Of Religion and Science

I have been reading a very interesting book these days. "The Trouble With Physics" by Lee Smolin. Yesterday, I hit a very interesting part of the book. One that deals with the formation of cults within the scientific community and the curbing of free thought. But first, I think a little context is at hand. Lee Smolin tries to explain the recent developments in Physics (post Einstein mostly) and closely dissects the string theory and presents it to the layman. To cut the long story short, he tries to show how the string theory community has turned into a dogmatic herd which prosecutes any outsider for non compliance. How they hold most of the academic positions and research grants at their disposal and are, in effect, snuffing out other branches of science. He also talks of the administrative problems that dog the academia and make the entire environment stale and repelling for radical thinkers. But that is not the aspect that I am interested in. I will pick up the former for there is a comparison I wish to make. Reading the book gave me a giddy feeling. I have not read good philosophical physics in quite a while. The last was probably Hawking's 'Brief History of Time' back in college, though I did read a couple of updates on the 'Theories of Everything' since. While Lee Smolin was emphatically describing how the string theory had hijacked the science community for the past 25 years and things were not being done in the healthy "scientific" spirit, my mind was racing back to what I had learnt as a kid back in school. I was thinking about how my view of science had changed over the years and how in a recent discussion with a colleague I had proposed my latest take on science and religion. But let us get on with the task at hand. There is a comparison I have to make.

A couple of days back we were back at an old discussion at my work place regarding the constitution and origin of the Hindu religion. It has happened before and there are usually two people with views sufficiently contradictory to battle it out : M and me. But this time was different. M cut me short abruptly and told be he wasn't interested in my point of view unless there was a Veda to back it up. He said that the Vedas were the only thing he trusted when it came to the truth about Vedas themselves. We had previously had a discussion around what is believable as a source of truth. It had boiled down to M thinking that something in itself is it's authoritative source and me thinking that one cannot trust someone stating things about itself. Now to come to the comparison that I was trying to make. Lee Smolin described a behaviour of the string theory community that I have seen more than once in religious fanatics (M included). They are not open to discussion. They are unwilling to hypothesise a situation where they might be wrong. Their worlds are impervious to any change lest it be in the same direction.. Of course, that might be the very definition of fanaticism, but I am not yet finished.

As to why certain people show such a staunch adherence to their ideologies, there are many possible arguments : tendency to form groups or cults, deriving a sense of identity, or simply being at ease in a certain kind of a world. There are many reasons why people might choose to stick to an idea and defend it strongly and rather rudely when faced with opposition. Even Smolin agreed that the "string theorists" were simply doing what they naturally should, that is, defend a theory they believed in. Some to the extreme of proposing human inability to comprehend string theory and Intelligent Design as the ultimate theory that helps string theory's case. One could wonder why they put in so much effort just to come to a conclusion that has been around since we started pondering over the problem.

A more interesting observation is that this belief system varies widely from person to person. As M had once pointed out, everyone believes in something, if only his own head. M believes rather firmly in the Vedas. That is his source of truth. Nietzsche said that religion was a gross answer that would insult anyone who wishes to think for himself. Scientists are probably in that category. A breed of people looking for answers for things that they do not understand. The ones who would rather not think for themselves have the convenient excuse of a God. But wait, Intelligent Design has been endorsed by (erstwhile) scientists. Again, what makes these breeds so different?

Here is what I think about it. Science is not so much different from any other philosophy. A religion is a life philosophy that keeps to things that matter in daily life. There is a gross answer to the abstract questions like 'why does the earth revolve around the sun?' and 'what are black holes?'. God put them there for a reason he understands best. Religions tend to be more direct and explanatory about the day to day conduct of a man : conduct in society, importance of diet, etc. It is, I am very surprised to observe, a much pragmatic approach to life. Of course, some would say that religions are full of unnecessary customs and traditions. But if one looks into it, religions have evolved to stay current (I know M would fiercely disagree). At any given point of time the customs can be explained to have a reason. Those that do not have one, die a vestigial death in time. Science, on the other hand, offers more freedom to those who wish to think. Be it about the origin of universe or the reason why there are so many species on Earth. It is a branch of philosophy that lets you explore and choose from a vast variety of theories, whichever appeals to you the most. If none do, it lets you build up one of your own. If it is credible enough, you might find it being endorsed and furthered by fellow scientists. This would make science a favourite of romantics. People who like to dream and wonder about the hows and why of things that are more or less inconsequential. And of course you will find a branch of science dealing with every possible direction one can imagine in. Nature, the world around, the universe beyond, human brain, emotions, animal behaviour and what not! But eventually even scientists settle down to believe in an answer about the unknown.

There is a gross answer on one side and unlimited possibilities on the other. All of us lie somewhere in between. As M puts it, everyone believes in something. All that differs is one's taste and appetite.

A Dark Enchantment

Princess once said that there was magic in the mountains. I had agreed then. I still agree, but there is a 'but' now. Over the five year long relationship I have had with the mountains, I have gotten to know it better. Three of those five years, I have gone to the mountains in the months of monsoons. True, the mountains have their magic. But the magic dons a darker hue in these months. I prefer trekking with a certain individual for many reasons. So I wait for him to be free of other engagements and plan my treks accordingly. His work load drastically reduces in the months of monsoons and so we find ourselves in the lap of the mountains when the rains batter down hard on the earth.

And it is never easy. The very first time I had gone trekking I had to cross a landslide. The memory is still etched in my brain. It was then that I had lost my fear of heights. Standing awkwardly on near perpendicular ground; with loose mud and rocks to support my weight; unsteady and excited. It was the most adventurous thing I had done till then, maybe it still is. But that was not the last of it. Every year that I go to the mountains, there is some patch or other of freshly slid land that makes for an adventurous minute. Last year we crossed a really fresh one, not too steep but with boulders still falling down. One guy on the lookout shouted out when it was safe to cross. You could feel a rock tumble down behind you as you raced across thankful that you did not hesitate that extra second or your foot did not slip at the wrong moment. This year it was there again, right towards the end of our foot journey. Another fresh one but not sludgy. Very steep, with hardly any foothold. I had my troubles. The ground shifted and groaned under me more than once. Had I slipped, there was nothing to break my fall. Not for a hundred feet at least. The novelty of such dangers wears down after a bit. And you wonder. What would it be like to do this on a daily basis?

The pahadis have adapted to it. They race across barely putting their weight on a spot long enough. But it is a risk anyway. One that they take every single day for more than a month every year. And it is not just landslides. Wash outs, complete disruption of communication, broken bridges. Monsoons wreck all kinds of havoc up there. And the pahadis rough it out. There are other tales of horror from my last visit. We had stopped the jeep for a hour for a police officer who had gone across the valley to assess the damage done to a few households the previous night when the rains washed away the houses. I am not sure if there was a loss of life. Then, in the same jeep when we resumed journey, a young man sat next to me. Told me how he and his group had braved the river on his way here. The river had washed out all five bridges that connected his village to this side of the mountain. He told me how a rock had crushed the foot of a girl who was with them. She was supposed to go down to Mori to attend school. They had to go back and leave her at her home. All this said in a manner of casual banter. It was an everyday thing for them. Stories fit for entertaining a townsman. Then there were the talks with S didi later the same evening. The problems with the mountains are not limited to the monsoons. The state of education and health in the mountains are pathetic. Schools are barely staffed. The teachers do not show up. Communication as well; no mobile network even in the more inhabited villages. Imagine a life where you would have to travel 30 kilometers just to get mobile network, if you are fortunate, that is, else it would take close to 60. In the mountains, going to and fro that distance is an entire day's activity. It is always with marvel that I hear B speak of the problems that plague the mountains and its denizens. His passion to help his fellow pahadis borders on rudeness. But he has seen both sides of the coin and has every right to be opinionated.

Still, B dreams of settling down in the mountains on some future date. The life there is quiet and relaxed. He always smiles when he speaks of this future that he has dreamt. I can imagine why. Even I have harboured such dreams. Despite all the dangers that the mountains hold, I do keep going back to them and the duration keeps growing longer with each passing year. There is much I should be thankful of to the civilization in the plains. Concrete buildings to keep me safe against lashing winds and rains. I should be thankful I never had to brave a river and risk getting my foot crushed to attend school. I should be thankful that I can talk to my dearer ones whenever I can. I should be thankful that my commutation concerns involve rash drivers and not sliding faces of a mountain. I should be thankful that I have the luxury of having petty troubles. But I still yearn for the mountains when I am back in my sheltered life. Princess once said that there was magic in the mountains. I had agreed then. I still agree.

#Fiction : Eternity - Fate

How it came to be thus, I cannot say. Maybe it was so since the beginning of time, whenever that was. Or maybe we discovered each other somewhere down the line. However, that matters not. Not anymore. It is fate now. Destiny.

The sun had risen in an azure sky and shone over dew coated grassy meadows. A cold breeze blew from the north reminiscent of the chilly night that has passed. But my insomnia robbed the setting of their pleasures. I had barely slept a blink during the night. Drunk with exhaustion, I looked at the path that lay ahead and hoped that I would meet him soon. I had no idea where or how far he was but I knew he would appear on my path. Right there as if he were the one hunting me. I hoped it would be soon. I would love to come back to this place and spend a few days of peace here. 

The visions had plagued me for months now. Not letting me sleep. Not letting me rest. Driving me to the brink of madness. It was always so. The visions recurred announcing his birth. And they told me which direction to go. Every night I had visions of the path ahead until the day I met him. That would be the end of my torment. And his. I had no choice but to find him. No matter how far and how difficult the way. I had crossed oceans and deserts to hunt him down. I had walked for days, sailed for hours, climbed mountains, cut through jungles. It was terrible and tiresome. But I had no choice. Every time he spawned, I broke down and wished myself dead. But that was not my destiny.

I kindled a small fire and put some water to boil. As the sun wiggled out of the horizon, I looked back on how it had been over the years. It was a necessity that drove me to him. He was my deliverance from the unrelenting nightmares. But I felt that he needed it as much as I did. He was always pathetic in my presence. Unable to put two words together without a wail. Our pain was mutual. Our deliverance too. I had tried everything. I had tried resisting the urge to move forward. But the visions grew unrelenting. They turned horrifying. I had to move towards him to preserve my sanity. I had tried evading him when he came in sight. I would always be the first to spot him. But evasion was impossible. The visions led me back to him. I had tried killing myself as well. But I just woke up in my bed again. It was fate. It had been predestined. There was but one solution. It was writ.

I sipped on the warm water and put out the fire. The path sloped upward to a snow clad ridge. I hoped that I would find him on the other side. I prayed for my sake. I was physically incapable of going on much longer. But I knew I would. Till I found him. Till I killed him in hope that it was the last time. That this time we would be delivered for ever.

The Endless Buffet

insatiable
adjective
1. (of an appetite or desire) impossible to satisfy.

That is what comes up when you look for the word insatiable. It is a voracious hunger that haunts the being. Asking to be fed again and again. Granting short respites and clawing you again for more. Insatiability, I think, is a state of being. It is an intrinsic part of one's self that surfaces from time to time despite the conditioning that you subject yourself to.

Tonight I was counting the projects I had on my plate.

• A couple of private programming projects
• Learning clojure
• Last two travels have not been documented
• A few topics pending to write on
• Then there is that big stack of unread books
• I need to get back in shape
• Need to ride more

And those are just the ones that I desperately need to do. These do not include the ones that do not strike me with a sense of urgency. I have not sketched in close to three years. I still have my gear around in hope that I would want to get back to it. The stories that I started and plotted need to be substantiated. But I am not even remotely inclined towards it right now. And I have learnt absolutely nothing new of late. The guitar is rarely picked up, the harmonicas are forgotten.

One might choose to say that it is a problem with my focus. If only I would focus, I would be done with many a things. But clearly, there is nothing to be done away with. Very few of the things on the list can be struck off. Most of then persist despite having appeased them. Ride today and a week later you see it back on the list. Writing is another such phantom. And you can never be done with reading. It is an endless abyss that you have fallen into. Not much you can do about it now. Gaming is an addiction. No, the problem is not with focus.

The problem lies with the number of hours one has to oneself. If I work to earn my bread (or more than that) I will have obligations towards my employer. There are stipulated hours of work one needs to put in so as to remain on schedule. So the number of hours left for doing things on the list is countable. And those hours are never enough. I usually find myself in a maddening frenzy when I do get these hours to myself; doing one thing after the other. At times unable to break myself off one project in order to devote time to the next, for these are all things that I love; things that I do of my own volition.One simply has to find the time for them all. Prioritize them according to how long you have ignored them. Beg their forgiveness, kiss their hand and please them. Then put them back on to the plate and choose another offering : an endless buffet for an insatiable glutton.

#Fiction : Eternity - Horror

I sensed him closing in again. I looked to the west in dejection. That is where he would appear. A black dot on the horison. His arrival no longer scared me. Somewhere in the past I remember there being a time when even his thought was terrifying. A vague recollection. But now my nerves held their stead till he appeared in sight. However, strangely, I do not remember the first time it all happened. I looked at the sky above me. The sun was high and the desert offered no respite from the heat. I never liked the deserts. I hated them the most perhaps. Almost as much as the the rain forests. Or maybe more. It was the monotone that bothered me most; not the heat or the dryness. The redundant days, one running into the other without a change in the scenery. They spelled futility and helplessness. Everything one did seemed no more than an absurd sciamachy.

I stretched out my legs and dug them under the burning sand feeling the heat slowly seep through my skin and burn the insides. Then I quickly pulled them back out and wiggled my toes till the sand stuck between them tumbled off. I wondered how far he was. After all this time I had come to the doubtful estimation that he must have gotten on my radar when he came some hundred or so leagues close. Give or take a few depending upon the weather and terrain. This sense always came with a morbid countdown. Again, depending on the terrain and weather, it was some time before he reached me. Might be a few days; at times it was a few weeks; at times months. I guess he must have had his whims as well. I had no such luxury. It had been a week since I had first sensed him. His presence grew stronger by the minute. He was close by; we would meet today in all probability. If he chose to keep coming that is. Else we would meet whenever he chose to. I never went to him. Even the idea was appalling. A faint smile crossed my face as I realised the irony of things. I did not want to go to him but I desperately wanted him to come to me! I broke out into a soft chuckle. My parched lips ripped themselves with the exercise and I tasted the warm blood ooze out of the vents. I sucked it in. Warm sweet blood. Was this what drove him?

I laid back and closed my eyes. The sun shined through my eyelids. It was slowly making its way down but its rays were still unrelenting. I wondered when the horror had mellowed into an expectancy. I was awaiting his arrival now. It had become a ritual by now and I could play it in my head to utter perfection. I imagined his shadow preceding him. The shadow would shade my face and I would open my eyes to see him as a halo; a deliverer. He would look at me with his tired eyes. I imagined him letting out a long sigh like one does at the end of a long journey, when he has reached his destination and can grab precious moments of rest. He would come kneel next to me, his sweat dripping from his face, a few drops splashing my face. I would smile this time and face him with courage... But I always ran out of courage. I knew this time would be no exception. I opened my eyes and sat up and watched the sun bow in servitude to earth and a mild breeze blow across the sandy dunes stirring up some dirt into action. I closed my eyes and pushed all thoughts of him out of my head. I willed myself to sleep.

I woke to metallic sounds. I opened my eyes and horror filled me up. He was here. I did not turn to look at him but the knowledge was certain. His presence overwhelmed me. I was incapable of feeling anything else in his presence. It was fear and terror. Enough to choke one to death. I tried gulping it down. To my left I could hear him strike a match and the smell of burning tobacco soon reached my nostrils. I looked ahead. The sun was an orange sphere now, no longer forbidding to look at. It's yellow heat had given way to an orangey warmth. I just stared blankly at it, my head occupied with the presence of the one beside me.

We sat there for a long time. At least it seemed like a long time to me. The sun was swallowed by the horison. The night grew cooler. The stars came out and lit the desert sands a little. There was no moon tonight. Perhaps it took pity on my plight and spared me the extraneous terror of sight. But I had terror enough in my heart not withstanding the attendance of the moon. And this terror peaked in expectation every time he emptied his pipe. And this time I did not hear him refill it. This was it. My head was abuzz with noise, my eyes misty with what felt like tears.
"Shall we?"
I did not reply. I was not even sure whether I had imagined it or if he had spoken those words. But he had. I heard him sigh again, like a man with a task ahead of him that he needs to complete unwillingly. I heard him close in towards me. Through teary eyes I saw him shift and take a seat in front of me. I was not sobbing. My eyes were just teary. Involuntarily. I hope I did not make a spectacle of myself before him. I would not like him to think that I was just as big a mess as when we did this the first time. Whenever that was. I remember myself being a sloppy mess once. Crying all over him and begging his mercy. I would have laughed at the memory had the present situation been otherwise. He was leaning in now and I heard the fateful whisper .
"May this be the last time for us."
Since as long as I can remember, he almost always said that to me as he sunk the steel into my heart. There were a few times when he was too tired or too irritated to be polite. But mostly, he hoped that this would be the last time he had to kill me. Even I did. But it would be naive to suppose that this would end; whatever this was. I knew that as the blood drained out of me, I would be taking a form somewhere else. The memory was transient and hollow, but the experience was indescribably real. I would be formed again, in the full. My existence would persist. Maybe a forest this time, or a mountain. I pray that there be a lake or river nearby. The desert had really left me dry. And he would come again in search of me. He would travel for years at end to come to me. He would find me and then we would sit together a bit. At times he talked. Mostly he kept silent. I liked the former. I never managed to say much. Just a few words here and there. Then as my horror would become unbearable, he would help me out of it. He would push his knife into my heart and hope that we never meet again. But we would. Thus are we destined.

The Solitary Diner

I went out to dine today. Since I am in a new city and neither have a place nor know anyone here, I went to a restaurant nearby that I had noticed yesterday. Seemed a neat and small joint. The rate list said otherwise. The food was pretty expensive and the quality of place did not justify it. While waiting for my dinner to be presented to me, and since I was without a book (the rare occasion when I am between books and taking a few days' break), I started looking around. A family with two kids behind me, two female friends celebrating one's birthday on my right, another couple seemingly immersed in discussion a little father to the left, etc. I noticed that I was the only one sitting alone. This is a common enough practice for me. I usually dine out alone when I feel like it. If none of the ones at hand are interested enough, I just take off with a book in my 'jhola' and sit in some joint and spend time. But over time I have noticed that dining alone is not a common practice in general. On the odd occasions that I have seen someone digging into his food alone, it has usually been men towards their middle ages seemingly on errands (they carry files and folders or something of the sort). I have even shared tables with them at times, two solitary diners unmindful of either's presence. Since I had nothing better to do today, I started wondering why it was that people did not done alone? 

It is not that I am exceptionally unsocial to not have dinner companions. But I occasionally do find myself in a position where no one is interested, is otherwise engaged or has already had dinner. In such cases I step out alone. Do others not face such situations? I think they do. Assuming they do, why don't they go out? Apparently the inhibition to go out to a fancy place and dine alone is greater than the longing to have that special food. Perhaps the longing was not great enough in the first place. Or maybe people find their own company too burdensome to bear alone. Loneliness is boring for many. Has never been for me. Is that why I have failed at almost all human relationships? Except the ones in which people have stuck to me and made me succeed? But then that's their success. Still my failure. I digress however. My food was presented.

Chicken cutlet served on gravy with some fries. Hmmm. And some bread to go along. Fries and bread both? Weird. 

My mouth was busy with the food but my brain was still free to rave. So. Why do I not mind myself enough to ditch plans where I am left alone? I travel alone, quite a few people do that but attach themselves to temporary companions. I dine alone, not many do that. I go to theaters and watch movies alone, rarely people do that. I ride alone, still fewer do that, if any. I let out a low laugh as I realised what had made me this solitary diner sitting and chewing on the cold cutlet and excellent gravy. It was a social experiment. Triggered by a spat with friends back in college and converted into one of the many experiments that I had chosen myself as the subject of.

The ice tea was good as well. If only the cutlet had been freshly prepared and the prices a little less, I would have come here oftener. Well...

So this particular one was about me surviving alone. Absolutely alone. I used to attend classes occasionally, else lock myself up in my room. I fancied I could was in a prison. No, prisons were not a lonely place. I wonder why I had fancied that back then. Anyway. Self imposed confinement. Alone in whatever I did. I picked up habits that let me survive without craving social contact. Reading, writing, surfing, walking, thinking. What was funnier was that this was not the only experiment that I had forgot to terminate. My unkempt look, lack of enthusiasm or ambition, no tube, cynicism - my entire self was more or less from these weird experiments. Damn me! I am a concoction! Ah, well, the dinner was decent.

No Amex. Hah. Fake appearances. [:P] That is how I have stated judging the sophistication of places now. But then CCD accepts Amex. What a world!

As I walked back I wondered why I had not ended the experiments and whether I should end the experiments now. But there was no need to. Why make the effort? Who cares? Not me for sure. Wait, is that the experiment speaking in the first place? Argh! Too complicated. Let me just go back to the big posh room with a big bed that I have for a couple of days and stare in my laptop. Weird that I don't feel weird. I should probably get my head checked.

The Powers of Defeatism

There are multiple definitions of defeatism out there. Many presume that it is a negative concept and hence they define it as such. Many link it to pessimism or weakness. But there is a definition which might make you want to look at it more objectively :

defeatism
- n
a ready acceptance or expectation of defeat

Let us shun the prejudices against defeat and failure for a while and look at the concept of defeatism again. Defeatism can possibly be a ready acceptance of a thwarting circumstance. Simple as that. It is nothing more than pragmatism in the face of failure. Going forward with that definition, let us look at what defeatism has to offer.

In the red corner is the ever acclaimed and glorious Struggle. The one that leads men to better their lot. The inspiration for changes. The giver of splendor. In the blue corner is the despised Defeatism. The peddler of pessimism. The asylum of the weak willed. It is hardly worth the fight to find out who would win the competition. Defeatism with it's weak will would be seen walking away in trepidation while Struggle would stand tall in all it's magnificence. Hardly a match.

But wait. All that is plain glory talk. The conventional stuff that is fed to the kids so that they can grow up to be respectable men who know what's right and what's wrong. Struggle in the face of adversity and do not give up without a fight. Right? But then we were also taught that an unbending tree topples in the storm. So is it better to put up a fight and struggle when faced with a compelling situation or simply bend, give way and move on to something else? Depends on the situation mostly. Depends on what can be compromised upon and what cannot.

It is when the situation is something you can compromise upon (and there are very few that cannot be, despite the egotistical outlook of people) that defeatism truly shines above all other traits. It lets you accept defeat as a valid result of your enterprise. You tried, you put up a fight, you lost. Accepted. You probably want to give up at this point of time and move on to something more enticing, something better if even as a prospect. Sure, go ahead. Defeatism does not pile up guilt on you like the concept of honour does. It lets you abandon the sinking ship that you have captained and seek a shore to build a new ship and sail afresh. Defeatism lets you be happy in whatever you endeavour to pursue for you pursue it not to win it over, you pursue it because you want to pursue it and you can stop whenever you have had enough. It let's you do and not care about the result. Does not the Geeta say the same?

The Auxiliary Deity

I find myself at times around burning embers of wood listening to people I barely know talk about things that are only too familiar. I find myself, at such times, being opinionated quite obtusely in favour of what I see as the valid explanation of the intrigue under discussion. And so I debate. Relishing the act as much as the fact that the discussion would be pointless. I found myself in a similar situation a few days ago. Sitting in a large group. Kindling a campfire with a stick. Listening intently to a question asked by a fellow camper. In time the question transmuted into one of those abstract topics of discussion that get everyone's attention. The common woe in every heart put skillfully into words. Something of the essence :
What's stopping you from quitting your mundane professions and following your passions?
Well, everyone can give a piece of his mind on that one for sure. For some it is a wait. For some an impossibility. For others, it is unnecessary. Some do not know where their passions lie. Some have a plan. Others give not a damn.

But it was something else in this conversation that got my attention more than the abstract question.
What is success?
Surely something subjective, for everyone had a different definition in mind for it. Money, fame, respect, happiness, completion, satisfaction, etcetros. Many opinions poured from all sides of the fire (which I had been constantly tending to, by the way, but that is not really relevant). Some made sense to me, others did not and others yet were way too abstract to be answers to anything. It amazed me that something so frequently referred to in conversations between friends and didactic advises of parents, teachers or self appointed preachers could have such diverse comprehensions! I must have used the word "success" in many of my conversations with others, never bothering how it was understood by the other. And there must be many more of these words. Happiness? Love? Tension? Inability? Excitement? Pride? Beauty? Divinity? Something? Nothing? Everything?

Leads one to question as to how much indeed is he able to communicate through words? How many things said are misunderstood? How much read between the lines? How much assumed? Could our lives be simpler without languages? Would abstracts still exist if there were no words to explain them? Perhaps there are none that do. But the darned abstracts do exist. They continue to ruin our conversations. Laugh impishly as we try to bridge the gap between the said and the understood. Under such dire circumstances, everything seems so simply and conveniently confusing! Reminds me of a line that I read recently in Alan Moore's 'From Hell' :
Invoke not reason. In the end it is too small a deity.

I, The Toe Nail

I am a toe nail. The first toe nail on my lord's foot. A grand foot that spans ten whole inches. I am at the tip of that foot, resting on the fattest toe of my lord. A toe nail! you think. You do not say but I am sure you treat me with surprise. Surprise at finding a toe nail with thoughts. But it is no crime being a toe nail, I say. No. I have a good life. A happy life.

But what kind of a life could a toe nail have? you think. You do not say but I am sure you are apprehensive at my happiness. For the likes of you can not see a toe nail happy. No sir, they cannot. But I have a happy life. It is true that I lack most of the senses that make a fine man like you happy. I lack the sense of sight that adds colour to your worlds. That shows you all that is divine in this world. Washed by the light of God himself. Vibrant with life itself. Azure skies, the pale white moon, green meadows, pretty damsels. I can see none of these and more that you gentlemen feast your eyes upon. I also lack the sense of smell that allows you good fellows to revel in the odours of all that is beautiful. For beautiful things always smell good, so I think. The smell of blossoms, the smell of perfume on a beautiful woman. The smell of damp soil after the first rain, the smell of delicious food. I can smell none of those. I can also not taste. None of the epicurean delights that all of you indulge in is meant for me. But I can feel. Yes, yes! Do not be surprised so. How can a toe nail feel? you think. You do not say but I am sure you do not believe me when I tell you I can feel. I can feel the world from my master's feet. I feel the shoes that he wears. I feel the grass when he walks barefoot on it. I feel the water splashing when he frolics in puddles and streams. I feel his pain when he bumps me into something hard. I feel his pleasure when he runs me against his mistress's soft legs. I feel it all. Do not laugh at me! I do not lie!

It is just an ugly lump of dead cells, you think. You do not say but I am sure you take me to be a good for nothing appendage to the human body. It is not so I protest! I add beauty to the foot. I am decorated and maintained. Women meticulously paint my kin on their feet to seduce their lovers. Imagine your foot without me. It would be horribly ugly! Just skin, skin and more skin. Not to mention how much I protect your pretty feet from damage. No sirs, I am not simply a lump of dead cells. My life is tough and harsh. Monotonic and slow. But it is still a life. I beg you to understand me! To see me for who I am, who I would like you to see me as. For what does a toe nail have if not the love of its lord and respect for itself!

Dream Interrupted

Slumber slumber...
It always leaves you dumber.

Dream all you wish...
And listen to the sweet sounds of the koel.

Eventually thou shalt awaken.
To the reality, the caw of the raven!


Count the hours and minutes wasted,
the flavours of life you leave untasted.


There shall be no saviour, no messiah but you.
Open you eyes lad, have faith in your self!

Moved

Moved to http://www.grasskode.com :-)

#Fiction : Chai Garam, Chai, Chai...

Before I opened my eyes, I could smell the fragrance of chai in the air. My auditory sensors slowly started functioning. I could hear a slight hub-ub over the usual sounds of the train. How early was it? Definitely past six. The chai-walas do not bother with sales until half past six usually. At times I envy them. Of course this jealousy is a product of my frame of mind in their style of life. But since it could be no other way, I have every right to envy them! Imagine what it would feel like to live their life. Oh how carefree I would be! No manager to report to, no deadlines to adhere to. If I managed extra sales on a particular day, I could simple spend the next in siesta without bothering to file a leave. I have curious fascination for simple life that bypasses the usual "grass is greener on the other side" psyche. I do not envy the higher society as much I do the lower echelons... Wait, how did I come to it? Ah... The time.

I could not hear much else. The train was surely still. A station most probably. But it was impossible to tell these days. The winters always bring a sense of lethargy in northern India. The foggy plains of the Ganges seem to induce a helplessness that the denizens welcome with gratitude. The day starts late and ends early. Blissfully short days spent wrapped in shawls and warming oneself at intervals in front of flaming bits of wood. Turning around to warm your freezing hind when you feel your front has had enough. Sipping steaming hot tea ...

Tea. The chai-walas are here. Must be half past six at least. What else could I hear? It is awfully peaceful in the upper berth of trains. Feels like a nook of your own if you are a regular of Indian Railways. But by nine, the passengers make sure that everyone is up, or at least irked enough to give up on any erstwhile held ambitions of peaceful sleep, no matter what nook of the train they found asylum in. So it was between six and nine. Hmmm... I opened an eye and looked at my watch. My grossly unspecific prediction held true. It was a quarter past seven. I turned over and wrapped my blanket tighter. I could sleep some more. Dream a bit of the fanciful impossibilities I usually did. Enjoy the coziness of the blanket I had warmed overnight with such dedication. I could sleep some more still.

But the power of an individual is grossly underestimated in this world. It has been individuals who have shaped the world. Individuals who have given humanity the most pleasant of memories. Individuals who have given it the most awful of scars. An individual holds such an unforeseen control over your life, your ambitions, your plans for the next thirty minutes. Specially if the individual happens to be selling masala lemon tea. In such a situation you disregard the fact that there will be more of the kind who will come by. More who will offer the same elixir as he. You just peep down, clear your throat, and in a voice heavy with the past night's inactivity, call out "Bhaiya, ek cup dena". The governor  of your will stops disinterestedly, pulls out a plastic cup from the stack that is hanging from his waist, and squeezes a quarter of a lemon into it. He then tilts a jar of masala. And then, he pours a dark red (almost black from afar) liquid into it. The lemon chai is ready, steaming hot. You pay the man from your pockets and bless him with your heart. And that is exactly what I did a couple of minutes after I had turned over in the blanket.

I sat up and held by tea with both hands as I shrunk into myself. It was cold outside the blanket and the cup felt delightfully warm in my hands. I looked at the steaming liquid for a while, blowing into it and enjoying the steam that hit my face in return. And then I took a sip. Suddenly it became very obvious that my blessings would never compare with the favour the chai-wala had done me. Seven in the cold morning of the north Indian winter, it is nothing short of altruism that would drive a man to providing his fellow men with a rejuvenating drink. Either that or poverty.

I looked around. Most people were still asleep. Now I could even distinguish a faint sound of snores which somehow had been lost in the background noise till now. The entire compartment was lit by a misty white glow pouring through the glass paned windows. I smiled within. But then, to understand my smug happiness one needs to be an ardent tea lover.

From Sometime In The Recent Past

My interest in writing is somewhat weird. On occasions I suddenly find within myself an insane urge to write. And it is too momentary to pester me long enough to find a pen and paper to jot things down. Have felt such a strong urge after a long time. Long enough to have had me forget to bring along a notebook to record my fleeting thoughts. And my memory is truly despicable. I sometime think that my thoughts, if recorded, would have created an asylum for me. Words, lines, phrases : they just form in my head at times. Regrettably, my mercurial brain does not retain them.

I happen to be in Jamshedpur right now. In the middle of a somewhat odyssean "leave". Jamshedpur is still the same as it has always been. Time move excruciatingly slow here. One of the charms that has always mesmerised me as an infrequent visitor to this town. The denizens would, I suspect, vehemently differ in opinion.

The particular thought that launched me into a frenzied search for a parchment was the agarbatti fuming in front of me. A fuming agarbatti has always intrigued me. The misty fumes rise up as the agarbatti is slowly consumed. They form abstract patterns for the mind to cling to. White ribbons materialising out of nowhere, swaying tantalizingly for a mere second before dispersing violently into nothingness. Absorbed into the vastness around itself. The fumes dance with the gentle blow of the fan dangling from the ceiling.

     Effervescent. 

     Ephemeral. 

     Evanescent. 

     Elysian.

Forming mysterious symbols to convey arcane messages. I look on as if under a spell. My uninitiated mind trying to decipher the hidden spirituality in them. It seems that by just looking at this stupendous display of art I can find a peace in me. The fretful human turmoils in my head and heart are allayed for a bit. For a moment I feel their sway.
     They beckon me.
     I join them in their trance. 
     They flirt with my thoughts.
     With them, I dance.

And then suddenly the real world pulls me out. Callously. And I feel like writing it all down. And so I do.

Guilty, As Charged

Long lost are the dreams,
that I once dearly held.
Dreams that inhabited my callow mind
and into ambitions eventually swelled.

Vanished have those ambitions
over the years of diurnal trite.
Now there dwells a void,
a nothingness, a mock to my plight.

But they return to haunt me sometimes
and accuse me with rancorous objection.
Abusing me for abandoning them,
laughing at my abject dereliction.

But I plough on, hoping,
hanging by threads, ever so mere.
Someday I shall avenge my forlorn dreams;
till then, I persevere.

Chuk Chuk Gaadi

I feel like writing something today. A feeling that has resurfaced after quite some time. I will probably start with a couple of simple incidents that took place today as I started on my journey back to the ferstering city - Hyderabad (more on this later). So the train was late and I was at the station early. Something that does not usually happen but I guess K got tired of my bantering and analyzing her needs. So I wait in the shade for the train, which obliges with an appearance a few minutes prior to its scheduled departure. Of course it started 10 minutes late, but then everyone is in a rush. They always are in this country.

I stood outside the bogie after I was done with finding a place for my luggage. My co-passengers in the same compartment as I did not seem comely. So I thought I would much rather wait out on the platform for the train to oblige us once again with some movement. Since there were no pretty faces on the platform either, I gazed around indiscriminately. People following and sweet talking to the TTE in order to get seats upgraded to the AC compartments probably. Some seeking a confirmation of their waiting list status. Too many people seeking to travel hassle-free in a country that grants the priviledge to only a chosen few. The few that have planned the trip way ahead in time. You cannot just travel impulsively. Tsk tsk. That is no way to travel in India. "Get organised you filthy bastards!" seems to be the didactic taunt of the Indian railways.

As the perpetual hubbub on the platform ensued, I looked to the signal. It had changed from the forbidding red to an acquiesing yellow. The train would start any minute now. My apprehentions seemed to be shared by the family right in front of me. A middle aged couple with a late teens or a twenty'ish son. He reverently bent to touch his parents' feet. Seeking their permission and blessing to leave. Something that Indians still value. Or is it more out of a sense of formality? Either way, it was pleasing to see the boy make the gesture. The parents granted their permission, unwillingly, as it seemed to me. In all possibility, the parents were seeing their son off as he left them to attend school or work in a far off place. The father was the first to grant his blessing. A bespectacled man, with a lavish moustache, a little stout, which, in our country, means that he was well off and NOT that he was averse to excercising. Appearance matters. He put his arms around his son, drawing him closer into a hug. A prolonged hug which seemed to express his reluctance in watching his son go. He did not seem a man in habit of showing his emotions openly, especially to his son for whom he might have maintained an emotionally arcane image all through the years (of course none of this was deciperable from such small an incident, but I am speaking of the most probable scenario according to me). The son clearly was surprised at his father allowing himself a vent for his emotions. He hugged him back in a slightly confused surprise and smiled and avoided making eye contact with his father as the display of affection ended. He quickly turned to his mother who pulled his head down and kissed his forehead. This seemed more natural to the boy and he was smiling comfortably now. The mother kept saying something to her son. I was not near enough to hear the words but it does not take much to guess what they might have been. The usual motherly concerns about taking care of oneself, guidance regarding train travel, a gentle reminder to keep them informed of his arrival in Hyderabad as soon as the train stopped at the station, etcetra.

The train honked its horns and jerked into motion. People gather at the gates to shout goodbyes to the ones that came to see them off. Others trying to get into the moving train (something that seems to amuse Indians and thrill them to no end - jumping on and off moving vehicles). I was one of them. The gates are the most happening areas when a train sets into motion. All sorts of activities ensue a train's departure. People rushing out after having seen the actual passengers off. Mostly there are multiple people seeing a single passenger off, but then man is a social being. Is he not? Then there are people jumping on the train in the bogie closest at hand. Cursing the ones that come in their way and balancing the food items that they have just bought off the vendors. Then there are people who feel it absolutely necessary to keep saying goodbye to their family and friends till the moment they are visible. They will keep shouting goodbyes and waving their hands wit an exuberance that ironically seems to say that they are glad to be getting away from each other. Then there are people who stand there just to observe these oddities. They just look at the faces of the people belonging to the aforementioned categories and amuse themselves. On occasion, they make eye contact with others of their kind and both instantly realise the other's frivolous intent. They quickly look away as if condemning one another for using such trite ways to amuse themselves and continue searching the other faces.

In time the crowd gradually cleared off the gates ere the train gains celerity and begins its monotonic motions and cadence. I felt like it was the right time to sleep. Of course it is always the right time to sleep in a train. Always. A train journey is the most potent soporiphic agent in my humble opinion. I quickly spread out my sheets and engaged myself in a few hours of sincere sleep only to be left sleepless in the wee hours of the night, typing away into my laptop.

For The Love Of Rock, And All That Jazz...

Music has been on my mind of late. For the love of the gods of melodies, for the appeasement of the sires of tunes, I have been reverently and passionately listening to the blessed ones sing and play. This is not to say that I had not been listening to artists in the past. I have been doing so for more than 5 years now. Listening to different genres of music, being introduced to new bands in rooms hazy with smoke, spending lazy afternoons discovering new ones on my own; all these have been inculcated in me now. But there had been something very amiss of recent and it took me surprisingly long to figure out what it was.

My first rendezvouses with music were in quite early years. For as long as I can remember, I had been surrounded by it in its various forms. Be it D's casettes of the latest songs (with "jhankar beats"!), or M's collection of oldies, or even the occasional "Ace Of The Base" that I heard when BM came to visit; I heard them all, enjoyed them all. Perhaps I never really biased myself to a particular kind of music. Or perhaps I was never given an option to do so. It continued thus.

My real infatuation with music grew its roots when I came to Delhi. I used to spend afternoons with DDJ. A man whose intellect I still hold in awe, but was too young back then to understand. It was on those afternoons that Indian classical went in through my ears and spread itself out over my brain cells. Numbing it to everything else in the world. I could sense being lost to the music. And then there were the Buddha Bar casettes that DC bought me. Oh! How I loved the fusion! How it all fascinated me! And then there were the usual boy bands, Limp Bizkit, ITv and the like with FB. Bryan Adams, Creed, Def Leppard, a bit of Gn'R, and I could tell then that my infatuation was meant to be more.

Then I came to college. It was here that music really swept me off my feet. I fell in love with her. Rock, metal, trance, techno, ghazals, punk, country, blues, jazz... I heard it all, glutting my aural. It kept me company, it gave me a purpose. I belonged to music entirely for the five years. Led Zepplin, RATM, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the flower power era, Howlin' Wolf, B.B. King, British punk. I was taken with a backward current of time and enjoyed surfing the endless oceans.

And then when I moved out of college, I never worried about things changing. I patted the hard disk that had my hard earned collection, smiled inwardly and gaily walked to face the unknown. But sadly, I was mistaken. And how horribly was I mistaken! The chemistry between music and me that I had so taken for granted was gone. Not that I did not love her. I did. But there was something amiss. I could not bear its company for long. Even its infrequent hours were getting tiresome. I tried to force myself into being faithful. But I just could not!

It was then that it struck me. The problem was not between music and I. It was without. I had naively assumed that we were a couple. But looking back, I could see that it was never so! We always needed others to keep us happily together. Twisted, but true. The joys of music were always enjoyed by me when I could share her with someone. Make someone notice the nuances that I had chanced into discovering or appreciating his way of looking at her. And the more peers there were, the merrier I was. And so I started sharing. People started sharing in return. I looked for more and more people to share and my love for music regained its former proportion. And then bypassed those limits.

Music is a refuge that can be relied upon. It is always there, independent of the amount of attention you shower on it. Independent of the way that you left it last. It waits. Faithfully. For you to come back to it. To resume the affair exactly where you unceremoniously ended it. Never questioning. Never doubting. It is enough that you returned.

Signed, The Rebel

Sitting on my bed, pounding on my keyboard and listening to the sweet melody that the keys make, I feel a nothingness like none I have experienced as yet. It is neither bitter nor sweet. It is nothing. Stone cold nothing.
My days pass by in a haze. At times I remember myself typing away my work in a frenzy. At others I feature in a yawning stillness, where minutes turn into hours and hours drag by with a teasing insolence.

I find myself stranded in the boondocks of my imagination. Hearing the wind howl over the deserted meadows. Watching the sun set in in the golden red sky. It looks serene. It looks beautiful. I feel the complacency creep in. I am complacent. I shiver. I am alarmed. I know I should struggle. I know I should put up a fight. But everything feels so very comfortable.

I had never imagined myself so snug in my life. It is comfortable but very disconcerting.

This nothing that I feel makes me want to rebel against it. As I had always done. And successfully so. The nothing is not a nothing at all. It is an enemy. It is the civiliser. It is evil. Keep away!

Life, a lady of infinite summers, once whispered in my ears that I would fare better if I kept running. And I have always been glad of the fact that I am a runner. Stillness, albeit its comfort, makes me sad. I can see the light when I run. Naked and free. Unbound, with the wind in my hair. But Life, the devil of infinite winters, has always tried to lure me to the other side, where people sit drunk and happy. A paradise where nothing is one's everything.

"Run!"

- The Rebel

Seasoning

Howling winds under the silent moon, the pitter and the patter;
the solar hide and seek, the ominous door creak.
Of October and June, I certainly enjoyed the latter.

It will return not soon, my belated rapture does not matter.

Just a demotic climatic eccentricity, which robs me of my impunity.
Of October and June, I certainly prefer the latter.

Introspecting Introspections

There are days when one has nothing to do. Despite the hungry search for something to occupy your attention, you see nothing that seems even remotely interested in making itself available to you. It is on such days that you mind starts flirting with certain dangerous questions that it had been carefully ignoring till then. One such question is "What has my life come to?"; the answer of which is usually the same as the question, just followed by an exclamation mark. Thus your day falls into an elaborate introspection of your recent past. The days are stranded out. Stripped bare of its abstract. Each event scrutinised. Each action charted up and presented statistically. Random graphs and pie-charts demonstrating your performance haunt your brain. The thoughts nag you into admission of the fact that you have failed to see your life to the royal ends that you had planned. You sulk into depression; looking at everything around you in disdain. You never wanted them. Holding the work given to you in contempt. You never wanted that too. Thinking of your current sweethearts. Not them either. So what exactly IS right with your life? Ponder as much as you may, you fail to realise within those few irritable hours that the fault lies way off the search space. The concept of planning is so for a reason. It is a plan. Not the real thing. You are living the real thing. THAT is right with your screwed up life.

I doubt there is anyone who is free from the plague of introspections. The seemingly happy people have their sad moments too. It is not the sadist in me that believes this. Rather, I feel that those moments of gloom render in us a new image of hope. We astonishingly get on with our lives, with a renewed hope in the same plans. That is as sad a thought as is the act inspiring. We fail to see that the plans will perhaps never be realised. We fail to see that we will compromise on certain key issues and justify it to ourselves in some way or the other. Reassuring ourselves that it is how things need to be in order to be happy. But would we rather not seek the happiness we once aimed at? And hold our heads high while we do so? Amazingly, right now, I am unable to choose which one is the way I would rather tread!

On one side is an acceptance of failure, a power to adapt and a way to be happy despite the circumstances. One the other is the will to fight through, the need for integrity and search the happiness you always wanted. For there are always two kinds of happiness: the ones that you want and the one that you get. And there is no degree of similarity between the two. Though much greater in magnitude, the one that you want is much evasive; possibly non-existent. While the happiness you get is immediate, though short lived and not as gratifying. These can be the only two possibilities here. You can either be happy in your current situation, forgetting your dreams of grandeur, suffering the humiliation in private, reminded of it only in the questions asked by long lost friends, but consciously forgetting it in the shadow of the complacency you feel. Or you can live a life of unhappiness with a bleak possibility of seeing happiness at the end of the road, suffering public humiliation at your lack of success but able to justify the failure to yourself as success.

I refuse to believe in the weaker hypothesis of living in peace with your present while striving for what you aimed. It requires two totally opposing sets of mental abilities that is impossible in an indivisual. Like all other situations, there is no middle way. The middle way is quite certainly no way at all. You have to choose or let the choice be made for you. But you will have to walk one of these paths for sure. So choose ye humans! Choose your happiness wisely.

Vadodara Blues

Gujarat. Even the name instilled fear in my poor heart. A dry state. How the hell would I survive? But fortunately survival has not been all that difficult out here. Trips to Rajasthan and Delhi have certainly helped the process of adaptation. As has the bleak hope that I would not be stuck here for much time. My latest workplace seems to be pretty flexible and accomodating.

The lifestyle of the Gujaratis is surely entertaining. They streets are flooded with the most uncanny fast food and junk food stalls, all of which are crowded without an exception. The Gujaratis seem to have an insatiable fetish for food that is quite outrageously respectable. No matter the class, no matter the weather, no matter the place; the foodies of the city seem to be out on the streets during the evenings. Eating their hearts out.

Apart from these respectable foodie habits, the only thing that has seemed pleasant in the city is the well proportioned girls and women that almost the entire Gujarat boasts of. But hen the darker side of the city rises up to meet the challenges posed by the lucrative Vadodara. The garbage strewn streets. The absence of non-vegetarian food. The lack of a social life. All these smack you in your face as you try to find some stable routine in the city. The only options left are an occasional movie, a regular cup of tea, an evening of exploration. Not much for a lonely soul to seek.

All n all, Gujarat has not offered much since I have come here, The very surprisingly vast menu an an omellete corner is not what an entire city can be judged by. Eventually the lack of good non-vegetarian food and alcohol gets to you. I had hoped to see more of Gujarat before leaving but there seems to be no point to it. It is all the same. The food, the lifestyle and the ladies. What is the point?