Sunday, December 31, 2006
December 31, 2006.
December 31 - a day to ring out the old and what a day it is turning out to be. I have been awake all 10 hours of the Gregorian day and I am yet to see any sign of the sun. The sky is a dull aluminum gray and it has been raining almost continuously though not heavily all morning. A good sign of the year that has been in my life: I mean fitting sign, of course. The windowpanes are clearing up in the water but there is none of the romantic pittle-pattle that one always reads of in novels. Only a dull sound every now and then signifying nothing. Still it is soothing, this depressing gray scene with the desolate trees, leafless and birdless. I hear a faint sound of twittering - maybe some birds have come back from their winter homes, knowing there will be no snow this year. It must be a pretty hard time for the birds, I imagine; what with all the trouble of migrating thousands of miles, there has been no real snow and now, a week after Christmas, the only sign of the gloomy winter is the sunless sky; it has not even been too cold, just a late fall kind of finger-freezing, nose-reddening, but essentially bearable, cold. People are getting along fine though. It will be much easier for them to stand 6 hours in Times Square waiting for the ball to fall. Closer home, there is not much life in my place, the university grounds are deserted for the holidays and the town has never been too lively anyway. The McDonald's opposite my window has been doing steady business all day. Cars of all hues and shapes, waiting patiently by the red sign to order, and collecting their bags, at the counter, like Oliver Twist and co. getting their miserable lunches; only these Macs will be eaten with relish. I have been alone the last few days in my big house, locked in actually and haven't stepped an inch outside the last couple of days. Food has been the grub I cooked 2 days back, rationed slowly, and I think it will last me 3-4 days more. It must seem obvious that I sleep a lot but there has been very little sleep surprisingly. To add to my nocturnalist woes, I have now become an insomniac. The time, though, I have spent fruitfully. A couple of movies and a few games were inevitable but I have been reading and writing quite a bit. Academic work mostly but have also spent time on Orhan Pamuk and Ellman's Joyce. Pamuk is quite pedestrian in The White Castle but more about him when I am done with his complete oeuvre. Ellman's Joyce has been totally good, however. As a general rule, I do not like biographies but Joyce is special and I wanted to understand his life so I could appreciate his art better. Pure gold this biography though I suspect it might not be the best written, even among those about Joyce. I have also been spending some time on puzzles to stimulate my sleeping brain cells. Wonderful these things but I dont know how long I can keep up that activity. I wonder what the waste management guy must be thinking of me: lights on at 5am and working at my desk. Surely someone in the world will have charitable thoughts about me. Or maybe he knows too that it is just one of those nerdy losers who cannot get out of their rooms for f***'s sake. Forgive the vituperation but sometimes loneliness gets to me. Solitude I do not mind though as it has been a strangely placid few days, the last ones that I have been alone. Unaccountably the rain has stopped now and I will too but is it not better sometimes if there were no stops? The rest is tomorrow.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
A Confession
For those few of you who have been reading my posts, I have a confession to make. Not that it is something that has escaped your observation but merely to ease my own conscience: most of what I write is tripe. It is not to say that there is very little of honesty in what I have written but art by its very nature is mendacious and I have merely kept with the tradition and have experimented ceaselessly for effect and for fun. Most of my writings are stylistic eperiments and this is reflected in the arrangement of the pieces, a constant juxtaposition of seemingly incongruous ideas. This would be too little for me, though, and I have laboured to introduce in each piece stylistic variations. Again, merely interchanging one transparent style for another over the course of a work is not something particularly novel, and so I have mixed in flaws, absurdities and contradictions, both stylistic and contentual. And so these writings have been the presentation of a variety of styles content to be receptacles of the mere parsimonious contents that I have chosen to convey in them. The scatter-logical aspects and the innuendoes in what I have written best be as they are now: beneath the surface. The Book of the Winds was a major experiment I have been working on, some 500 pages of variations with simplistic themes but I have lost the patience that I had assumed rashly I would possess to complete it: it was to ooze a strange allusive style with the contents flawed, in both obvious and subtle ways. Now I do not think I can continue with it; but I doubt this will matter much or to many.
Before I continue on with my experiments, it will be useful to make a manifesto of my creed:
Art is mendacity. Its source is a truth, its product a lie; and its pupose, though, possibly, the elucidation of a truth, is, oftener, merely a self-serving expression of beauty.
The purpose of the artist is to confront a hard, cold truth and to produce a lie, an expression of the truth in a direct or a twisted manner. The lie may be prior or posterior to the truth or to the artist; the artist may be prior or posterior to the truth. The only constants are the confrontation and the alchemical production.
The purpose of the reader is to confront the lie and to get to the truth. The lie could be a straightforward representation of the truth but still is a lie insofar as it is not the truth.
Truth has no purpose. It just is.
To speak unphilosophically of it, in writing, the artist tries to express, through himself, an idea, a truth. When this expression is straightforward, in that, for the reader, understanding immediately follows perception, the art is simple and there is merely a giving of alms. When the expression is a challenge to the reader, in the process of attaining to the truth through an interpretation, there occurs an exchange as reader and artist meet somewhere in the middle, forcing them to conront new truths.
More unphilosophically, in the primitive novel, for example, the story is all-important and style is merely a vehicle, an accident. The purpose is merely narration. In a more refined novel, the style is given a greater role and the reader is challenged to understand. Taken to an extreme, however, when style becomes all-important, the novel forgets itself and becomes an experiment in linguistics or mathematics.
Anyway, this was supposed to follow the previous instalment of The Book of the Winds:
Interlude
"But grandfather, surely this is no interesting story that you are telling me! I mean it is so slow and so not fun! I think I will just go and play with the bears," little Ronda piped to Beron. The silver-haired Beron laughed and replied, "Of course it is not fun. It is not supposed to be. You wanted to grow up, not I; and this is the kind of story that grown-ups are told." "But grandfather, I thought being grown-up was fun. And I don't mind the story terribly except that nothing much happens in it," Ronda complained. "Oh a lot of things do happen in the story, my child. Only it is not all told. Grown-ups aren't like children. They don't want to be told everything directly. They like finding things out for themselves," Beron replied. "I like finding things for myself grandfather. Remember the little harp that you hid under the mistletoe in the front garden. I found it out myself," Ronda proudly reminded him. "Yes. And this is just like that. Only here you do not know you are looking for a harp. Much like life. Only a lot easier. If only people kept looking for things in books and left the world to itself. But what will be will be," and Beron put the pipe that smouldered near the bookstand back in his mouth, piping away another of his sad dreams. After a while, he called Ronda back to his side, "Come child, let us go on with the story and listen carefully now. Learn to hear more than what I tell you and to understand more than what you hear and see and you will be fine. And tie the loose ends of your pigtails by yourself like a little woman. You wouldn't want me to do it for you now, would you?"
Before I continue on with my experiments, it will be useful to make a manifesto of my creed:
Art is mendacity. Its source is a truth, its product a lie; and its pupose, though, possibly, the elucidation of a truth, is, oftener, merely a self-serving expression of beauty.
The purpose of the artist is to confront a hard, cold truth and to produce a lie, an expression of the truth in a direct or a twisted manner. The lie may be prior or posterior to the truth or to the artist; the artist may be prior or posterior to the truth. The only constants are the confrontation and the alchemical production.
The purpose of the reader is to confront the lie and to get to the truth. The lie could be a straightforward representation of the truth but still is a lie insofar as it is not the truth.
Truth has no purpose. It just is.
To speak unphilosophically of it, in writing, the artist tries to express, through himself, an idea, a truth. When this expression is straightforward, in that, for the reader, understanding immediately follows perception, the art is simple and there is merely a giving of alms. When the expression is a challenge to the reader, in the process of attaining to the truth through an interpretation, there occurs an exchange as reader and artist meet somewhere in the middle, forcing them to conront new truths.
More unphilosophically, in the primitive novel, for example, the story is all-important and style is merely a vehicle, an accident. The purpose is merely narration. In a more refined novel, the style is given a greater role and the reader is challenged to understand. Taken to an extreme, however, when style becomes all-important, the novel forgets itself and becomes an experiment in linguistics or mathematics.
Anyway, this was supposed to follow the previous instalment of The Book of the Winds:
Interlude
"But grandfather, surely this is no interesting story that you are telling me! I mean it is so slow and so not fun! I think I will just go and play with the bears," little Ronda piped to Beron. The silver-haired Beron laughed and replied, "Of course it is not fun. It is not supposed to be. You wanted to grow up, not I; and this is the kind of story that grown-ups are told." "But grandfather, I thought being grown-up was fun. And I don't mind the story terribly except that nothing much happens in it," Ronda complained. "Oh a lot of things do happen in the story, my child. Only it is not all told. Grown-ups aren't like children. They don't want to be told everything directly. They like finding things out for themselves," Beron replied. "I like finding things for myself grandfather. Remember the little harp that you hid under the mistletoe in the front garden. I found it out myself," Ronda proudly reminded him. "Yes. And this is just like that. Only here you do not know you are looking for a harp. Much like life. Only a lot easier. If only people kept looking for things in books and left the world to itself. But what will be will be," and Beron put the pipe that smouldered near the bookstand back in his mouth, piping away another of his sad dreams. After a while, he called Ronda back to his side, "Come child, let us go on with the story and listen carefully now. Learn to hear more than what I tell you and to understand more than what you hear and see and you will be fine. And tie the loose ends of your pigtails by yourself like a little woman. You wouldn't want me to do it for you now, would you?"
Thursday, November 09, 2006
The Book of the Winds
Chapter 2
Whither the Winding Road
Phaeron and his companions for the evening reached the hamlet that was Balric's village just after dusk. People were returning from their diurnal occupations and, soon word spread of a royal stranger, a prince perhaps, walking with Balric to his place. There were gawkers aplenty and Phaeron soon felt uncomfortable under the shifty glances they bestowed on him. I have my sword, he thought, but what can I do against so many? I only hope they know their duty to the Emperor.
Of course he need not have worried: those who would slit throats rarely look their victims in the face. It was a short walk to the blacksmith's house through the neat rows of thatched houses that seemed to him to belong to an earlier and more barbarous age. He was surprised to see very little greenery in the hamlet situated in the heart of the great forests - nature had yielded to the destroying hands of a crude civilization and it would require culture and luxury to bring back the trees and birds and tamed nature to where they had been displaced from. The house was built adjacent to Balric's forge and Phaeron's horse was tethered to a short stump outside it. He saw little of the forge but it seemed so insignificant compared to the great fires that roared all day in the great Alley of the Smiths in the capital. What little work the village provided sufficed for Balric, for the villagers grew their own vegetables and hunted their own meat. Money was not a necessity in this remote hamlet, life and death persisted in spite of it.
The house was not a big affair either but Phaeron felt much safer within the confines of its walls away from prying eyes. The women soon occupied themselves with dinner and Balric attended to his forge, leaving Phaeron to amuse himself as best as he could. There was not much of notice in the dank, dirty, ill-furnished place and Phaeron was tired. He had no wish too to step outside into the chill air where there might still lurk a curious, hardy, imbecile soul or two. In the matter of minutes, he fell asleep, oblivious to the clanging of the pans and pots in the kitchen and the sound of the hammer on the anvil.
It is not an easy task to fall asleep on an uncomfortable stool and the physical discomfort disturbed Phaeron's dreams. He saw strange, wonderful things, frightening visions of dragons spewing fire over his home and blood and gore in the grand royal gardens in the capital. The princess, beautiful and elegant generally, was fighting a grim battle with a knight in black armour over the prostrate body of the king's, even as Phaeron rushed in headlong to save her. There was the Prime Mnister too, who seemed to be smirking even as blow after blow fell over his son's brows. And then the scroll he was carrying even now, appeared out of nowhere and its words were blazoned over the city walls in hues of blood: "Fear the wrath of the swift sword that waits not for slow justice; the Council of the Fifty is ready to meet." Strange words, words from a legend long forgotten, but what about the scroll, was it safe?
And he woke up with a start to see Amara looking curiously at him. Her eyes twinkled merrily even as she traipsed away blushing fairy-like to attend to some imaginary chore. Flit on cheering angel, nurse and balm to a bitter heart's dreams, he mused over her vanished form. It has been long now since I felt such fair hope, long since I wanted to be happy. There is but little left of youth in my heart but a long ways to go before my shoulders will tire of the burdens people will impose on them. This scroll, ah the scroll, it is safe now, I did not ask for it and I do not know what it means to me. But there is Amara now, kneading the dough and stirring the pot and I feel a stirring in my own heart.
Night had come swiftly while he slept, and, after a simple dinner of bread, broth and a jug of light beer, attended by the inquisitive questions Meara posed of life in the capital and the Far East, they all retired - the host family preferring to lie on the ground in the outer room, resigning to Phaeron the privacy and comfort of the inner bedroom. Inspite of the short nap he had had only a couple of hours earlier, Phaeron soon fell into a dreamless sleep but it was not destined to last long.
In the middle of the night, a shrill piercing sound woke him: the cry of a damsel, Amara maybe, in distress. Even as he tried to collect his senses, he saw that the house was ablaze and there was a clangor of arms outside, men and women shouting, and children and girls screaming. Balric, he realised as he crossed out into the courtyard with drawn sword, was already outside, hacking at the attackers with might and main. A dreadful little scene unfolded to Phaeron as he saw a sizeable number of horsemen, slowly and surely pushing the villagers back, breaking their resistance to pieces with their trained swordsmanship. He joined the small band of defenders but they could do little even as small bands of the attackers broke away to loot what they could from the burning houses. Just as Phaeron felt they should all be cut down mercilessly, a gruff voice from among the leaders shouted an order for retreat and the horsemen left just as suddenly as they had come.
Seeing the battle was over, the men ran to put out the fires that threatened to destroy the entire hamlet. Women and children were already busy throwing pails of water over the burning thatches, and dragging out of the conflagration the few articles of value that they possessed. Phaeron remembered the scroll and ran into the room he had slept in but it had been ransacked. He understood that this was no random attack and that the horsemen had come for the scroll. His horse too had escaped in the melee, shod in Balric's new shoe. Embittered and angry, he found that Balric and Meara had lost more than he had: the horsemen had kidnapped their daughter.
In less than an hour, the fire was put out and there was calm once more in the smouldering remains of the village. The men and women gathered near Balric's place and there was a general wailing and railing as people tried to come to terms with the dreadful and unprovoked assault on their peaceful lives. "Who were they," Phaeron asked Balric, even as they wiped the blood and sweat off their face after the heavy toil, "And what were they after?" He was not about to mention the scroll to him but he needed to get to them and retrieve the scroll by any means possible. "I dont know, milord," replied Balric, evasively, "I have heard of the robber-lords of the Northern Mountains, who pillage the villages around the Great Forest. But what they would want here, I have no idea." "Oh we knew, Balric, when the lordly stranger came among us that trouble was sure to follow. Dont ye know these are after the royal tribe - they have sworn dread oaths to kill anyone from the royal family," muttered one of the young men. "Shut up you Oric, master fool and village jester, this is no place nor time for your bitterness," retorted Balric, "I have lost more than you have but I wouldn't snivel like a girl." "Be strong all you want, man, but mark my words: this is not the end of our troubles," said Oric,darkly, "There is not going to be much happiness or peace from today." "Forget his words, milord, he has ideas above his station," Balric said to Phaeron loudly. He then addressed the general assembly, "Men and women, we haven't seen battle and death for some time now but that doesn't make us children. We have fought before and now I think we need to fight again. Let us get ready with our swords and axes and shields and helmets. I have been your leader for so long but now I have to leave. So I suggest you take Groth as your leader - he is wise and brave and will serve you well. In the meantime, I will find my daughter and return to you as soon as I can." Many in the assembly cheered and accepted Groth as leader but they also cried out, "But we will come with you Balric in your search, you shall not go alone," upon which Groth spoke up, "Men and women, I will be your leader while Balric goes after his daughter's kidnappers. I hear your love for Balric but we cannot all go with him. So I propose we send two of our best men with him on this hunt. What say you to this, Balric?" Balric replied, "Two men away from the village makes it two men less secure but I know I cannot do it alone either so I accept your proposal. But who will they be?" As Groth started, "Our best man is Oric, of course and the other man will be..", Phaeron interrupted and said, "I will go with Balric. They have taken something from me too that does not belong to them and I need to get it back for myself. We three can be traveling companions till we get to the bandits and then Balric and Oric will return to you with Amara while I will set off on my way." Balric was reluctant to take the stranger and nobleman with him to the heart of the bandit strongholds but Groth saw the point and it was immediately resolved upon. The villagers decided to give the little they could save from the fire by way of provision to Balric and his companions for the next day. They would have to hunt for themselves as they went deeper into the Great Forests to the foothills of the Northern Mountains.
At dawn, the three men, Balric with his sharp axe, Oric with his singing bow and swift sword, and Phaeron, trained swordsman and royal aide and messenger, set out towards the Northern Mountains on the three best horses the villagers could provide. They went along the same old road Phaeron had crossed with Balric and his family but now he had a purpose more immediate. What it was, he was not sure: was it the scroll or was it Amara that he was after? But now he wanted to get somewhere for a reason all his own, and when they reached the place where the Royal Highway forked, one road leading to the Northern Mountains and the other to the Western Outposts, he looked forward to going along the path he had heard was full of lawless bands of wild men, armed against any royal interference. Deep within the forests, on the long winding road that lay at his feet, inside some bandit stronghold, were Amara and the scroll and he needed to get there fast so he could complete his mission to the West and return to the capital. Or maybe that was not the reason for his hurry.
Whither the Winding Road
Phaeron and his companions for the evening reached the hamlet that was Balric's village just after dusk. People were returning from their diurnal occupations and, soon word spread of a royal stranger, a prince perhaps, walking with Balric to his place. There were gawkers aplenty and Phaeron soon felt uncomfortable under the shifty glances they bestowed on him. I have my sword, he thought, but what can I do against so many? I only hope they know their duty to the Emperor.
Of course he need not have worried: those who would slit throats rarely look their victims in the face. It was a short walk to the blacksmith's house through the neat rows of thatched houses that seemed to him to belong to an earlier and more barbarous age. He was surprised to see very little greenery in the hamlet situated in the heart of the great forests - nature had yielded to the destroying hands of a crude civilization and it would require culture and luxury to bring back the trees and birds and tamed nature to where they had been displaced from. The house was built adjacent to Balric's forge and Phaeron's horse was tethered to a short stump outside it. He saw little of the forge but it seemed so insignificant compared to the great fires that roared all day in the great Alley of the Smiths in the capital. What little work the village provided sufficed for Balric, for the villagers grew their own vegetables and hunted their own meat. Money was not a necessity in this remote hamlet, life and death persisted in spite of it.
The house was not a big affair either but Phaeron felt much safer within the confines of its walls away from prying eyes. The women soon occupied themselves with dinner and Balric attended to his forge, leaving Phaeron to amuse himself as best as he could. There was not much of notice in the dank, dirty, ill-furnished place and Phaeron was tired. He had no wish too to step outside into the chill air where there might still lurk a curious, hardy, imbecile soul or two. In the matter of minutes, he fell asleep, oblivious to the clanging of the pans and pots in the kitchen and the sound of the hammer on the anvil.
It is not an easy task to fall asleep on an uncomfortable stool and the physical discomfort disturbed Phaeron's dreams. He saw strange, wonderful things, frightening visions of dragons spewing fire over his home and blood and gore in the grand royal gardens in the capital. The princess, beautiful and elegant generally, was fighting a grim battle with a knight in black armour over the prostrate body of the king's, even as Phaeron rushed in headlong to save her. There was the Prime Mnister too, who seemed to be smirking even as blow after blow fell over his son's brows. And then the scroll he was carrying even now, appeared out of nowhere and its words were blazoned over the city walls in hues of blood: "Fear the wrath of the swift sword that waits not for slow justice; the Council of the Fifty is ready to meet." Strange words, words from a legend long forgotten, but what about the scroll, was it safe?
And he woke up with a start to see Amara looking curiously at him. Her eyes twinkled merrily even as she traipsed away blushing fairy-like to attend to some imaginary chore. Flit on cheering angel, nurse and balm to a bitter heart's dreams, he mused over her vanished form. It has been long now since I felt such fair hope, long since I wanted to be happy. There is but little left of youth in my heart but a long ways to go before my shoulders will tire of the burdens people will impose on them. This scroll, ah the scroll, it is safe now, I did not ask for it and I do not know what it means to me. But there is Amara now, kneading the dough and stirring the pot and I feel a stirring in my own heart.
Night had come swiftly while he slept, and, after a simple dinner of bread, broth and a jug of light beer, attended by the inquisitive questions Meara posed of life in the capital and the Far East, they all retired - the host family preferring to lie on the ground in the outer room, resigning to Phaeron the privacy and comfort of the inner bedroom. Inspite of the short nap he had had only a couple of hours earlier, Phaeron soon fell into a dreamless sleep but it was not destined to last long.
In the middle of the night, a shrill piercing sound woke him: the cry of a damsel, Amara maybe, in distress. Even as he tried to collect his senses, he saw that the house was ablaze and there was a clangor of arms outside, men and women shouting, and children and girls screaming. Balric, he realised as he crossed out into the courtyard with drawn sword, was already outside, hacking at the attackers with might and main. A dreadful little scene unfolded to Phaeron as he saw a sizeable number of horsemen, slowly and surely pushing the villagers back, breaking their resistance to pieces with their trained swordsmanship. He joined the small band of defenders but they could do little even as small bands of the attackers broke away to loot what they could from the burning houses. Just as Phaeron felt they should all be cut down mercilessly, a gruff voice from among the leaders shouted an order for retreat and the horsemen left just as suddenly as they had come.
Seeing the battle was over, the men ran to put out the fires that threatened to destroy the entire hamlet. Women and children were already busy throwing pails of water over the burning thatches, and dragging out of the conflagration the few articles of value that they possessed. Phaeron remembered the scroll and ran into the room he had slept in but it had been ransacked. He understood that this was no random attack and that the horsemen had come for the scroll. His horse too had escaped in the melee, shod in Balric's new shoe. Embittered and angry, he found that Balric and Meara had lost more than he had: the horsemen had kidnapped their daughter.
In less than an hour, the fire was put out and there was calm once more in the smouldering remains of the village. The men and women gathered near Balric's place and there was a general wailing and railing as people tried to come to terms with the dreadful and unprovoked assault on their peaceful lives. "Who were they," Phaeron asked Balric, even as they wiped the blood and sweat off their face after the heavy toil, "And what were they after?" He was not about to mention the scroll to him but he needed to get to them and retrieve the scroll by any means possible. "I dont know, milord," replied Balric, evasively, "I have heard of the robber-lords of the Northern Mountains, who pillage the villages around the Great Forest. But what they would want here, I have no idea." "Oh we knew, Balric, when the lordly stranger came among us that trouble was sure to follow. Dont ye know these are after the royal tribe - they have sworn dread oaths to kill anyone from the royal family," muttered one of the young men. "Shut up you Oric, master fool and village jester, this is no place nor time for your bitterness," retorted Balric, "I have lost more than you have but I wouldn't snivel like a girl." "Be strong all you want, man, but mark my words: this is not the end of our troubles," said Oric,darkly, "There is not going to be much happiness or peace from today." "Forget his words, milord, he has ideas above his station," Balric said to Phaeron loudly. He then addressed the general assembly, "Men and women, we haven't seen battle and death for some time now but that doesn't make us children. We have fought before and now I think we need to fight again. Let us get ready with our swords and axes and shields and helmets. I have been your leader for so long but now I have to leave. So I suggest you take Groth as your leader - he is wise and brave and will serve you well. In the meantime, I will find my daughter and return to you as soon as I can." Many in the assembly cheered and accepted Groth as leader but they also cried out, "But we will come with you Balric in your search, you shall not go alone," upon which Groth spoke up, "Men and women, I will be your leader while Balric goes after his daughter's kidnappers. I hear your love for Balric but we cannot all go with him. So I propose we send two of our best men with him on this hunt. What say you to this, Balric?" Balric replied, "Two men away from the village makes it two men less secure but I know I cannot do it alone either so I accept your proposal. But who will they be?" As Groth started, "Our best man is Oric, of course and the other man will be..", Phaeron interrupted and said, "I will go with Balric. They have taken something from me too that does not belong to them and I need to get it back for myself. We three can be traveling companions till we get to the bandits and then Balric and Oric will return to you with Amara while I will set off on my way." Balric was reluctant to take the stranger and nobleman with him to the heart of the bandit strongholds but Groth saw the point and it was immediately resolved upon. The villagers decided to give the little they could save from the fire by way of provision to Balric and his companions for the next day. They would have to hunt for themselves as they went deeper into the Great Forests to the foothills of the Northern Mountains.
At dawn, the three men, Balric with his sharp axe, Oric with his singing bow and swift sword, and Phaeron, trained swordsman and royal aide and messenger, set out towards the Northern Mountains on the three best horses the villagers could provide. They went along the same old road Phaeron had crossed with Balric and his family but now he had a purpose more immediate. What it was, he was not sure: was it the scroll or was it Amara that he was after? But now he wanted to get somewhere for a reason all his own, and when they reached the place where the Royal Highway forked, one road leading to the Northern Mountains and the other to the Western Outposts, he looked forward to going along the path he had heard was full of lawless bands of wild men, armed against any royal interference. Deep within the forests, on the long winding road that lay at his feet, inside some bandit stronghold, were Amara and the scroll and he needed to get there fast so he could complete his mission to the West and return to the capital. Or maybe that was not the reason for his hurry.
Friday, October 20, 2006
The Book of the Winds
Prologue:
The smoke always clears slowly. It does not hurry for the historian in haste who wishes to record what the moment after a great victory looked like; defeats of course do not matter - only the victors record their battles. And, on the fateful day when a hundred thousand and more perished on the Great Plain, the smoke loitered, picking its way daintily through holes sewed in the blue hearts of dead men, seeping out red and yellow and ugly grey. It smelled of gunpowder - not the nice, clean, fun smell that attends a fireworks celebration, that brings to mind picnic blankets and family outings; but the poor, dirty, grimy smell of a charwoman at a munitions factory waiting for the certain news of a lover's death, a most uncomfortable smell. But the smoke was comforting too in a sense - the survivors saw in its insane shapes the forms of departed friends; dying men saw their families bidding them goodbye or welcome; and, in irritating the eyes of those who were too ashamed to cry, it gave an excuse for tears on the field of manful toil. And it was almost tangible.
But, as with all things, the smoke passed too and bared a hundred thousand entrails and groans to the naked, hungry eye and ear, eager to record for posterity the particular deaths of an anonymous hundred thousand in the cause of great words and great men. How many pitiful lives have been lost in the name of all that is holy and uplifting in the human condition? How many men have toiled bitter sweat and tears for what is most sweet in man's thoughts? How many cries and groans and terrible deeds that laughter and happiness and goodness be more than mere words? But soft now, there groans a man in pain.
------
Book 1
The Council Meets
Chapter 1
A Village in the Horizon
His cloak billowed out wildly behind him as he rode the horse hard into the wind. Evidently in a great hurry, the green colour of his cloak and the imperial diadem on the horse's forehead intimated that this was a royal messenger on an urgent errand. The few hardy men who still walked the dangerous forest road muttered harshly under their breath but gave way with a grudging salute. The man on the horse noticed the sullenness but he had been seeing it all these four days as he travelled out of the capital into the countryside. There seemed to be an increase in discontent with distance from the capital, he mused, an interesting observation worth some serious consideration; but he had his assignment now and it seemed to gain in importance as he approached his destination. The border forts were not too far off and it was imperative that he reach the capital of the province by nightfall - travelling through the outer regions, especially the wild forests, had become unsafe even for the king's messengers in these dangerous times.
But as luck would have it, just as he turned past a narrow bend giving both his thoughts and his horse free rein, his horse stumbled, stuttered and fell in a heap on the road. He was not hurt in the accident, thank god for the small blessings, but his horse had lost a shoe on his leg. He tried riding him without the shoe but the horse started limping after a while. With no choice now but to find the nearest village or hamlet, any place where he could get a horse or a ride to the capital of the province, he started walking down the road, in much more haste than would have helped the poor horse's unshod leg. An hour or so before dusk, would there be bandits around soon, he wondered, would he have to fight for his life or merely for the little gold and that precious scroll he had, so important to the fate of the kingdom, of so little meaning to petty thieves? I will find out soon enough, he decided, but this wretched luck that has been following me ever since that fateful day, when, instead of being selected to the General's guard, I was asked to become the Prime Minister's attendant, this whole foul fortune is still running its course in my life. I wonder if I'll ever be rid of it.
An hour's walk had not brought him much hope and it was almost dusk. The road was deserted and even the occassional straggler who seemed to him a bandit in his filthy rags, leading an old mare or leaning on his wretchedly crooked staff, even the hardiest of these were no more seen in the path that seemed to stretch deep into the forest with no end in sight. For the first time in his life, he saw the forest as an extension of the city or maybe the origin of it; a place men could live and work and walk in, and not merely a place one passed through and had to tolerate only because it was too difficult to destroy altogether. It was like a garden on a larger scale with the trees and bushes and the occassional bird and animal, untamed but not violent. It was also a shelter protecting him from the emptiness that would have dismayed his already depressed spirits. The road assured him that man had been here, and the forest, that there were things beyond and behind all this, that he was not alone. The forest was also particularly interesting that evening when he wanted a rather diaphanous solitude - he wanted to be left alone but not feel his loneliness; or, rather, he wanted a reason to be alert and ready for conversation but only on his own terms, when he wanted it. The rumours had made him edgy and he did not know what message he was carrying now, what it would mean to the country in what was rapidly becoming a fragile future; he knew, of course, that it was important but he did not know where he stood in the whole situation - he had set out to become a soldier and now he was a Minister's page.
Just as he was sinking into a deep reverie, the sound of a cart hobbling along the road behind him jolted him out of it and, soon enough he found himself facing a boisterous peasant taking his family home on a battered ruin of a cart driven by a miserable old nag. The man seemed to want to pass him in a hurry, having evidently seen and known him for who he was, but was forced to stop when the authority of the green cloak and the diadem on the horse asserted themselves in a rather rude gesture to halt. The wife seemed not to have noticed and started grumbling from the back of the cart while the girl, tired of her mother's company, hopped down to see what had caused the interruption. He was struck by her beauty immediately, not a wonderful pretty thing of gold and blue and flimsy lace, but a soft, radiant, healthy nature that was girl and woman at the same time. The cartman at once began apologizing and explaining his hurry, "Bandits around you see, so we were hurrying up. No offence, milord, at your service always". But he had no ears nor eyes for this man. "Phaeron," he said, "page to the Esteemed Prime Minister and member of the Royal Guard, at your service," and performed for the girl one of his most expansive court-bows. "Balric, milord, blacksmith and ...," the man started saying when the girl started laughing uncontrollably, causing great confusion to both the cartman and Phaeron. Balric was dismayed beyond words but his wife stepped in, and pinching the girl hard, introduced herself, "Meara, wife of Balric, milord and this is Amara, our daughter. She is young and bold, don't you mind her, sir, she hasn't seen noblemen except those that strut about on the stage for tuppence. Is there anything we could do for you, noble master?" Phaeron was mortified by the girl's laughter but it was rather musical and made her look even prettier, bringing the red to her cold cheeks and tears to her deep blue eyes. Hard for a man not to like even if he was the cause of the mirth. "Peasants of the outer provinces, I am on my way to Pandor on a royal mission. I was to get there before nightfall but my horse took a fall and has lost a shoe. Direct me to the nearest village where I can borrow a horse and proceed on my way and I will reward you well". The girl was about to burst out laughing again but the mother intervened and said, "Of course, master, we will take you to our village. It is not far from here and my husband is the blacksmith - he will do his best for you and get you going early tomorrow. If you don't mind, you can also stay at our humble inn and eat our bread this night". "Very well, lead on. And I promise your husband will be well-paid for his efforts".
They walked for the better part of an hour and the sun had almost set. Phaeron was getting impatient but there was nothing he could do. The sky was becoming a deep orange and the road was beginning to get wider. They started up a short climb where the woods seemed to part around the road when Amara exclaimed, "The village! the village!" and jumped out of the cart, running up the road. Phaeron watched as the orange danced off her hair and face and the happy smile that spread across her face as she got to the top and shouted, "The village, Father, we are home finally." Balric and Meara exchanged a look of happiness and Phaeron felt a little uncomfortable - they seemed to be too simple and too happy at things too small. Did they not know there were greater things than merely getting home? Were they still children to believe in such bromides as the 'sweet home'? Were they innocent or merely ignorant of the big world outside of their humdrum existence? But Amara was taking his breath away and he knew these people would not understand. The three of them slowly made their way up to Amara and stood silently with her, gazing at the small clearing in the woods where a small village was visible with smoke from the chimneys and little boys playing around. "There she lies," said Balric, "That is home and a lot more, sir". "Yes, a lot more indeed," muttered Phaeron but little did he know how much more.
The smoke always clears slowly. It does not hurry for the historian in haste who wishes to record what the moment after a great victory looked like; defeats of course do not matter - only the victors record their battles. And, on the fateful day when a hundred thousand and more perished on the Great Plain, the smoke loitered, picking its way daintily through holes sewed in the blue hearts of dead men, seeping out red and yellow and ugly grey. It smelled of gunpowder - not the nice, clean, fun smell that attends a fireworks celebration, that brings to mind picnic blankets and family outings; but the poor, dirty, grimy smell of a charwoman at a munitions factory waiting for the certain news of a lover's death, a most uncomfortable smell. But the smoke was comforting too in a sense - the survivors saw in its insane shapes the forms of departed friends; dying men saw their families bidding them goodbye or welcome; and, in irritating the eyes of those who were too ashamed to cry, it gave an excuse for tears on the field of manful toil. And it was almost tangible.
But, as with all things, the smoke passed too and bared a hundred thousand entrails and groans to the naked, hungry eye and ear, eager to record for posterity the particular deaths of an anonymous hundred thousand in the cause of great words and great men. How many pitiful lives have been lost in the name of all that is holy and uplifting in the human condition? How many men have toiled bitter sweat and tears for what is most sweet in man's thoughts? How many cries and groans and terrible deeds that laughter and happiness and goodness be more than mere words? But soft now, there groans a man in pain.
------
Book 1
The Council Meets
Chapter 1
A Village in the Horizon
His cloak billowed out wildly behind him as he rode the horse hard into the wind. Evidently in a great hurry, the green colour of his cloak and the imperial diadem on the horse's forehead intimated that this was a royal messenger on an urgent errand. The few hardy men who still walked the dangerous forest road muttered harshly under their breath but gave way with a grudging salute. The man on the horse noticed the sullenness but he had been seeing it all these four days as he travelled out of the capital into the countryside. There seemed to be an increase in discontent with distance from the capital, he mused, an interesting observation worth some serious consideration; but he had his assignment now and it seemed to gain in importance as he approached his destination. The border forts were not too far off and it was imperative that he reach the capital of the province by nightfall - travelling through the outer regions, especially the wild forests, had become unsafe even for the king's messengers in these dangerous times.
But as luck would have it, just as he turned past a narrow bend giving both his thoughts and his horse free rein, his horse stumbled, stuttered and fell in a heap on the road. He was not hurt in the accident, thank god for the small blessings, but his horse had lost a shoe on his leg. He tried riding him without the shoe but the horse started limping after a while. With no choice now but to find the nearest village or hamlet, any place where he could get a horse or a ride to the capital of the province, he started walking down the road, in much more haste than would have helped the poor horse's unshod leg. An hour or so before dusk, would there be bandits around soon, he wondered, would he have to fight for his life or merely for the little gold and that precious scroll he had, so important to the fate of the kingdom, of so little meaning to petty thieves? I will find out soon enough, he decided, but this wretched luck that has been following me ever since that fateful day, when, instead of being selected to the General's guard, I was asked to become the Prime Minister's attendant, this whole foul fortune is still running its course in my life. I wonder if I'll ever be rid of it.
An hour's walk had not brought him much hope and it was almost dusk. The road was deserted and even the occassional straggler who seemed to him a bandit in his filthy rags, leading an old mare or leaning on his wretchedly crooked staff, even the hardiest of these were no more seen in the path that seemed to stretch deep into the forest with no end in sight. For the first time in his life, he saw the forest as an extension of the city or maybe the origin of it; a place men could live and work and walk in, and not merely a place one passed through and had to tolerate only because it was too difficult to destroy altogether. It was like a garden on a larger scale with the trees and bushes and the occassional bird and animal, untamed but not violent. It was also a shelter protecting him from the emptiness that would have dismayed his already depressed spirits. The road assured him that man had been here, and the forest, that there were things beyond and behind all this, that he was not alone. The forest was also particularly interesting that evening when he wanted a rather diaphanous solitude - he wanted to be left alone but not feel his loneliness; or, rather, he wanted a reason to be alert and ready for conversation but only on his own terms, when he wanted it. The rumours had made him edgy and he did not know what message he was carrying now, what it would mean to the country in what was rapidly becoming a fragile future; he knew, of course, that it was important but he did not know where he stood in the whole situation - he had set out to become a soldier and now he was a Minister's page.
Just as he was sinking into a deep reverie, the sound of a cart hobbling along the road behind him jolted him out of it and, soon enough he found himself facing a boisterous peasant taking his family home on a battered ruin of a cart driven by a miserable old nag. The man seemed to want to pass him in a hurry, having evidently seen and known him for who he was, but was forced to stop when the authority of the green cloak and the diadem on the horse asserted themselves in a rather rude gesture to halt. The wife seemed not to have noticed and started grumbling from the back of the cart while the girl, tired of her mother's company, hopped down to see what had caused the interruption. He was struck by her beauty immediately, not a wonderful pretty thing of gold and blue and flimsy lace, but a soft, radiant, healthy nature that was girl and woman at the same time. The cartman at once began apologizing and explaining his hurry, "Bandits around you see, so we were hurrying up. No offence, milord, at your service always". But he had no ears nor eyes for this man. "Phaeron," he said, "page to the Esteemed Prime Minister and member of the Royal Guard, at your service," and performed for the girl one of his most expansive court-bows. "Balric, milord, blacksmith and ...," the man started saying when the girl started laughing uncontrollably, causing great confusion to both the cartman and Phaeron. Balric was dismayed beyond words but his wife stepped in, and pinching the girl hard, introduced herself, "Meara, wife of Balric, milord and this is Amara, our daughter. She is young and bold, don't you mind her, sir, she hasn't seen noblemen except those that strut about on the stage for tuppence. Is there anything we could do for you, noble master?" Phaeron was mortified by the girl's laughter but it was rather musical and made her look even prettier, bringing the red to her cold cheeks and tears to her deep blue eyes. Hard for a man not to like even if he was the cause of the mirth. "Peasants of the outer provinces, I am on my way to Pandor on a royal mission. I was to get there before nightfall but my horse took a fall and has lost a shoe. Direct me to the nearest village where I can borrow a horse and proceed on my way and I will reward you well". The girl was about to burst out laughing again but the mother intervened and said, "Of course, master, we will take you to our village. It is not far from here and my husband is the blacksmith - he will do his best for you and get you going early tomorrow. If you don't mind, you can also stay at our humble inn and eat our bread this night". "Very well, lead on. And I promise your husband will be well-paid for his efforts".
They walked for the better part of an hour and the sun had almost set. Phaeron was getting impatient but there was nothing he could do. The sky was becoming a deep orange and the road was beginning to get wider. They started up a short climb where the woods seemed to part around the road when Amara exclaimed, "The village! the village!" and jumped out of the cart, running up the road. Phaeron watched as the orange danced off her hair and face and the happy smile that spread across her face as she got to the top and shouted, "The village, Father, we are home finally." Balric and Meara exchanged a look of happiness and Phaeron felt a little uncomfortable - they seemed to be too simple and too happy at things too small. Did they not know there were greater things than merely getting home? Were they still children to believe in such bromides as the 'sweet home'? Were they innocent or merely ignorant of the big world outside of their humdrum existence? But Amara was taking his breath away and he knew these people would not understand. The three of them slowly made their way up to Amara and stood silently with her, gazing at the small clearing in the woods where a small village was visible with smoke from the chimneys and little boys playing around. "There she lies," said Balric, "That is home and a lot more, sir". "Yes, a lot more indeed," muttered Phaeron but little did he know how much more.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
KANK - Never Say Bye-Bye
I was planning to write a long review of Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna studded with long and funny-sounding words. I wanted to, really. Only the movie wasted more than 3 hours of my time and all I can say now, in appreciation of it, is that it sucks big time. For the benefit of posterity, however, I will attempt a short sketch of it, in the manner of the high school essay of old that so often is seen in the film review columns of the newspapers, and try to purge myself of all that the movie might have imbued me with.
Karan Johar is a marvellous director and I am sure he makes no bones about it either. I even distinctly remember reading that he has a personal philosophy and original opinions on love and marriage. An intellectual no doubt and it shows in his work. I also seem to have heard that he has a penchant for the dramatic and an exceptional skill wielding the megaphone. An artist of the highest order and it shows in this, his work. In fact so many things are evident on the most perfunctory viewing of the movie that it makes me wonder why he decided to show his abilities over a much longer timeframe. A conundrum but nothing compared to what is on offer from Dev and Maya and Ria(or is it Rhea or Riya) and Rishi and the rest of 'em all.
The movie starts off originally enough with SRK landing a $5million contract in the MLS and Rani trying her best not to spout out the title-line in an intricate dialogue sequence filled with the most sentimental nothings culminating in the title song. Dev(SRK) and Maya(Rani) part ways as friends, one loses his leg and the other her shot at holy Mohabbat and of course fate has to intervene but that is only 4 years and a short flashforward later. By then, the characters are well-etched - Rani likes vacuuming, AB Sr. likes some form of light bondage, AB Jr. does not shave often, Priety powders herself pale, Kiron Kher is very conscious of her big butt and SRK is a terrible football coach. Add fate now gently, taking care not to spill too much of it on AB Sr's garish attire, and there is confusion leading to reconcilement leading to friendship between SRK and Rani. By the way I did mention their names, right? It is so easy to get confused as there is too much name-calling and too many people around all the time.
A wise man once said a man and a woman can never be friends and Sooraj Barjatya stole it for Maine Pyar Kiya. No wonder Rani and SRK decide to rent a hotel room. As for me, I have no idea they have anything in common except a liking for the colour blue, which seems a random afterthought for a dialogue and song sequence - I never saw them wear blue in the movie till then - and a confused attitude towards their marriage - the other partners seem to want the respective marriages to survive but these two seem to be exclusively worried about saving it from themselves for the sake of the other two who do not understand that the marriages are failing but these two are concerned they might be causing it. If you are confused by now, time for the intermission but oh! that came before the hotel room was rented and after a few deliciously inane dialogues were spouted.
Anyway, the point KJ is trying to put across is something beyond such trivial concerns so we wont stick to the merely chronological either. So let us hurry ahead and see the marriages fail and then some. There are scenes added purely for completeness' sake - the idea seems to have been to make as stupid and unpalatable a movie possible and the product approaches its objectives closely. Witness the scene where Priety walks by Rani without seeing her only for Rani to get back by passing her without seeing her and then Rani turns back and neither see each other and all this of course while crossing a road in downtown New York. The subtle exchanges between the 2 AB's and the misunderstandings would do Iago proud, as roses are scattered and what-not. Suffice it to say it is all as well-done as the poor director's goose that gets cooked all this long while but don't tell him that!
And the ending is of course sublime and bold - Priety slaps SRK, AB dirties his house, the older guy dies, Rani leaves for Philly, 3 years pass, things change, old hurts mend, sacrifices are made and accepted as a matter of course, more dialogues that seem to have nothing really to do with the movie(like "Zindagi mein Mohabbat aur Maut dono bin bulaye mehmaan hote hain" - "Both Love and Death are uninvited guests in life") and then the grand finale where SRK hugs a Sardar on a park bench and goes to prison for 15 days for coming out too soon off of an Amtrak train when the Laws of Physics and Common Sense seem to remonstrate. Then, just so those who prefer the healthy, bracing dosage of the Hindi tele-serial to the frivolously rational whatever-else do not feel it all ended too soon, there is some more uninteresting stuff but to deal with it here is well nigh impossible.
And so the movie ends and those of us who were fortunate enough to learn the massage trick and the naughty tips to keep our spouses happy; those lucky few who did not miss the 'Sexy Sam' in the background; those who really, really understood the deep insights into love and marriage and parenthood and life and quantum physics; indeed all those who saw the movie for what it is, are left with that magnificent feeling that such an experience comes but once in a lifetime; that if one were left with nothing else but just this one would learn what manly toil is; that if KJ did nothing else in his life after this, still one would be grateful to him. All that and the rest.
But of course we need to end with THE line - so Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna!
Karan Johar is a marvellous director and I am sure he makes no bones about it either. I even distinctly remember reading that he has a personal philosophy and original opinions on love and marriage. An intellectual no doubt and it shows in his work. I also seem to have heard that he has a penchant for the dramatic and an exceptional skill wielding the megaphone. An artist of the highest order and it shows in this, his work. In fact so many things are evident on the most perfunctory viewing of the movie that it makes me wonder why he decided to show his abilities over a much longer timeframe. A conundrum but nothing compared to what is on offer from Dev and Maya and Ria(or is it Rhea or Riya) and Rishi and the rest of 'em all.
The movie starts off originally enough with SRK landing a $5million contract in the MLS and Rani trying her best not to spout out the title-line in an intricate dialogue sequence filled with the most sentimental nothings culminating in the title song. Dev(SRK) and Maya(Rani) part ways as friends, one loses his leg and the other her shot at holy Mohabbat and of course fate has to intervene but that is only 4 years and a short flashforward later. By then, the characters are well-etched - Rani likes vacuuming, AB Sr. likes some form of light bondage, AB Jr. does not shave often, Priety powders herself pale, Kiron Kher is very conscious of her big butt and SRK is a terrible football coach. Add fate now gently, taking care not to spill too much of it on AB Sr's garish attire, and there is confusion leading to reconcilement leading to friendship between SRK and Rani. By the way I did mention their names, right? It is so easy to get confused as there is too much name-calling and too many people around all the time.
A wise man once said a man and a woman can never be friends and Sooraj Barjatya stole it for Maine Pyar Kiya. No wonder Rani and SRK decide to rent a hotel room. As for me, I have no idea they have anything in common except a liking for the colour blue, which seems a random afterthought for a dialogue and song sequence - I never saw them wear blue in the movie till then - and a confused attitude towards their marriage - the other partners seem to want the respective marriages to survive but these two seem to be exclusively worried about saving it from themselves for the sake of the other two who do not understand that the marriages are failing but these two are concerned they might be causing it. If you are confused by now, time for the intermission but oh! that came before the hotel room was rented and after a few deliciously inane dialogues were spouted.
Anyway, the point KJ is trying to put across is something beyond such trivial concerns so we wont stick to the merely chronological either. So let us hurry ahead and see the marriages fail and then some. There are scenes added purely for completeness' sake - the idea seems to have been to make as stupid and unpalatable a movie possible and the product approaches its objectives closely. Witness the scene where Priety walks by Rani without seeing her only for Rani to get back by passing her without seeing her and then Rani turns back and neither see each other and all this of course while crossing a road in downtown New York. The subtle exchanges between the 2 AB's and the misunderstandings would do Iago proud, as roses are scattered and what-not. Suffice it to say it is all as well-done as the poor director's goose that gets cooked all this long while but don't tell him that!
And the ending is of course sublime and bold - Priety slaps SRK, AB dirties his house, the older guy dies, Rani leaves for Philly, 3 years pass, things change, old hurts mend, sacrifices are made and accepted as a matter of course, more dialogues that seem to have nothing really to do with the movie(like "Zindagi mein Mohabbat aur Maut dono bin bulaye mehmaan hote hain" - "Both Love and Death are uninvited guests in life") and then the grand finale where SRK hugs a Sardar on a park bench and goes to prison for 15 days for coming out too soon off of an Amtrak train when the Laws of Physics and Common Sense seem to remonstrate. Then, just so those who prefer the healthy, bracing dosage of the Hindi tele-serial to the frivolously rational whatever-else do not feel it all ended too soon, there is some more uninteresting stuff but to deal with it here is well nigh impossible.
And so the movie ends and those of us who were fortunate enough to learn the massage trick and the naughty tips to keep our spouses happy; those lucky few who did not miss the 'Sexy Sam' in the background; those who really, really understood the deep insights into love and marriage and parenthood and life and quantum physics; indeed all those who saw the movie for what it is, are left with that magnificent feeling that such an experience comes but once in a lifetime; that if one were left with nothing else but just this one would learn what manly toil is; that if KJ did nothing else in his life after this, still one would be grateful to him. All that and the rest.
But of course we need to end with THE line - so Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna!
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Stuff
One fundamental question: If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, when? Rabbi Hillel says it all and says it well.
If I am ambitious I want more and am not contented; if I am not ambitious I will never be the man I could be. Which is the more pathetic life - an unambitious drudgery or ambitious and eternal discontent?
Which is the more dangerous - power without responsibility or responsibility without power? The first brings the worst out of us while the other drives the best of us into despair.
If I do not discriminate based on colour am I blind? If I do not discriminate based on language am I deaf? If I do not discriminate based on religion am I godless? If I do not discriminate based on nationality am I poor in geography? If I do not discriminate am I not a fool? But what would I rather be - a fool who cannot discriminate or a clever knave of a fundamentalist?
What is the half-life of a modern secret? What is the half-life a modern truth? What is the meaning of a modern lie? What is the purpose of modern facts? Nobody seems to have a private life any more. Nobody seems sure of anything any more(except the Republicans and the fundamentalists). Everybody seems to be conspiring - for what they don't know. Everybody seems to own a dictionary and an encyclopedia.
Mysticism is not the answer; Formalism is not the answer; Idealism is not the answer; Realism is not the answer; Pessimism is not the answer; Empiricism is not the answer; Existentialism is not the answer; Philosophy is not the answer; Science is not the answer; Religion is not the answer; Contentment is not the answer; Ambition is not the answer; Happiness is not the answer; Despair is not the answer; Atleast nothing is answer enough; But what is the question, do we know that any more? Does it matter?
(Somewhere in between, always something in between, or maybe not that)
(I have elucidated for myself for now a principle of the almost arbitrary)
Tell me someday, if you can, what patriotism means; tell me also what affection is. What is love? What are those long words that we remember from the dictionary when we see a boatload of wretched black men transported whipped and bound across choppy seas by guys with handlebar moustaches? What is that lump of meat clogging the pipes when everyone rises to say "I am Spartacus"? What do the words that men give their lives for mean? What is the cold hand that drives men across continents to die in unfriendly shores for things they don't see, for men who don't care for them, for promises they haven't heard and are not meant for them anyway? And when you have explained all this to me, tell me why, if you would.
If I am ambitious I want more and am not contented; if I am not ambitious I will never be the man I could be. Which is the more pathetic life - an unambitious drudgery or ambitious and eternal discontent?
Which is the more dangerous - power without responsibility or responsibility without power? The first brings the worst out of us while the other drives the best of us into despair.
If I do not discriminate based on colour am I blind? If I do not discriminate based on language am I deaf? If I do not discriminate based on religion am I godless? If I do not discriminate based on nationality am I poor in geography? If I do not discriminate am I not a fool? But what would I rather be - a fool who cannot discriminate or a clever knave of a fundamentalist?
What is the half-life of a modern secret? What is the half-life a modern truth? What is the meaning of a modern lie? What is the purpose of modern facts? Nobody seems to have a private life any more. Nobody seems sure of anything any more(except the Republicans and the fundamentalists). Everybody seems to be conspiring - for what they don't know. Everybody seems to own a dictionary and an encyclopedia.
Mysticism is not the answer; Formalism is not the answer; Idealism is not the answer; Realism is not the answer; Pessimism is not the answer; Empiricism is not the answer; Existentialism is not the answer; Philosophy is not the answer; Science is not the answer; Religion is not the answer; Contentment is not the answer; Ambition is not the answer; Happiness is not the answer; Despair is not the answer; Atleast nothing is answer enough; But what is the question, do we know that any more? Does it matter?
(Somewhere in between, always something in between, or maybe not that)
(I have elucidated for myself for now a principle of the almost arbitrary)
Tell me someday, if you can, what patriotism means; tell me also what affection is. What is love? What are those long words that we remember from the dictionary when we see a boatload of wretched black men transported whipped and bound across choppy seas by guys with handlebar moustaches? What is that lump of meat clogging the pipes when everyone rises to say "I am Spartacus"? What do the words that men give their lives for mean? What is the cold hand that drives men across continents to die in unfriendly shores for things they don't see, for men who don't care for them, for promises they haven't heard and are not meant for them anyway? And when you have explained all this to me, tell me why, if you would.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Pipe Dream
What is a pipe dream? Is it one of those that gives you a fright
Where you wake up and scream in the middle of the night
Because you felt too happy and something didn't feel right?
Or maybe it is a waking dream - the kind where you see
A well-remembered face in a place where you want to be
But know it is only someone else on TV.
Or the pestilential want that makes for having
When the having is too difficult and, too hard, the knowing.
Or the dreams of old men smoking stale pipes
And remembering all they didn't do and other silly gripes.
Or maybe it is just what the butterfly sees
When it has slept just long enough and flies out of its sheath
To face butterfly nets and hungry bees, pollen-less flowers and unbending trees
Just so it can a take a fresh, happy, free breath.
Where you wake up and scream in the middle of the night
Because you felt too happy and something didn't feel right?
Or maybe it is a waking dream - the kind where you see
A well-remembered face in a place where you want to be
But know it is only someone else on TV.
Or the pestilential want that makes for having
When the having is too difficult and, too hard, the knowing.
Or the dreams of old men smoking stale pipes
And remembering all they didn't do and other silly gripes.
Or maybe it is just what the butterfly sees
When it has slept just long enough and flies out of its sheath
To face butterfly nets and hungry bees, pollen-less flowers and unbending trees
Just so it can a take a fresh, happy, free breath.
Monday, September 25, 2006
A Daily Life
It had been a bad day. It was meant to be, from the beginning, what with the early morning appointment with the agent, and the afternoon class, and the headmaster's insistence on our talking that particular day about my performance these last few months in his precious little, backwoods country, primary school. And all this just the day after I had decided to tell my mother I was moving out and setting up my own place and the arguments and the long weeping harangue that followed. That I had just broken up with my longtime girlfriend and was in no state of mind to think, let alone act, intelligently seemed completely lost on one and all, as they insisted in their most impressively scholarly tones, Carpe Diem. Carpe Diem indeed! I had duly woken up late in the mess that was my friend's apartment, having moved in with my toothbrush and briefcase late the previous night, the alarm clock a long-discarded luxury in his blissfully unworkmanlike existence which needed not the least bit of the hurried step or the simplest creasing of the wrinkled forehead with worry and anxiety. Breakfast has always been a weakness and when I had to skip it to reach the agent's office only an hour late, the rumble in my stomach was merely aggravated by the incompetence of a man of professed good taste, indeed of such a disposition as to claim to be the arbiter to the mass that is the people in matters literary, and yet of such dullness as to make grey seem the most vivid of colours on a winter afternoon when the sun has mixed the slush with the snow and has hidden himself behind the passing cloud that does not pass; and he decided to irritate me with the most obtuse questions that have through all recorded history been left best unanswered by all who claim to any intelligence whatsoever. I ventured, given the befuddled state that my mind was in, to remonstrate and retorted in as educated a manner as was possible at that instant and the result was that I was thrown out most decorously after an hour's worth of nothing done. The time, having already inched towards that period, when I am in the habit of having a second and much more elaborate meal than breakfast, I decided to put the troubles of the last hour behind me and attacked the cafeteria attached to the school(the school being but ten minutes' walk from the agent's, I made that trip all too easily). As fortune would have it, the cafeteria was closed for the day and, the only person I could have hoped to avoid in the cafeteria, given the private lunches he was accustomed to having in the comfort of his own office, the headmaster, most heartily beamed at me in the middle of his serious conversation with the cook, and with all the subtlety of an ox working a sledgehammer, informed me of the pleasure with which he would evaluate(negatively - that was given) my performance in the last few months at the meeting he had scheduled that evening. Heaven forbid any child should have to sit in class when a hungry, angry, hurt, confused, bitter, desperate man, recently wounded when still smarting under old wounds, is designated the teacher. Heaven forbid doubly that such a man should have a conscience and have to teach a class of the most unruly and rambunctious bumpkins who have been selected from the wealthiest set of family fools in the county to torture to death penniless schoolmasters dreaming of discharging social obligations in all manner of saccharine asininity. And then the meeting and still the hunger. I couldn't take it much longer. This was stuff that breaks the backs of giants. So I resigned at the first comical outburst that the headmaster had practised all week long in front of the mirror, calculating on impressing and intimidating me. Little did he know I was broken already. And I limped out to the lake by the woods and grabbed my handful of grass and sat by the shore. Waiting. Of course nothing happened. Except for a little girl who came around the big brown tree, crying in that most cheering way children cry when they are merely confused at the big bad world they haven't yet understood completely, innocent with doe-eyes wide and red, dragging her little doll in the tall grass. Her nose she had lost to her friend who had run away home with it and she had to be home soon and she could not go home without her nose - her mother had always warned her not to lose anything or she would not let her play any more. Children, I thought, and placed a piece of my nose on her face, taking her to the lake to prove she had a nose now too, for she wouldn't be satisfied with touching it - it had always felt so, even when the boy had taken her nose away. Children and fools and fool headmasters; agents who did not know and people who did not care or understand; friends who did not have to go through what I had to everyday and yet ventured to advise; hunger and necessity and the trials of a nature never kind to one who was beaten and knew it; pain and the lack of release; indecision; insufficiency; doubt; a hundred other things that made a man bitter and desperate and angry and contemptible and sad. And then the girl smiled and said, "You are the awesomest" and kissed me and ran away smiling gaily. And I felt happy.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Random Thoughts
Existence is presence in Space and Time(apart from other possible dimensions); existence out of Space and Time has to be explained in the abstract or the as yet absent - which is sometimes called non-existence.
Sole causes and effects are not possible(are not observed).
Everything cannot be known; everything cannot be understood; everything cannot be expressed. Everything cannot be experienced.
Everything does not matter.
The present is; the rest we dont know about.
There are children and adults; men and women; humans and beasts; animals and plants; life and things.
Children dont know; they dont understand; they dont feel; they dont care. Children stop being children and become adults to do these things.
Adults dont learn; they become children to learn. They know, understand, express, feel and take responsibility.
Men stand up, hit one another, and take hits; women dont see the point in fighting.
Beasts survive and become human when they create a world for themselves in their piece of the earth; humans create (private and social)worlds and live in them and become beasts when they have to survive.
Animals move; plants are transplanted.
Life leads; things are led.
---Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must remain silent/There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy
Sole causes and effects are not possible(are not observed).
Everything cannot be known; everything cannot be understood; everything cannot be expressed. Everything cannot be experienced.
Everything does not matter.
The present is; the rest we dont know about.
There are children and adults; men and women; humans and beasts; animals and plants; life and things.
Children dont know; they dont understand; they dont feel; they dont care. Children stop being children and become adults to do these things.
Adults dont learn; they become children to learn. They know, understand, express, feel and take responsibility.
Men stand up, hit one another, and take hits; women dont see the point in fighting.
Beasts survive and become human when they create a world for themselves in their piece of the earth; humans create (private and social)worlds and live in them and become beasts when they have to survive.
Animals move; plants are transplanted.
Life leads; things are led.
---Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must remain silent/There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy
Friday, September 15, 2006
Ummmm..
Sevvai kizhamai. Saayangalam 7 mani. Sadharanama mega serial paakara neram aana innikku mattum Pavanandhiar theru Sivan koil'la peria paattimaarkootam. Avangavanga marumagalgaliyum kootindu nalla peran porakkanumnu vendudhal. Navagrahatha suthi oru pathu-irubadhu ponnunga oorvalam. Vaaravaaram nadakkaradhu dhaan. Aana ovvoru ezhettu maasamum oru gumbal varum, andha gedu mudivula oru rendu peria archana nadakkum, gumbal kalanjidum. Appuram vera oru maamiyar-marumagal gumbal adutha ezhettu maasathukku. Aana 8 mani pola, ellarum kilambi ponadhukkappuram, pakkathu therulerndhu Pankajam maamiyum ava marumagal Padmavum varuvanga. Archanai panna maami pova, Padma navagrahatha suthuva. 81 thadava suthinadhukkappuram moonji sulichunde Pankajam maami edhavadhu nachunu sollitu Padmava kootindu pova. Idhu ippo 4 varushama nadandhudu varudhu. Padmavum mudinjadhellam paani paathachu, onnum sari padala. Pankajam maamikkum porumai koranjunde irukku. Innikku paiyan kitta mudiva onnu sollidanumnu vechindirukka. Rendu perum edho avan officela partykku porangalam. Vandha udane oru kai paathudalam evvalavu mani aanalum sari.
Enna appadi oru chance kadaikkala Pankajam maamikku. Annikku 9 manikku kilambi Padmavum ava purushanum avan office New Year's Eve partykku ponavanga veetukku nera varave illa. Sumaar 2 manikku phone adichudhu. General Hospital. Edho sambavam nadandhu avanga rendu perum admit ayirukkangalam. Ore padhattam maamikku. Enna aacho enna nadakkumo theriyala. Pakkathu veetu paiyana kootindu ore ottama auto eri kalambitta. Nalla vela romba peria vibareetham onnum nadakkala. Edho murattu pasanga vazhimarichu miratti irukkanga paiyan mayangi vizhunduttan. Adha paathu Padmavum bayandu mayangi irukka. Summa vidama pasanga rendu perukkum naalanju adi pottirukkanga anga inga. Dress ellam ore ratham aana uyirukku, udambukku oru prachanaiyum illanu doctor sollitaru. Verum kattu pottu, rendu vaaram crutches'la nadandha sari ayidum. Panam, nagai ponadhukkum, scooter ponadhukkum avvalavu kashtappada mudiyuma andha nerathula - uyir thappi irukke? Edho aanadhu nalladhukkunu maamiyum avanga rendu perum thirumbi veetukku vandhuttanga. Andha sambavam Pankajam maamiyoda plan'a konjam thalli pottudhu - ippadi oru accident nadandhu konjam naal'laye raakshasiyaatum marumagala veratta mudiyadhe. Adhanala thirumbi ovvoru sevvaikizhamaiyum adhe programme thaan 8 mani saayangalam aana.
Aana poruthadhum nalladha pochu. 2 maasam kazhichu Padma nalla news kondu vandhu kudutha. Pankajam maami vendudhal niraiverinadhukkaga oru peria archanai nadathi oru peria donationum kudutha kovilukku. Appothulerndhu 8 mani aana Pankajam maami nimmadhiya serial paaka okkandhuduva. 10 maasam aanadhukkappuram dhaan therinjadhu kuzhandhai maaniramnu, Pankajam maami, Padma, rendu per veetulaiyum ellarum nalla sevappu. Kuzhandhai azhudhudha, Pankajam maami azhudhala, Padma azhudalanu theriyala, aana annikku maternity ward Room 23ukkullerndhu mattum mudhalla alaral sathamum, appuram vimmal sathamum muzhu raathiriyum kettunde irundhudhu.
Enna appadi oru chance kadaikkala Pankajam maamikku. Annikku 9 manikku kilambi Padmavum ava purushanum avan office New Year's Eve partykku ponavanga veetukku nera varave illa. Sumaar 2 manikku phone adichudhu. General Hospital. Edho sambavam nadandhu avanga rendu perum admit ayirukkangalam. Ore padhattam maamikku. Enna aacho enna nadakkumo theriyala. Pakkathu veetu paiyana kootindu ore ottama auto eri kalambitta. Nalla vela romba peria vibareetham onnum nadakkala. Edho murattu pasanga vazhimarichu miratti irukkanga paiyan mayangi vizhunduttan. Adha paathu Padmavum bayandu mayangi irukka. Summa vidama pasanga rendu perukkum naalanju adi pottirukkanga anga inga. Dress ellam ore ratham aana uyirukku, udambukku oru prachanaiyum illanu doctor sollitaru. Verum kattu pottu, rendu vaaram crutches'la nadandha sari ayidum. Panam, nagai ponadhukkum, scooter ponadhukkum avvalavu kashtappada mudiyuma andha nerathula - uyir thappi irukke? Edho aanadhu nalladhukkunu maamiyum avanga rendu perum thirumbi veetukku vandhuttanga. Andha sambavam Pankajam maamiyoda plan'a konjam thalli pottudhu - ippadi oru accident nadandhu konjam naal'laye raakshasiyaatum marumagala veratta mudiyadhe. Adhanala thirumbi ovvoru sevvaikizhamaiyum adhe programme thaan 8 mani saayangalam aana.
Aana poruthadhum nalladha pochu. 2 maasam kazhichu Padma nalla news kondu vandhu kudutha. Pankajam maami vendudhal niraiverinadhukkaga oru peria archanai nadathi oru peria donationum kudutha kovilukku. Appothulerndhu 8 mani aana Pankajam maami nimmadhiya serial paaka okkandhuduva. 10 maasam aanadhukkappuram dhaan therinjadhu kuzhandhai maaniramnu, Pankajam maami, Padma, rendu per veetulaiyum ellarum nalla sevappu. Kuzhandhai azhudhudha, Pankajam maami azhudhala, Padma azhudalanu theriyala, aana annikku maternity ward Room 23ukkullerndhu mattum mudhalla alaral sathamum, appuram vimmal sathamum muzhu raathiriyum kettunde irundhudhu.
An Elevator Story
One of the best stories I have been in :) -
I go to the library to get some books, step out at the wrong floor so have to take the elevator again. A couple of minutes' wait and the elevator door opens, only to show me it is packed with 5 other people(and it is supposed to hold something like 4 if they are real close and don't have problems with intruders in their private space). I am of half a mind to desist and take another ride up but the people inside gesture for me to come on in and share the little space there is(Oh I love thee Notre Dame already!). The girl next to me politely asks where I have to go and we find that someone else is getting off on the 9th floor. So we settle in for the all-so-short ride and the old man with the collar(to the uninitiated, this means he is one of the initiated - a priest) to my left, who seems eerily familiar, starts talking across me to the couple to my right about how someone in the Vatican stole his work and how, to this day, one can compare the thesis this Vatican guy wrote with what our man had published earlier, obviously the latter half of a conversation that I had interrupted with my rude, discomfiting entrance. The couple are like "Oh really.. So the world goes" and all those cliched clucks of the tongue that express both sympathy and disapproval. Then, as the 9th floor comes up(or should it be down) and I start walking out, I hear the last 2 classic exchanges - "So are you a professor or something here? Do you have any position here?" ask the couple, and the cleric answers "Oh I was President of this University once. I am Theodore Hesburgh. This library is named after me."
No wonder he looked familiar!!!
I go to the library to get some books, step out at the wrong floor so have to take the elevator again. A couple of minutes' wait and the elevator door opens, only to show me it is packed with 5 other people(and it is supposed to hold something like 4 if they are real close and don't have problems with intruders in their private space). I am of half a mind to desist and take another ride up but the people inside gesture for me to come on in and share the little space there is(Oh I love thee Notre Dame already!). The girl next to me politely asks where I have to go and we find that someone else is getting off on the 9th floor. So we settle in for the all-so-short ride and the old man with the collar(to the uninitiated, this means he is one of the initiated - a priest) to my left, who seems eerily familiar, starts talking across me to the couple to my right about how someone in the Vatican stole his work and how, to this day, one can compare the thesis this Vatican guy wrote with what our man had published earlier, obviously the latter half of a conversation that I had interrupted with my rude, discomfiting entrance. The couple are like "Oh really.. So the world goes" and all those cliched clucks of the tongue that express both sympathy and disapproval. Then, as the 9th floor comes up(or should it be down) and I start walking out, I hear the last 2 classic exchanges - "So are you a professor or something here? Do you have any position here?" ask the couple, and the cleric answers "Oh I was President of this University once. I am Theodore Hesburgh. This library is named after me."
No wonder he looked familiar!!!
Friday, August 25, 2006
The Old Man and the City
I am a college student trying to make sense of life in the big city. The whole place is a big, beautiful mess and getting around is one of the worst and best parts of my daily life. I have been here sometime now and still I manage to get lost every once in a while. And it is during these times that I have had the most fun ever in my life. Bumping into strange alleys with exotic shops and houses, meeting new people and long-lost friends and getting to know about life first-hand from the street and its noises directly.
It was during one of these rambles that I met Uncle P. I did not recognize him at first; he looked so old and decrepit and I had never seen that miserable look in his face - he was always smiling and happy and had a twinkle in his eye in the old times when I was still just a kid. He would tell us stories, all beautiful, and recite poems too and do all kinds of fun and crazy things. I and my cousins and all our friends just used to love Uncle P and waited for him eagerly at the doorstep every summer morning as he came down the long country lane from his cottage. No one ever knew who he was or what he did, not even his name, but every summer he would rent the cottage and he would spend everyday with us, fishing, swimming, biking, apple-picking and other stuff.
But now he seemed very tired and it looked like he was carrying a heavy burden. I started talking to him and told him about all the wonderful days he had given me. I had come to college to become intelligent and wise like him and I told him I wanted to be a writer too and write the kind of stories and poems that he had written all those days ago. He listened patiently and after a long time, smiled a little and took me by hand to a grimy window. "Listen, kid. I dont know who you are any more. But that dump is where I live now. This is my sooty, grimy life and this is all I have got. When I was younger, I had a muse and I could tell stories and write poetry. Then, one day, the muse left me and I felt sad. So I wrote more and harder and furiously, seeking sublimation. I thought I will get over all my sorrows that way. But now I am older and know I will never be any less sadder or write anything worth reading any more. I am happy you found what I wrote good and I am happy there is someone in this world who remembers me when I was not like this. But the truth is I am just done and I dont want anything any more. You take care of yourself and be happy. Never try to fall into sorrow and break yourself. Now get going and forget I ever was," he said.
I was pained a bit and sad and tried to talk him into writing something for me. But he just waved the idea away. When I said, "Maybe I will come tomorrow and see if you feel better and will write something," he just replied, "Kid, maybe you will find me better tomorrow but just hope I wont be here tomorrow. That is all I want now - that are no more tomorrows for me. I find today too difficult already." And with that he walked past me into his sad room and shut the door. And I knew he had thanked me already.
It was during one of these rambles that I met Uncle P. I did not recognize him at first; he looked so old and decrepit and I had never seen that miserable look in his face - he was always smiling and happy and had a twinkle in his eye in the old times when I was still just a kid. He would tell us stories, all beautiful, and recite poems too and do all kinds of fun and crazy things. I and my cousins and all our friends just used to love Uncle P and waited for him eagerly at the doorstep every summer morning as he came down the long country lane from his cottage. No one ever knew who he was or what he did, not even his name, but every summer he would rent the cottage and he would spend everyday with us, fishing, swimming, biking, apple-picking and other stuff.
But now he seemed very tired and it looked like he was carrying a heavy burden. I started talking to him and told him about all the wonderful days he had given me. I had come to college to become intelligent and wise like him and I told him I wanted to be a writer too and write the kind of stories and poems that he had written all those days ago. He listened patiently and after a long time, smiled a little and took me by hand to a grimy window. "Listen, kid. I dont know who you are any more. But that dump is where I live now. This is my sooty, grimy life and this is all I have got. When I was younger, I had a muse and I could tell stories and write poetry. Then, one day, the muse left me and I felt sad. So I wrote more and harder and furiously, seeking sublimation. I thought I will get over all my sorrows that way. But now I am older and know I will never be any less sadder or write anything worth reading any more. I am happy you found what I wrote good and I am happy there is someone in this world who remembers me when I was not like this. But the truth is I am just done and I dont want anything any more. You take care of yourself and be happy. Never try to fall into sorrow and break yourself. Now get going and forget I ever was," he said.
I was pained a bit and sad and tried to talk him into writing something for me. But he just waved the idea away. When I said, "Maybe I will come tomorrow and see if you feel better and will write something," he just replied, "Kid, maybe you will find me better tomorrow but just hope I wont be here tomorrow. That is all I want now - that are no more tomorrows for me. I find today too difficult already." And with that he walked past me into his sad room and shut the door. And I knew he had thanked me already.
Note to self
I have been wanting to say something profound for quite sometime now but dont know exactly what I can say. Everything seems already to have been said and I have nothing more to add. Except maybe this:
This is the one comforting thought to the man in misery -
When tomorrow's sorrow comes to find me, I will not be.
Or is this taken too already?
This is the one comforting thought to the man in misery -
When tomorrow's sorrow comes to find me, I will not be.
Or is this taken too already?
Thursday, August 24, 2006
On a dark night in the woods by a lake
I am bored now so let us try something for fun. Let us walk around the woods in the dark and try to get to the lake. Let us make up a story for ourselves as we go along. There has to be a hero in it and a heroine and we will add a few other characters. There will be a lot of incidents, some funny, some sad, but all interesting, and our hero and heroine will experience most of these. We will place them in some place in some time and we will decide that they have certain names. Or maybe we won't name them. But still we will have to describe them. The hero has to be a tall, fair and handsome guy who steals the heart of every damsel in the vicinity. He is strong and brave and intelligent and knows a lot of things others do not. He can sing, dance and maybe we will use him in some romantic situations with the heroine where he will woo her with the most beautiful song ever sung. And he will write it too. Mind the branches.
The heroine is the prettiest lass ever of course and she is also humble and quiet and intelligent and brave. She knows sewing but can ride a horse with gusto too and sings to the birds in the most dulcet tones imaginable. Of course our hero heard her sing in the woods and lost his heart to the voice before he even saw her face. But that is a different episode and we still aren't done with our characters. So let us add the treacherous uncle who takes care of our heroine and covets the riches her parents left her. He hasn't told her all this yet but there is a magic seal on the treasure chest that only the heroine can break when she is 21. So let us make her a few days short of her 21st birthday. There are wild animals around so stick to the path.
Then there is our hero's evil stepmother who wants to get his father's kingdom for her stupid son, who is good at heart but a total nincompoop and numbskull. The father is old and weak and so our son decides to ease his burden by walking away from the kingdom and living an adventure for himself. That is how he comes to the forest and hears the heroine sing. While he is hunting. Or maybe he is just trying to get to the lake to watch the river flow. His friend is with him too. A good friend, loyal and devoted to the hero and also brave and intelligent and with a hundred other virtues. Only a bit hot-tempered so the uncle better watch out. But of course the uncle has his foolish but brawny henchmen who wield the hammer and the axe. Don't go too far out or we will lose each other.
So the hero meets the heroine and they fall in love naturally. They sing and dance and pick flowers and talk and tell each other wonderful stories and blush and kiss and do all the thousand nothings that is normal in these times. Then there is the rain. Though it is glorious and summer, there is a mild thunderstorm and these two have to find shelter in a cave. There they find the ancient witch, a good one, but with only one tooth and dark and grey and wizened and wise and ugly and frightening. She tells the hero and heroine of the story of the heroine's father who was the original king and who had been killed by the heroine's uncle, who was not her uncle actually but a wizard after a scroll in the treasure chest that will show him the way to great things. The hero's father, the general has taken care of the kingdom and good care too but he is a weak man in policy and short-sighted and without glasses too so he can't see clearly and so the wizard's sister has been able to kill the hero's pretty, good and loyal mother and marry his father. These bushes are thorny and dense - take care - but the lake is near.
So the hero and heroine come to know all the truth but they decide to wait the few days - two? three? - till it is time for the Uncle to bring out the chest so the the heroine can open it. The hero's friend will take care of the two henchmen and the hero will take out the wizard using the magic the witch has brewed for him. It all goes well until the wizard brings the chest out and sees the hero's friend disposing of his henchmen. He casts a spell that immobilizes the princess and kills the hero's friend. The hero tries to fight him but is wounded in his heart and so the wizard makes good his escape. The chest lies there and near it the frozen princess and fallen at her feet is the poor hero of ours with bleeding heart and broken spirit. And in time the forest swallows up the place and in the time of the great flood, it is cut off from the mainland and becomes an island in the lake. There it is now, the lake and the strange landmass in the centre of it. It has been a while but atleast the story kept us going. Now that we are tired enough, let us go back and catch some sleep. But no more stories on the way. I have run out of ideas.
The heroine is the prettiest lass ever of course and she is also humble and quiet and intelligent and brave. She knows sewing but can ride a horse with gusto too and sings to the birds in the most dulcet tones imaginable. Of course our hero heard her sing in the woods and lost his heart to the voice before he even saw her face. But that is a different episode and we still aren't done with our characters. So let us add the treacherous uncle who takes care of our heroine and covets the riches her parents left her. He hasn't told her all this yet but there is a magic seal on the treasure chest that only the heroine can break when she is 21. So let us make her a few days short of her 21st birthday. There are wild animals around so stick to the path.
Then there is our hero's evil stepmother who wants to get his father's kingdom for her stupid son, who is good at heart but a total nincompoop and numbskull. The father is old and weak and so our son decides to ease his burden by walking away from the kingdom and living an adventure for himself. That is how he comes to the forest and hears the heroine sing. While he is hunting. Or maybe he is just trying to get to the lake to watch the river flow. His friend is with him too. A good friend, loyal and devoted to the hero and also brave and intelligent and with a hundred other virtues. Only a bit hot-tempered so the uncle better watch out. But of course the uncle has his foolish but brawny henchmen who wield the hammer and the axe. Don't go too far out or we will lose each other.
So the hero meets the heroine and they fall in love naturally. They sing and dance and pick flowers and talk and tell each other wonderful stories and blush and kiss and do all the thousand nothings that is normal in these times. Then there is the rain. Though it is glorious and summer, there is a mild thunderstorm and these two have to find shelter in a cave. There they find the ancient witch, a good one, but with only one tooth and dark and grey and wizened and wise and ugly and frightening. She tells the hero and heroine of the story of the heroine's father who was the original king and who had been killed by the heroine's uncle, who was not her uncle actually but a wizard after a scroll in the treasure chest that will show him the way to great things. The hero's father, the general has taken care of the kingdom and good care too but he is a weak man in policy and short-sighted and without glasses too so he can't see clearly and so the wizard's sister has been able to kill the hero's pretty, good and loyal mother and marry his father. These bushes are thorny and dense - take care - but the lake is near.
So the hero and heroine come to know all the truth but they decide to wait the few days - two? three? - till it is time for the Uncle to bring out the chest so the the heroine can open it. The hero's friend will take care of the two henchmen and the hero will take out the wizard using the magic the witch has brewed for him. It all goes well until the wizard brings the chest out and sees the hero's friend disposing of his henchmen. He casts a spell that immobilizes the princess and kills the hero's friend. The hero tries to fight him but is wounded in his heart and so the wizard makes good his escape. The chest lies there and near it the frozen princess and fallen at her feet is the poor hero of ours with bleeding heart and broken spirit. And in time the forest swallows up the place and in the time of the great flood, it is cut off from the mainland and becomes an island in the lake. There it is now, the lake and the strange landmass in the centre of it. It has been a while but atleast the story kept us going. Now that we are tired enough, let us go back and catch some sleep. But no more stories on the way. I have run out of ideas.
The Miserability Coefficient: A Mathematical Theory of Misery
After great thought and deep research I have decided to finally publish my insights into the as yet unexplored field of human misery from a mathematical standpoint. While there have been quite a few books and articles on misery[Sophocles-Hugo, Burton-Beckett etc], there has been a painfully inadequate mathematical development of the subject and this has been felt a pressing need[XYZ Grad Student's life and a million others]. This work will attempt, in the restricted space allowed it, to demonstrate, first that misery needs to be quantified, second that it can be measured and, third that this field is ripe for the publication of a few hundred graduate theses.
Human misery is a well-understood and well-observed phenomenon. Human history documents that the world was begun in misery[Big Bang]. As the world developed and man started finding his voice, it was the cry that came most naturally to him. Even literature began with the tragedy[Greece, Valmiki's shloka]. In fact, a famous poet went to the extent of saying good literature dealt with human misery exclusively[Shelley-Ode to a Skylark]. So the first question that bothers any self-respecting grad student scraping away at the edges of existence is, "How well is the Science of Misery understood? How mature is the mathematics in the area? And how easy is it to publish papers in this field?" Well that was three questions but we have already said the questioner is a grad student. Anyway, the answers to the questions are quite obvious to any unbiased onlooker. Misery has never been studied scientifically, the mathematics is as mature as a teenager with pimples falling for the first girl with a dimple and it is just as easy to publish papers in the field as it was for Einstein to walk away with the cake in Relativity.
Given these answers, it would seem insisting too much on too small a point when we say we still have to justify our claim that misery needs to be quantified; but we still intend to do it given it is our first big result. So, misery's importance has been established and now we find ourselves faced with the task of trying to distinguish between the various forms of misery[Burton - Anatomy of Melancholy]. Pain has its own units[Dols] and we know pain is but a very dilute form of misery and all pains are included within the big superset Misery. And anybody knows how irritating it is when, in the midst oif a deep depression, we find someone else who claims he is even more depressed. A measure will alleviate the need for all this and to measure misery, we need to quantify it. Thus follows the first thing to be proved -
MISERY NEEDS TO BE QUANTIFIED
Now, any rational person worth his salt knows that it is never enough to show the need for a thing but, more importantly, we need to show that the need can be fulfilled, not partially or in full measure, but atleast substantially[Nehru]. And given all the literature that math has afforded us over the course of its existence, we know that a measure is defined only on certain things and that we have to be careful what we measure or the cup may overflow[Lebesgue et al with apologies to the Bible]. So, can misery be measured? At first sight, it seems a very daunting task - trying to measure misery. Everybody always claims he is more miserable than anybody else whenever he is in the mood to say so. There even exist some who believe misery is the sole cause and bedrock of our existence, and as such pervades us all, making it an immeasurable quantity, which we partake of every now and then[Cioran, Schopenhauer et al]. But, a closer examination using the most subtle glass of Common Sense, that we have managed to grind successfully after 25 years of constant and unflagging perseverance, has shown that the view hitherto held is flawed as it overlooks quite a few distinctive features that make up the sum of misery. For example, consider the washerwoman[Gandhi - the movie of course] who has to bend down and strike the white cloth on the jagged slab of stone in a polluted river - that is a miserable job blow by blow. On the other hand, imagine a grad student sitting up past 3-4am and hard at work on his laptop, all alone, with no possibility of ever getting to see the sun that beats down on the sweating washerwoman ever, nor ever to be seen by a Gandhi as he squats nearby admiring her whatever, just imagine and you can see that the misery levels are vastly different. This is a rather good analogy, but to be mathematically rigorous, we still need to show that the measure exists on the field of real numbers and that it satisfies a host of conditions[Vague Math Literature]. This, I assure you, has been done, and will shortly be submitted to a prestigious journal. So we will skip the troublesome details and go on to define the measure of misery - the miserability coefficient - while we take for granted that the second part of the paper is established too -
MISERY CAN BE MEASURED
The miserability coefficient that we propose is a simple measure that maps human misery to the reals(chuckle at the pun). After all, most miserable people only imagine their miseries while misery is thrust upon others. The coefficient is defined thus -
The miserability coefficient, denoted by :(, is the sum derivative of all the distillable pain that can be obtained by imagining the worst possible outcome to the most enjoyable event, in the mind. The amount of pain itself is calculated as the logarithm of the squared pain added to a miserability constant that is given to all men at their birth and changes with time according to environment, character, experience etc. Its unit is pains and can take all possible values from the negative infinity to positive infinity, the more negative pains one has the happier one is, with -infinity corresponding to infinite bliss and +infinity corresponding to total despair[Milton's Devil].
The miserability coefficient can be easily measured for simple scenarios and we calculate some. The miserability coefficient of God(if he exists) is -infinity and that of the Devil(again if he exists) is +infinity[any amount of religious literature]. The :( of a grad student typically hovers from between -5(if the said person is hazaar over-enthu) to about +1786.23(this is the highest recorded but is no upper bound and increases with the number of years one spends on research). The Buddha had a :( of +50 pains after seeing four random guys but brought it down to -1234234525.232 after sitting under a Bodhi tree somewhere(the treatment of this subject is an open problem - how to optimally adjust the :( of people). Almost anybody's :( can be calculated quite easily given the past history and all details of their lives and this is left for future papers in the field by enterprising grad students. Further studies will be published shortly.
In conclusion, we note that we have justified our first and second claims and the third claim has been self-justified by the wealth of open problems still left in the field like - How to determine the miserability constant? How to find the happiness coefficient? What is the maximum/minimum achievable :( given a particular set of incidents in one's life? How can the :( be optimally changed to suit one's mood? etc etc. We intend to work on these problems and, for now, accept the thanks of a large community of people for having thrown open a whole exciting field of research and amusement.
Human misery is a well-understood and well-observed phenomenon. Human history documents that the world was begun in misery[Big Bang]. As the world developed and man started finding his voice, it was the cry that came most naturally to him. Even literature began with the tragedy[Greece, Valmiki's shloka]. In fact, a famous poet went to the extent of saying good literature dealt with human misery exclusively[Shelley-Ode to a Skylark]. So the first question that bothers any self-respecting grad student scraping away at the edges of existence is, "How well is the Science of Misery understood? How mature is the mathematics in the area? And how easy is it to publish papers in this field?" Well that was three questions but we have already said the questioner is a grad student. Anyway, the answers to the questions are quite obvious to any unbiased onlooker. Misery has never been studied scientifically, the mathematics is as mature as a teenager with pimples falling for the first girl with a dimple and it is just as easy to publish papers in the field as it was for Einstein to walk away with the cake in Relativity.
Given these answers, it would seem insisting too much on too small a point when we say we still have to justify our claim that misery needs to be quantified; but we still intend to do it given it is our first big result. So, misery's importance has been established and now we find ourselves faced with the task of trying to distinguish between the various forms of misery[Burton - Anatomy of Melancholy]. Pain has its own units[Dols] and we know pain is but a very dilute form of misery and all pains are included within the big superset Misery. And anybody knows how irritating it is when, in the midst oif a deep depression, we find someone else who claims he is even more depressed. A measure will alleviate the need for all this and to measure misery, we need to quantify it. Thus follows the first thing to be proved -
Now, any rational person worth his salt knows that it is never enough to show the need for a thing but, more importantly, we need to show that the need can be fulfilled, not partially or in full measure, but atleast substantially[Nehru]. And given all the literature that math has afforded us over the course of its existence, we know that a measure is defined only on certain things and that we have to be careful what we measure or the cup may overflow[Lebesgue et al with apologies to the Bible]. So, can misery be measured? At first sight, it seems a very daunting task - trying to measure misery. Everybody always claims he is more miserable than anybody else whenever he is in the mood to say so. There even exist some who believe misery is the sole cause and bedrock of our existence, and as such pervades us all, making it an immeasurable quantity, which we partake of every now and then[Cioran, Schopenhauer et al]. But, a closer examination using the most subtle glass of Common Sense, that we have managed to grind successfully after 25 years of constant and unflagging perseverance, has shown that the view hitherto held is flawed as it overlooks quite a few distinctive features that make up the sum of misery. For example, consider the washerwoman[Gandhi - the movie of course] who has to bend down and strike the white cloth on the jagged slab of stone in a polluted river - that is a miserable job blow by blow. On the other hand, imagine a grad student sitting up past 3-4am and hard at work on his laptop, all alone, with no possibility of ever getting to see the sun that beats down on the sweating washerwoman ever, nor ever to be seen by a Gandhi as he squats nearby admiring her whatever, just imagine and you can see that the misery levels are vastly different. This is a rather good analogy, but to be mathematically rigorous, we still need to show that the measure exists on the field of real numbers and that it satisfies a host of conditions[Vague Math Literature]. This, I assure you, has been done, and will shortly be submitted to a prestigious journal. So we will skip the troublesome details and go on to define the measure of misery - the miserability coefficient - while we take for granted that the second part of the paper is established too -
The miserability coefficient that we propose is a simple measure that maps human misery to the reals(chuckle at the pun). After all, most miserable people only imagine their miseries while misery is thrust upon others. The coefficient is defined thus -
The miserability coefficient, denoted by :(, is the sum derivative of all the distillable pain that can be obtained by imagining the worst possible outcome to the most enjoyable event, in the mind. The amount of pain itself is calculated as the logarithm of the squared pain added to a miserability constant that is given to all men at their birth and changes with time according to environment, character, experience etc. Its unit is pains and can take all possible values from the negative infinity to positive infinity, the more negative pains one has the happier one is, with -infinity corresponding to infinite bliss and +infinity corresponding to total despair[Milton's Devil].
The miserability coefficient can be easily measured for simple scenarios and we calculate some. The miserability coefficient of God(if he exists) is -infinity and that of the Devil(again if he exists) is +infinity[any amount of religious literature]. The :( of a grad student typically hovers from between -5(if the said person is hazaar over-enthu) to about +1786.23(this is the highest recorded but is no upper bound and increases with the number of years one spends on research). The Buddha had a :( of +50 pains after seeing four random guys but brought it down to -1234234525.232 after sitting under a Bodhi tree somewhere(the treatment of this subject is an open problem - how to optimally adjust the :( of people). Almost anybody's :( can be calculated quite easily given the past history and all details of their lives and this is left for future papers in the field by enterprising grad students. Further studies will be published shortly.
In conclusion, we note that we have justified our first and second claims and the third claim has been self-justified by the wealth of open problems still left in the field like - How to determine the miserability constant? How to find the happiness coefficient? What is the maximum/minimum achievable :( given a particular set of incidents in one's life? How can the :( be optimally changed to suit one's mood? etc etc. We intend to work on these problems and, for now, accept the thanks of a large community of people for having thrown open a whole exciting field of research and amusement.
kattrukkoduthap paadathai maRandhuvitta aasiriyarpol
sattre ayarndhEn maattraan puNsirippukkaaLaanEn
nEttriravu veedhiyilE enai kaNdu anjiyavan
indrennai kaNdELanam seigindraan sagikkavillai.
munbE naan kaNdadhuNdu ulagathaar irakkathai
vendraaradi munveezhvar thammadhippai kaattudhaRkku
pinbondru vidhi seivar thiNdaadum kaalathil
sendraarai maRandhiduvOm indruLLAr mattroruvar.
ippozhudhum thayangugindrEn ivarmun naan selvadhaRkku
vazhi ondrum vERillai immakkaL enkulathaar
eppozhudho thaaivayittril seidhuvitta uRavadhanaal
pazhi sollitthirindhaalum ivarpOlthaam vaazhgindrEn.
--Shyam.
sattre ayarndhEn maattraan puNsirippukkaaLaanEn
nEttriravu veedhiyilE enai kaNdu anjiyavan
indrennai kaNdELanam seigindraan sagikkavillai.
munbE naan kaNdadhuNdu ulagathaar irakkathai
vendraaradi munveezhvar thammadhippai kaattudhaRkku
pinbondru vidhi seivar thiNdaadum kaalathil
sendraarai maRandhiduvOm indruLLAr mattroruvar.
ippozhudhum thayangugindrEn ivarmun naan selvadhaRkku
vazhi ondrum vERillai immakkaL enkulathaar
eppozhudho thaaivayittril seidhuvitta uRavadhanaal
pazhi sollitthirindhaalum ivarpOlthaam vaazhgindrEn.
--Shyam.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Sila nErangaLil sila sindhanaigaL
Thanitthirundha nAtkalai nAn ninaithukkoNdEn
Ninaithu thaNindhirundha vEdhanaiyai thooNdi vittEn.
Varutthathin sigaramthanai therindhu koNdEn
Varum sarithirathin Edugalil idam vagikka
MaRutthu vaitha uNmaigalai meeNdum uNardhen.
KaNdadhu thAn kanavo alladhu
KANbathu thAn verum bramaiyo
En kaNmunnAl niRkkum avvadivam poiyo
Aiyo nAn pithan thAno illai
Ivvulagam enai tholaittha iruLkAdo.
Tholaithooram senRimmaNNil kuruthi sindhi uyir vaLarthu
Tholaindhu maRaindhu piRamAndhar kaNNukkettA veezhvarindhu
Migudhi enum pulithol pOrtthi
Sirippendra sAmbal poosi
Vetki sadaiviritthu
UyirthAndavam Ada Ayatham AnEn.
KeL en maname
Ini kalangAdhe
SenRadhu, senRu maraindhadhu,
Ini meendum vaaraadhu.
Varuvadhu, varavillai,
KaN Paaradhadhu, poruL puriyaadhadhu.
Iruppadhu iraadhu, Meendum varaadhu.
Indre uNmai iruppadhe uNmai
MaRandhuvidu matravatrai.
--Shyam.
PS : Finding typesetting in Tamil difficult - hence the very arbitrary use of English letters to denote Tamil equivalents - will be helpful if someone can tell me the conventional substitutions for Tamil letters in the English alphabet.
Ninaithu thaNindhirundha vEdhanaiyai thooNdi vittEn.
Varutthathin sigaramthanai therindhu koNdEn
Varum sarithirathin Edugalil idam vagikka
MaRutthu vaitha uNmaigalai meeNdum uNardhen.
KaNdadhu thAn kanavo alladhu
KANbathu thAn verum bramaiyo
En kaNmunnAl niRkkum avvadivam poiyo
Aiyo nAn pithan thAno illai
Ivvulagam enai tholaittha iruLkAdo.
Tholaithooram senRimmaNNil kuruthi sindhi uyir vaLarthu
Tholaindhu maRaindhu piRamAndhar kaNNukkettA veezhvarindhu
Migudhi enum pulithol pOrtthi
Sirippendra sAmbal poosi
Vetki sadaiviritthu
UyirthAndavam Ada Ayatham AnEn.
KeL en maname
Ini kalangAdhe
SenRadhu, senRu maraindhadhu,
Ini meendum vaaraadhu.
Varuvadhu, varavillai,
KaN Paaradhadhu, poruL puriyaadhadhu.
Iruppadhu iraadhu, Meendum varaadhu.
Indre uNmai iruppadhe uNmai
MaRandhuvidu matravatrai.
--Shyam.
PS : Finding typesetting in Tamil difficult - hence the very arbitrary use of English letters to denote Tamil equivalents - will be helpful if someone can tell me the conventional substitutions for Tamil letters in the English alphabet.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Occam's Razor
Occam's razor is a thorn in my flesh. I sometimes get pained with the beautiful and simple statement of intent that the razor is: "Entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity." Most of science and philosophy swears by it and it has really worked wonders in clearing up thought through history. When confused, with many possible hypotheses to explain a set of facts, pare away those that rely on excessive external entities and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth! Basically, it is a whole philosophy, this principle of parsimony - a refusal to believe there can be wastefulness - which has become an aesthetic and ethical theory as well, saying what is wasteful is ugly or bad. Anyway, this has worked beautifully in both information-complete and information-limited systems where we might or might not know everything that is to be known(there are exceptions as there always are but very few on the margin). All that has to be absolutely known is that the system to be analyzed is complete - that there is nothing else that will come in like a deus ex machina and cause radical changes like, for example, a teeny-weeny new fact. This, of course, is a direct consequence of the chaotic nature of life/complex systems, which are highly sensitive to initial conditions and can be affected to a large extent by small disturbances(butterfly effects!). Take the case of Newton's theory of light - it was nice and explained a lot of things until diffraction was observed and suddenly it was no good. And the wave theory(which was actually the older one) went the same way after photoelectric emission and Planck came along. Anyway, the point is, the razor is good when we know what to cut - just throw away the entrails - but if the butcher should reveal a new piece of breast-meat hidden near the leg, what do we do? get a whole new chicken? Scientists and philosophers have embraced the principle so very happily in spite of this basic robustness problem with the principle. Acceptedly the problem arises not internally but as a result of external factors and new data, which can again be carved into a new theory using the same razor. But the fact is we need a more robust principle and, for example, not believe in the superfluity of god just because we have very few facts and invoke William of Ockham vehemently and learnedly!
Friday, August 11, 2006
A Sonnet from the Bosnian, Or: A Study in EBB
Not to love thee were sin and blasphemy,
Yet Love finds me reluctant minister;
For of aught I can in troth deliver,
I find nought that would be happy to thee.
Still writest thou of Love and Poetry,
When knowest thou my worth? but consider:
What faded leaves lie here, yellow, bitter;
Still lurest me thou to thy heav'nly tree?
But I begin to falter, my Heart's weak;
Nor God helps me who wrought me so frail
That, when commencest thy dear Love to speak,
I feel awed and pitiful Love makes me quail.
So, take me, if thou wilt, thy vassal meek,
And teach me sweet Love in loving detail.
--Shyam.
Yet Love finds me reluctant minister;
For of aught I can in troth deliver,
I find nought that would be happy to thee.
Still writest thou of Love and Poetry,
When knowest thou my worth? but consider:
What faded leaves lie here, yellow, bitter;
Still lurest me thou to thy heav'nly tree?
But I begin to falter, my Heart's weak;
Nor God helps me who wrought me so frail
That, when commencest thy dear Love to speak,
I feel awed and pitiful Love makes me quail.
So, take me, if thou wilt, thy vassal meek,
And teach me sweet Love in loving detail.
--Shyam.
Monday, August 07, 2006
A Study in Shakespeare
Shall I call thee fair but surely 'tis a lie
For treats't me thou fair maiden most unfair;
Nor could I call thee apple of mine eye
For absent art thou therefrom through foul and fair.
Or if names name thee false what of my eyes
That see nor beauty nor grace to applaud?
Or my ears that hear no music sweet thy lies?
Or my mind that cannot thy golden image defraud?
Or maybe thou mov'st not in so bleak my ken
But in stronger hearts I see not thy heavenly trace;
Or if thou shouldst feel thyself beyond all men
I see no Gods fight ov'r thy angel-face.
And if thou shouldst think that I love thee yet
Let Love be called blind and I thy forsaken pet.
--Shyam.
For treats't me thou fair maiden most unfair;
Nor could I call thee apple of mine eye
For absent art thou therefrom through foul and fair.
Or if names name thee false what of my eyes
That see nor beauty nor grace to applaud?
Or my ears that hear no music sweet thy lies?
Or my mind that cannot thy golden image defraud?
Or maybe thou mov'st not in so bleak my ken
But in stronger hearts I see not thy heavenly trace;
Or if thou shouldst feel thyself beyond all men
I see no Gods fight ov'r thy angel-face.
And if thou shouldst think that I love thee yet
Let Love be called blind and I thy forsaken pet.
--Shyam.
hmm.. life.. hmm..
I am getting used to life. Slowly. To cars passing outside my window in the narrow stretch of road that I can see between McDonald's and the Hacienda. To the cars that queue up below my window to order drive-throughs from McD's. To the Waste Management people coming at 4-5 in the morning and making a ruckus just beyond the fence that I can see below my window. To the morning light glaring at me at 11 in the morning and doing what the alarm I set in my cellphone couldn't do - wake me up. To checking mail every now and then and browsing through cricinfo, soccernet, atptennis, espn, cnn and an assortment of news sites. To reading the blogposts of a few friends and commenting on them sometimes. To orkutting ceaselessly, well, not really, but still spending enough time on it checking on the profiles and scrapbooks of lots of people I have no idea about. To having a bowl of cereals at 1-2 in the afternoon for breakfast and then lunch at 3-4 - rice and dhal and curd or maybe a sandwich or two. To the occassional games on my gamecube and the documentaries on History. To going to school late in the afternoon and holding conference calls with my advisor, discussing my research. To coming back early in the evening and calling up people to play football(soccer ye tainted by the greenback!). To getting back late in the night and cooling down with a glass of gatorade or cold water. To eating dinner often after 12 in the night and sometimes at 3-4 in the morning. To sleeping late in the night/early in the morning after a couple more hours of browsing. And then the next day again. I am getting used to life. Slowly.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
pOptimism
It is never too dark for the sun to shine through some small clearing in the dense jungle. Never too late for the cock to crow the new dawn after an Arctic night. Everything in its own time and everything even if not when expected, will happen as it has to, as it always has. And even if the siren does not sound when the train enters the tunnel, the little blue light at the end of it will show the way to where we all need to go.
The rest is peace.
The rest is peace.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
a Dream (in platitudes)
Yesterday I had a dream. Yes, I too had a dream. And it was beautiful and it was glorious. It was fucking stupendous for a simple dream. I was walking alone by a lake. The moon was out and all things shone bright. The ripples were calm and the trees just sighed; in the gentle breeze everything was right. Then over the water I saw someone. Floating on it and walking near. Dressed in white, the apparition moved like an angel dove in the summer sky. And a golden finger pointed to me and a silver voice called me by name. I was drawn in by intangible hands. And lifted over the baby waves. When I reached her, I saw her smile. The smile of an infant: a happy, heartwarming, a mysterious smile. I fell in love at first sight, dont blame me. I lost my heart at first sight, dont chide me. She smiled and smiled and I learnt to sigh. A hundred years we stood side by side. Then the devil appeared and whispered in my ear: Talk to her and make her yours. The lady with the dawn disappears when a hundred years of love's morbid fears have brought no word to her fawn-like ears. Ah! fool I was to take advice from wily serpent bred in vice. I opened my mouth and stammered out the uncouth syllables of an ungodly lout. A hundred times I heard myself say, a hundred times I heard myself bray(what it was I cannot say). And when I stopped for breath I saw her move. She glided from my side and soon there was darkness where she stood. The trees closed round and the lake boiled with horrible sounds like hell's turmoil. I tried to call her but no words came from the mouth that had sole cause to blame. And she smiled and smiled and soon was gone. While I started drowning in despond. A hundred years I drowned and drowned and in time I learnt that what goes, comes round. What a fucking idea I say! But of course tomorrow's another day.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
More Questions
What is the one thing that makes me trudge this weary path, full of thistles and deadweed, leading perhaps to infamy, or worse, to oblivion? Or is there any one such thing ever in anyone's life? What is it that makes me wake everyday to live again the previous day's hundred mean dreams, to hear the unforgotten music bitter, meaningless to the ears, the mindless cacophony that I wish were sweet music to someone else's ears atleast, that I wish someone else told me was sweet? Why all the sweat when it means nothing but to me; why all the tools when there is no work today that will mean anything tomorrow or the day after? What is the purpose in all that has been when there is nothing that has to be; that will be? What am I doing? Where am I headed? What is the meaning of life? What is the point of it all anyway?
Friday, July 28, 2006
Every single paisa counts
Once upon a time, in a small village by the river Kandara, there lived an old merchant with his young wife. The merchant was very pious and had done great sacrifices of cows and horses throughout his life. His wife was also a deeply religious woman who spent her time in serving her husband and praying at the temple. The couple were blessed with lots of riches and the comforts of life but they had a nagging worry: they did not have a child.
The old man looked at this misfortune with his worldly-wise eyes and decided that God had chosen not to bless him with a son. He knew all his good deeds and material wealth would go to waste without a good son but he accepted his fate patiently and lived without complaints. But his wife could not be as placid as he was. She was a woman after all and yearned to become a mother. So she prayed endlessly to the Gods to grant her the single boon of motherhood in return for everything that she possessed.
Years went by and still the prayers went unanswered. The woman had given up hope herself when, one day, the great Guruji appeared in the village. He was known far and wide as a very learned and holy man who had chosen to become an ascetic at a very young age. He had travelled across the blessed Bharatavarsha several times on foot and had cured millions of people of their diseases - bodily, mental and spiritual. The woman considered this arrival a sign of good things to come and persuaded her husband to take her to him.
The Guruji was sitting on a blanket under the banyan tree as was his wont every time he went to a village. A large group of villagers had gathered round him and were listening to his advice. When the merchant and his wife reached the tree, the Guruji smiled strangely at them and said to his audience, "Now I am going to tell you a story. It is the story of a young man who lived in a village not far from here. I want you all to listen to it carefully and when I finish, you should leave for your houses without speaking another word. Close your doors and windows and sleep, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, your world will be entirely different." And he nodded once affably at the puzzled merchant and began his story.
"Not very many years ago, beside this very same river, in a village not far from here, there lived an old merchant with his young wife. The merchant was very pious and had done great sacrifices of cows and horses throughout his life..." and so on and on and finally concluded "...and so Every single paisa counts"
"Now I want you all to leave," he said and laid himself down on the blanket he was sitting on and snored himself to sleep.
The old man looked at this misfortune with his worldly-wise eyes and decided that God had chosen not to bless him with a son. He knew all his good deeds and material wealth would go to waste without a good son but he accepted his fate patiently and lived without complaints. But his wife could not be as placid as he was. She was a woman after all and yearned to become a mother. So she prayed endlessly to the Gods to grant her the single boon of motherhood in return for everything that she possessed.
Years went by and still the prayers went unanswered. The woman had given up hope herself when, one day, the great Guruji appeared in the village. He was known far and wide as a very learned and holy man who had chosen to become an ascetic at a very young age. He had travelled across the blessed Bharatavarsha several times on foot and had cured millions of people of their diseases - bodily, mental and spiritual. The woman considered this arrival a sign of good things to come and persuaded her husband to take her to him.
The Guruji was sitting on a blanket under the banyan tree as was his wont every time he went to a village. A large group of villagers had gathered round him and were listening to his advice. When the merchant and his wife reached the tree, the Guruji smiled strangely at them and said to his audience, "Now I am going to tell you a story. It is the story of a young man who lived in a village not far from here. I want you all to listen to it carefully and when I finish, you should leave for your houses without speaking another word. Close your doors and windows and sleep, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, your world will be entirely different." And he nodded once affably at the puzzled merchant and began his story.
"Not very many years ago, beside this very same river, in a village not far from here, there lived an old merchant with his young wife. The merchant was very pious and had done great sacrifices of cows and horses throughout his life..." and so on and on and finally concluded "...and so Every single paisa counts"
"Now I want you all to leave," he said and laid himself down on the blanket he was sitting on and snored himself to sleep.
A Confession
I have a confession to make. Not too shocking as such things go but a pretty good one nevertheless. But first I want to talk about myself. I am seventeen, a boy, living in an obscure village in a small mudhut with my old mother and young sister. I work for my family, have been working the last five years, and was working for my father before that; but he died suddenly. It is not difficult work actually but it takes time to get used to it; and I get good money, enough even to go and drink spirits from the local store once a week. But I do not go often. It is bad my mother says and she nags me all the next day if I do go. There is very little else to do and the whole village, atleast the entire menfolk, gathers there and it is a nice feeling drowning out many bad feelings.
Anyway to get to my confession. I was thirteen when it happened. There is a huge well in the south-east corner of the village - I dont know why it is there. There used to be very little water and nobody used it except on special festival days when they believe they absolutely have to take a bath and then it is a very painful process getting the water out and cleaning up the entire village with what is at best mucky water; but it is there, has always been there. And when I was a kid older boys used to frighten me with tales of ghosts and demons and whatnot. I still believe in ghosts but I dont think it matters if I meet one - I know my life is already predestined.
But of course my confession. I was thirteen and father had just died. People said it was because he drunk too much, others thought a demon had stolen his will to live. I dont remember much about those days but there was continuous wailing for a couple of days in our hut and mother started wearing only white. I was frightened a bit but I had to be bold for my sister's sake, they said. Then, they burnt his body with a lot of wood and performed many ceremonies so he wouldnt wander as a ghost on earth. After a few days, mother said I couldnt work in father's shop any more and I had to start to work with my cousins.
I am drifting off from my confession. So when I was thirteen, about the time when father had just died, near the well in the south-east corner of the village which was supposedly haunted but mostly was dry, one dark night, I was walking alone. I did not go walking alone in the night those days but that one time I was feeling really bad and did not know what to do. Our village is too small and I did not want to cross its boundaries - that usually brings bad luck they say. So when I had walked long enough, without really looking where I was going, I ended up near the well. I was a little scared but I just decided to be a man, as they said I was, now that father was dead. And I kept walking, and just to show the well I wasnt afraid, I went near it.
Just around that time I felt the need to relieve myself. I had been walking around for quite sometime and fear was working on me too. I saw around for some tree or ditch nearby and then it struck me - there was a huge well below my feet and if it lacked one thing it absolutely required, that was water. And I decided to relieve myself in the well. Well it isnt a very big thing when you are a child you know but you learn things only slowly in this world. And so after doing what I had done I was very happy and tripped my way back home and slept soundly. One of the last few nights I would ever get a moment's rest.
Nothing seemed wrong then. The next few days were exactly similar to the previous few days, only a little hotter; but we were used to such spells. But when the rainy season came but no rains, people started getting worried. And then the year passed and the next year came round and still there was no water. The priest was asked for his rain charms and a hundred gods were prayed to but not a drop. And every single year till this date it has gone on. Only the well has water all the time these days but the people find it strange that it should have a salty taste. Nobody is sure if it is a curse or a miracle. But I know I cannot sleep too much any more. I dont go near the south-east corner unless I really have to.
And that is my confession.
Anyway to get to my confession. I was thirteen when it happened. There is a huge well in the south-east corner of the village - I dont know why it is there. There used to be very little water and nobody used it except on special festival days when they believe they absolutely have to take a bath and then it is a very painful process getting the water out and cleaning up the entire village with what is at best mucky water; but it is there, has always been there. And when I was a kid older boys used to frighten me with tales of ghosts and demons and whatnot. I still believe in ghosts but I dont think it matters if I meet one - I know my life is already predestined.
But of course my confession. I was thirteen and father had just died. People said it was because he drunk too much, others thought a demon had stolen his will to live. I dont remember much about those days but there was continuous wailing for a couple of days in our hut and mother started wearing only white. I was frightened a bit but I had to be bold for my sister's sake, they said. Then, they burnt his body with a lot of wood and performed many ceremonies so he wouldnt wander as a ghost on earth. After a few days, mother said I couldnt work in father's shop any more and I had to start to work with my cousins.
I am drifting off from my confession. So when I was thirteen, about the time when father had just died, near the well in the south-east corner of the village which was supposedly haunted but mostly was dry, one dark night, I was walking alone. I did not go walking alone in the night those days but that one time I was feeling really bad and did not know what to do. Our village is too small and I did not want to cross its boundaries - that usually brings bad luck they say. So when I had walked long enough, without really looking where I was going, I ended up near the well. I was a little scared but I just decided to be a man, as they said I was, now that father was dead. And I kept walking, and just to show the well I wasnt afraid, I went near it.
Just around that time I felt the need to relieve myself. I had been walking around for quite sometime and fear was working on me too. I saw around for some tree or ditch nearby and then it struck me - there was a huge well below my feet and if it lacked one thing it absolutely required, that was water. And I decided to relieve myself in the well. Well it isnt a very big thing when you are a child you know but you learn things only slowly in this world. And so after doing what I had done I was very happy and tripped my way back home and slept soundly. One of the last few nights I would ever get a moment's rest.
Nothing seemed wrong then. The next few days were exactly similar to the previous few days, only a little hotter; but we were used to such spells. But when the rainy season came but no rains, people started getting worried. And then the year passed and the next year came round and still there was no water. The priest was asked for his rain charms and a hundred gods were prayed to but not a drop. And every single year till this date it has gone on. Only the well has water all the time these days but the people find it strange that it should have a salty taste. Nobody is sure if it is a curse or a miracle. But I know I cannot sleep too much any more. I dont go near the south-east corner unless I really have to.
And that is my confession.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
a day in the life
A middling moon I see out of my window
Growing shadows on its fair surface
Long, short, long, short
Swish, swish goes her skirt
And I stop my lunar dreams.
What is it, I wonder, that keeps me up
Till the light is back where it all began
Yesterday in the early dawn?
It must not be long now before
I can go back to my morning dreams.
In the middle of the day a couple of sun-rays
Sneak past my barricaded window waking me up
To start another day from where I left off
Losing a few breaths, a few minutes of my life
Every hour to the unforgiving Hour.
And then it is evening and there is no time
To remember the day that is still today
What is gone, is gone
And there is some more to come before I see
The pock-marked moon and her elegant stride.
-Shyam
Growing shadows on its fair surface
Long, short, long, short
Swish, swish goes her skirt
And I stop my lunar dreams.
What is it, I wonder, that keeps me up
Till the light is back where it all began
Yesterday in the early dawn?
It must not be long now before
I can go back to my morning dreams.
In the middle of the day a couple of sun-rays
Sneak past my barricaded window waking me up
To start another day from where I left off
Losing a few breaths, a few minutes of my life
Every hour to the unforgiving Hour.
And then it is evening and there is no time
To remember the day that is still today
What is gone, is gone
And there is some more to come before I see
The pock-marked moon and her elegant stride.
-Shyam
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Twenty Two Steps
Twenty-two steps. Up and down. Each a foot high, and long enough for five people to stand on comfortably next to each other. Made with the solid granite quarried in the outer districts - built to last. Sharp, jagged corners here and there but in most places well-rounded. Hot in summer, cool in winter; slippery when it rains. Crows and pigeons - lots of them - wait on these all summer, flying away when men and women walk up or down. Leading up to the one place I now dread to go - the Department of XYZ. Twenty-two days in these last three months, and each day twice, I have climbed these steps; now I know them all intimately. Still my application rests, waiting to be seen, to be sent across the room, about the Office, over it to the higher-ups and, then, taking the same mysterious route, back to me, hopefully, with the one signature that it requires below all the hundreds of meaningless words in those dusty, sweat-wetted sheets, words that will attain their final meaning in making me the sole owner of a few puny acres in the outskirts, where I will dig out more of this granite, root it out, so I can feed my family a few crumbs a day till my son gets to sit in this same Office to receive my neighbour's son in his long, tiresome pilgrimage to the centre of meaninglessness. And I could have been saved all the trouble if my father had had the twenty-two rupees that he was asked to pay as expeditionary charge twenty-two years ago - now I have the twenty-two rupees but the bribes are not so small any more.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Chronicles of the Great War, Or: How We are all Had, Then Forgotten, and Then Had Again
"Show me, O Muse! the great things that be
In the inmost caverns of bottomless thine sea
Where hidest thou from me what I most yearn to see -
Thee!"
"The answer, mate, is Forty-two"
"What, pray?"
"Shut the f*** up and let me sleep"
---------
The times are hard when people have to look back to the past for Hope and all that can inspire is buried in the cavernous deeps of Myth and Legend; much more so when they have to do it on empty stomachs and on the orders of their masters. But the Great War was not myth nor legend nor were the great kings and soldiers who fought in it mere figments of a master-storyteller's imagination. They were more real indeed than what we are now in these pitiful times and they will be too when we give way to others who may be no better than us. What is myth and legend is what has survived of that Truth in its countless retellings, as a shroud well-used is worn away in time and bears merely the superficial imprints of a hundred masters it cloaked. But as every image of the Sol partakes atleast in part of its heat and light and perfection, each myth and legend though no more than story, contains the essence that is the Universal Truth of the Great War, its Causes and Consequences, shaping the World as we know it today. All this being merely apologous with respect to the present treatment of the great subject matter, in a word, to end with all prology and, To get on with the story,
In his thirteenth year after assuming Supreme Control of the Great Zones(Mandalas in some ancient tongues), the Great King was faced with a terrible question - that ancient problem in Philosophy: How to achieve Maximum Gain with Minimum Risk. It was trying enough to manufacture gain when needs and desires were greater than the means most people possessed; but to avoid risk - that was just about impossible. This of course is inconceivable today when we have the Great Machines and the Great Mechanics but we talk not of Today but of the Lost Times and, To understand this History, one needs to understand the world the Great King and his people(and also those who were not his people) lived in. For it is easy to forget that these were not the same people we are today nor was their world the same; their culture and their economics was different and so were their actions based on their particular beliefs and ideas. But, of course, little is known about it all and so we will continue inspite of all who dissent and split hairs. For it is easy to forget that these were people too and related to us not merely in their being Men but, even more intimately, for they made us and shaped us, both causally and creatively.
Anyways, the Great King had this problem and so he summoned his people from out everywhere and decided to tell them to bugger off to the different lands that were about and around and outside of his control where people lived who cared no two hoots for him and get them all to accept that what they were doing was all wrong and to give him what little they had and get from him nothing so his people could have more in the sense that they could have something atleast from these other folks and he could get them to thank him for having brought in something from the cold where no man had cared to venture before and if these people decided not to come in all quiet and hands tied or up or whichever way was good, he could bring them his fire and brimstone and all of that and let them have it real bad and then his people will be happy for they have a great leader.
Now these folks were pretty smart and knew which way was which and said to our King's people they would not come unless they got something in return like all those other people who had come in earlier to be subjects and get something more out of it than merely being called Citizens of the Great Free Zones or whatever and this made our King go all purple, then white, then blue, finally red and he said they were all a pack of thieves and liars and robbers and what-not, which upset some of these people, who were really liars and robbers and what-else-not and they went to War.
The Great War began. It was bad at first. Lots of people were killed. Then fewer people were left. So not many were killed. There were Heroes on all sides. And many villains. The Great Zones were hit hard. The outer lands were hit even harder. People started praying again. They started trusting in Science again. And built up Laboratories to the Gods. Where they shredded pigs and cheese. It helped them understand. They made better weapons to kill more effectively. They made Laws once more and followed them. And learnt new meanings of words and so Languages multiplied. New books were written so moths and bookworms multiplied. New Colleges were built and so many things multiplied. And there was plenty again. Not many people left though.
The King saw all this. He was happy for sometime, then sad. Things were not going either way. His problem was not getting solved. But he was a good King. He wanted his people to be happy. Atleast when he forgot that that was not what he wanted. He also had a bad memory and some bad teeth. And so soon he forgot his problem and saw that his people were happy. The other people were happy too sometimes. The Great War was making things multiply. There were fewer sad people everywhere. Nobody wanted to kill his neighbour or riot on Sundays. And he was becoming very famous. So he led his people on and fought a long long War. Nobody knows how long it lasted.
But as all things do, it came to an end - hopefully. And we all know the answer to the riddle - the fox burying his grandmother under the holly bush.
In the inmost caverns of bottomless thine sea
Where hidest thou from me what I most yearn to see -
Thee!"
"The answer, mate, is Forty-two"
"What, pray?"
"Shut the f*** up and let me sleep"
---------
The times are hard when people have to look back to the past for Hope and all that can inspire is buried in the cavernous deeps of Myth and Legend; much more so when they have to do it on empty stomachs and on the orders of their masters. But the Great War was not myth nor legend nor were the great kings and soldiers who fought in it mere figments of a master-storyteller's imagination. They were more real indeed than what we are now in these pitiful times and they will be too when we give way to others who may be no better than us. What is myth and legend is what has survived of that Truth in its countless retellings, as a shroud well-used is worn away in time and bears merely the superficial imprints of a hundred masters it cloaked. But as every image of the Sol partakes atleast in part of its heat and light and perfection, each myth and legend though no more than story, contains the essence that is the Universal Truth of the Great War, its Causes and Consequences, shaping the World as we know it today. All this being merely apologous with respect to the present treatment of the great subject matter, in a word, to end with all prology and, To get on with the story,
In his thirteenth year after assuming Supreme Control of the Great Zones(Mandalas in some ancient tongues), the Great King was faced with a terrible question - that ancient problem in Philosophy: How to achieve Maximum Gain with Minimum Risk. It was trying enough to manufacture gain when needs and desires were greater than the means most people possessed; but to avoid risk - that was just about impossible. This of course is inconceivable today when we have the Great Machines and the Great Mechanics but we talk not of Today but of the Lost Times and, To understand this History, one needs to understand the world the Great King and his people(and also those who were not his people) lived in. For it is easy to forget that these were not the same people we are today nor was their world the same; their culture and their economics was different and so were their actions based on their particular beliefs and ideas. But, of course, little is known about it all and so we will continue inspite of all who dissent and split hairs. For it is easy to forget that these were people too and related to us not merely in their being Men but, even more intimately, for they made us and shaped us, both causally and creatively.
Anyways, the Great King had this problem and so he summoned his people from out everywhere and decided to tell them to bugger off to the different lands that were about and around and outside of his control where people lived who cared no two hoots for him and get them all to accept that what they were doing was all wrong and to give him what little they had and get from him nothing so his people could have more in the sense that they could have something atleast from these other folks and he could get them to thank him for having brought in something from the cold where no man had cared to venture before and if these people decided not to come in all quiet and hands tied or up or whichever way was good, he could bring them his fire and brimstone and all of that and let them have it real bad and then his people will be happy for they have a great leader.
Now these folks were pretty smart and knew which way was which and said to our King's people they would not come unless they got something in return like all those other people who had come in earlier to be subjects and get something more out of it than merely being called Citizens of the Great Free Zones or whatever and this made our King go all purple, then white, then blue, finally red and he said they were all a pack of thieves and liars and robbers and what-not, which upset some of these people, who were really liars and robbers and what-else-not and they went to War.
The Great War began. It was bad at first. Lots of people were killed. Then fewer people were left. So not many were killed. There were Heroes on all sides. And many villains. The Great Zones were hit hard. The outer lands were hit even harder. People started praying again. They started trusting in Science again. And built up Laboratories to the Gods. Where they shredded pigs and cheese. It helped them understand. They made better weapons to kill more effectively. They made Laws once more and followed them. And learnt new meanings of words and so Languages multiplied. New books were written so moths and bookworms multiplied. New Colleges were built and so many things multiplied. And there was plenty again. Not many people left though.
The King saw all this. He was happy for sometime, then sad. Things were not going either way. His problem was not getting solved. But he was a good King. He wanted his people to be happy. Atleast when he forgot that that was not what he wanted. He also had a bad memory and some bad teeth. And so soon he forgot his problem and saw that his people were happy. The other people were happy too sometimes. The Great War was making things multiply. There were fewer sad people everywhere. Nobody wanted to kill his neighbour or riot on Sundays. And he was becoming very famous. So he led his people on and fought a long long War. Nobody knows how long it lasted.
But as all things do, it came to an end - hopefully. And we all know the answer to the riddle - the fox burying his grandmother under the holly bush.
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