea of atheism. It’s like when we discover rationality religion doesn’t seem to impress us much, and we look forward to sundry atheist idea to support our stance. I long searched for such ideas in Osho before I recognized his other side, and my tryst with Osho ended and I switched to others. I had perplexing time understanding Nietzsche’s Nihilism, Camus’ existentialism, Ayn Rands’ Objectivism, Vivekananda’s Vedantic Hinduism. Claims like Nietzsche’s ‘the death of God’ generated waves of goose bumps to the seeker in me. It was all like a constant struggle with my psychological and intellectual inheritance, searching some short of self realization for creating a new self. Amongst all such search once I came across these lines of Rushdie repudiating the idea of God “I used to say, 'There is a God-shaped hole in me.' For a long time I stressed the absence, the hole. Now I find it is the shape which has become more important.” Rushdie maintains that the ‘The satanic Verses” was an exploration of the "God-shaped hole" left in him after he had abandoned the "unarguable absolutes of religion"

Unlike Rushdie without understanding it much I mugged these lines to quote to my mother who when worried of an agnostic me (she just couldn’t stand atheism in me) at times futilely tried to pour some pious sagacity in my alternative moral universe. In order to pacify her subtle worries I used to edit and carve up Gabriel Garcia’s line “Mom, I don’t believe in your God but don’t worry I am surely afraid of him”. Anyway after many fruitless attempts she understood that sometimes you just can’t save some fanatical people from themselves and in some way or other she primed herself emotionally for my surreal reality. Her disappointment was in a way a triumph for me as I used to take pride on all the GDs in which I exhausted her reasons with my fervent iconoclastic apathy towards the idea of God.

I wished someday, like Rushdie, this hole would become prominent in me too, but when have my wishes ever been answered…… never. Spirituality for the true seeker is the means to release his spirit from the confines of his materialistic existence. Now the hole in Rushdie never bothered him as he has his magical realism as a transcendental force within to fill in the vacancy. Through his aesthetic ideological imaginations he got his self conviction. He believes his ideology is superior to that of the fundamentalist and unlike them he never tries to compel it on others, but only persuades. You have to firmly believe in something at least so that you can believe yourself. Now that’s where I went astray.

I was never bothered about the hole in my soul and thus never could successfully fill it with anything… neither with passionate ambitions, neither with fragmented dreams and neither with friendship and love. Somewhere deep within this hole has rendered me hollow, devoid of any faith. It was only during these few hard days in recent past, when my pseudo self belief was badly wounded and left my ego heavily humiliated, that I fully comprehended this growing emptiness within. The emptiness which, crooked my sense of pleasant solitude into agonizing lonesomeness. The emptiness due to which, I nearly had let down my self to abysmal depths before reverting back well in time. They say it is in adversity that character is tested and true faith blossoms. May be these difficult times were a providential event to help me make out the hazard of the hole, and thus what all the provoking theories of the great philosophers failed to recognize, was flashed before by the reality, which till now only sucks. Quoting Rushdie once again “One great fact about life is sometime even the unthinkable becomes the thinkable” In what once I took pride, now for the first time in my life am worried about; that there is a hole in my soul. What I’m not sure of is “IS IT GOD SHAPED”??