Rethinking Rakshabandhan

It is a surprise that the festival has survived through its transition from organic to something highly manufactured – right from the logistics to the main object of focus. Amidst my thoughts on how the entire custom has changed in these times into an impersonal delivery through a gift mailing service, I recall the hastily written letters, grooved with the handwriting on the unwritten side of the folded paper – sometimes it would be torn from a notebook and the other times from a fresh ream. Even before unfolding this message and reading it, the density of this script would give an estimate at the time-window she got to find this year in her hectic schedule – regardless of that, it would still go into my box of memories. And in that haste would also be a half-open pack of teeka and rice powdering and staining the whole envelope from the inside. Its smell would mix with the scent of the rakhi creating that unique sensory imprint of this festival.

Now, it is nothing like that – just a neatly packaged rakhi with a generic printed message. The biggest content of the envelope is a discount coupon for the next order.

Rakhis put more plastics on my wrist than a digital watch.

It has been a few days and I am planning to take the rakhis off my wrist. I am thinking of all the plastic and how it has increased its share against other materials that were used in the decoration and details. Ideally, I am supposed to leave these under a tree when I discard them but these particular threads will have to be thrown into the recycling bin, which doesn’t feel like the right treatment for something your sisters spent time selecting and stressing over its successful delivery to you. I see the damages of this product’s entire life-cycle compared to what it was originally intended to be – a mere thread. One is a product, another is an artifact.

The simplicity of the thread makes it iconic and beautiful, maybe with a personal touch of something she added that will burst into life at the roots of a tree – that would be enough, which is possible by freeing it from the ugliness of the over-ornate that has infested every aspect of our lives. Unless the people who practice this tradition start considering sustainability and simplicity seriously, this topic will become yet another matter of government intervention into their belief system in the coming future. Complaining then surely will not help.

Removing the layers of consumerism from our festivals is important, and looking at the original practices – the ancient practices, at their simplest, also reveals their environmentally conscious set up.

The Natural State Needs No Philosophical Pharmacology

After I had introduced yet another friend to the ideas of UG (what I like to call the dangerous knowledge palatable only to a few), he was instantly hooked and spent hours by himself watching videos of the old man rant and rage at his ‘followers’.

Two weeks later, our conversation gravitated back to the subject and I jokingly said, “So macha, you’ve finally been UG-pilled, eh?”. I used this expression often with other Krishnamurti-enthusiasts but this was probably the last time I would do so. He replied, summarizing the philosophy in the best way possible to this context, “Macha, UG has nothing to do with any pill – that there is no need to eat any pill, the pill is already in you and your body knows when it needs to make one.”

Chaos: Decay

Decay

The burst of life at all levels

Brighter than a pyre

Livelier than a grave


Decay

A never ending part

Of me, as I live.

Of mine, when I die.


Decay

Feared forever

The reset of order

The reorder of me and you.


Decay

And now I am gone

Not pickled in a ditch or a jar

Away from static tombstones


Decaying

Free on the ground, under open skies

At ease with all chaos

Of life – in me, below and above.

COVID-19: Household PPE Disposal

With how the things have been for the past two months now, it is interesting to see something which was the focus of my thesis become a topic of discussion at all levels, everywhere. There is, however, an aspect which will surely become a hot topic in the months that follow – it concerns the generation of plastic waste during this pandemic and its appropriate disposal.

If the increased consumption of single-use plastics wasn’t enough, there is also the fact that even when meant for reuse, these cannot be recycled once contaminated. Hospitals have a waste stream which is tightly segregated and regulated, where contaminated waste goes straight to the incinerator and there are special waste management teams or companies handling that.

I am concerned about how this plays out at a household level, where personal protective equipment is being disposed across into the regular waste streams. As there is no separate bin for waste with either biological or chemical contamination, I feel the surge of PPE being disposed off from households will lead to new problems. Most local waste collection companies also do not anticipate, nor are prepared, to deal with this biologically hazardous waste which will come in mixed with the household trash. Though the situation before allowed for minor occurrence of such bio-hazards in the stream, a significant increase in that, in either the regular trash or recycling streams, would add on to the problems.

I think it is absolutely necessary that along with the correct use of masks (in which there was demonstrably a huge knowledge gap), people should also be informed about the correct way to dispose off their contaminated PPE. The details of disposal need to be stated as clearly as they are in the infographics on correct mask use. Currently, all disposal is vaguely mentioned and incorrectly shown as flinging a used mask into a trashcan – addressing that other part of the product’s life cycle is really necessary this time.

Language & India’s Education System

A Personal Journey:

My appreciation for the languages of India grew when I came to study in a foreign land. While cohabiting with people coming from very different parts of India, I saw how strong the common cultural thread of this country is, regardless of the geography or the language, its presence is good enough a sense of familiarness one seeks living thousands of miles away from home. Here I was able to break free from my close-minded approach (having lived in one city all my life) toward other languages of the country. I found comfort in groups where languages unintelligible to me were being spoken, even when I could not understand a bit of it, there was something strangely homely about them – maybe it was the people themselves or occasional words which I could catch, or maybe it was how social interactions remain common across the country even when the language differs. I was like an infant, soaking it all up, not just hearing but reading the faces to build the context of the conversation.

This is the same position where a lot of people complain that certain groups or communities immediately switch to their native language and do not speak in a commonly understood language, English – in this case, there is mention about etiquettes etc. But then all of us are guilty of doing this, the group always comes above the individual. Rather than complain, I approached it with an open mind and this experience only made me more curious about India’s languages – the ones I have overlooked, the ones I mocked and the ones which were supposed to speak but couldn’t. As sad as the state of affairs might be, I am glad I have come to the point of this awareness.

Questioning my own attitude towards foreign languages and the rich languages of my own country, living with them, and experiencing their loss along with that of my very own mother-tongue, I will share some ideas on how we have come to this, why and how we continue the way we do, the problems arising out of it, and some ways this can be realistically fixed.

The Past:

There was a time when all languages in the sub-continent contributed to preserving, thriving with and augmenting the Dharmic thought, with great literary works translated from one language to another and new languages literally evolving from the previous ones, merging entire sections of the land together culturally. Obviously, as information was not as instantaneous and not cradled inside a foreign civilization as is today, things could be labeled as safe – the culture evolved, checked itself and matured steadily to become all that which struggles to survive in the noise of today.

The hierarchy of languages, i.e. difference in the languages spoken by the common folk and the ruling class also existed before India was ruled by foreign powers, but both the languages often interacted, co-evolved and remained native to the land and thus did the ideas. One can see strong commonalities of all sorts between cultures separated thousands of miles apart within this landmass – these are not just limited to customs or religious practices but how individuals think and act. This is the Dharmic thought.

Surprisingly, even during the Muslim rule, despite the court languages being either Arabic or Persian, (both of which influence contemporary Indian languages heavily through thousands of loan-words) native languages were not fully uprooted. The emphasis was on carrying forward the word of the book, regardless of the medium, and education systems were attacked right away – burned down, but not replaced or mutated into something which propagates their agenda. Though destructive, it was something which the culture would have survived and successfully assimilated with, and it did. Languages like Kashmiri took on the Persian script, Urdu was created in Delhi and such.

The British had a different approach altogether, they needed a class of Indians who would serve them in a better capacity to run and administer this huge landmass, but also act as a cultural and racial buffer between this colony and the homeland. Because in any imperialist setup, culture travels both ways – by this time, reshaping the education system was a verified buffer-enabler that prevented the much feared reverse flow of culture. Now, ideas could be controlled, shaped and reiterated if they were not palatable to the folk back home. That said, one can’t really blame the British for doing what they did – any ruling imperial power in their place would have taken similar measures to prolong the rule abroad and preserve the culture within.

English In India:

The blame for the current state of things lies on no one but us. Instead of re-evaluating the system that was left in our hands after independence, we carried on with the same structure (with superficial changes) of which language is only a small part that pokes out – like a broken bone. This is a pain we have gotten used to unless it gets touched every now and then. And while English education and our emphasis on it did offer its advantages, especially when it came to serving (yet again) in the markets set up by the powers which once ruled over us and others, it has led to a lot of new problems internally (not to forget being mocked for speaking English in one’s unique way even when the grammar or vocabulary is often superior to a native speaker’s). I am sure other post-colonial nations are dealing with similar issues but theirs might be way less complicated as the ill-effects in our case just undergo a combinatorial explosion with every new language you throw into the equation.

Though there is nothing wrong with things converging to English, as the internet, wealth, media and entertainment are currently centered around English-speaking nations. What is interesting is that while other sets of non-English speaking populations, that make up a huge chunk of the world, have carved their own independent communities and systems freeing themselves of the dependency on English. Some countries, out of necessity, and some out of sheer pride, have managed to prevent the influence of foreign languages on their own culture, regardless of whether they were ruled by an imperial power or not.

The positions of power in newly-independent India went immediately to the educated English-speaking elite, regardless of their political leanings or religion. Even when the policies have always been to appease and benefit the farmer, the soldier and the poor; the leader and the kingmaker come from an elite group where speaking English (to some level, at least) is a requirement. This only feeds back into continuing a system that was set up originally by the colonial power.

This results in creating a system where the chances of a person succeeding in the Indian society are directly affected by their command over English, and even though English is taught at most schools, there is a huge disparity in the quality of that education. This has led to the creation of a class divide at an intellectual level. At a superficial level, this divide can be observed by just glancing over differences between English media and entertainment and their counterparts that are in local languages. At a deeper level, this divide exists in academia which affects policy and politics, while remaining oblivious to the cultural needs and moods on the ground.

Anyone who struggles in speaking English fluently is not dealt with a mature understanding, which would be along the lines of – ‘This is not his or her first language.’ but something more like, ‘This person must be pretty dumb because they cannot pronounce certain words/use incorrect grammar.’ This thought infects all Indians at all levels, regardless of their own proficiency level with the language – the linguistic pecking order! This is a topic of jokes at all levels of aggression, but the crux is to judge a person’s worth by their command over this foreign language. And sadly, this does hide a reality within it, where in the hierarchy of the society, English is what judges your worth and places you in this new varna-system.

Education System:

All parents wish the best for their child, and given how things are set up, an English education is a must in their list of things to provide. This is a desire that spans all social and economic boundaries in India, the privileged ofcourse do not have to think much about it apart from circumventing the hoops elite schools place in their intake, a questionable practice in itself. The less privileged aim for any school that might have an English class or at least mentions that in its advertisements plastered un-aesthetically over public property.

English is not a problem for the privileged classes as they are usually the households that themselves converse in English and their children attending schools with children from similar backgrounds only makes English the least of their concerns. Here, English classes are light coursework and everyone has a ball. At a university level, most majors are centered around English, and this completes the cycle by contributing a workforce back into the English-thought run post-colonial machinery – doesn’t matter whether it is the government or business, the deracination occurs effectively with every batch.

Now things get more complicated for the households where English is not spoken. Neither of the parents know the language and try to make that push into making their child study English – this has to be their lottery ticket and in their desperation, they are willing to bet the ranch. The results are not as easily predictable as with English-speaking households, with most coming out of the system with sub-par command over the language (thereby being unable to compete with their better educated counterparts) and the ones who do in fact get benefitted, enter the elite club mentioned above – it is true that the financial situation might improve ten folds within a generation but the tremendous loss which occurs at a cultural level is irreparable.

The schools where these children end up in, apply various methods to enforce students into conversing in English, some include corporal punishments or minor fines (reminiscent of the Missionary-run schools during the Raj), but realistically, none of this works and no amount of “Speak in English!” threats can make students coming from similar non-English speaking households converse in English outside of their daily one hour lesson. Things do improve however if there is a mixture of students coming from different backgrounds, but this too is a rarity with the rapidly rising divides in the society.

Now the effects of this difference are not just limited to mastering English but also are about the sciences and the social sciences, all of which are taught and tested for in English – if not at high school level, then at university level. The students from this latter group of households have to work extra hard to first get over the hurdle posed by the language and then to absorb this new content. An uphill task which few succeed in getting through, but there is a majority that gets left behind, partly-trained and partly-confused.

Come to higher education and research, where most instruction and reporting is conducted in English – the knowledge gained from research or observation drifts and compartmentalizes to the English speaking audience. Once knowledge is being imparted in the tongue not native to the land, how can we even dream of bringing it to the masses and making them understand it at a deeper level – the equal opportunity much often talked about can thus never be achieved. How can it be accessible to minds that are inquisitive and brilliant but are only held back by the inability or lack of resources to learn a foreign language. The lack of access to this knowledge has trickled down into the very primitive concepts that still have to be manually updated by a board/committee every few years, with their own redactions and biases, where new terms are just transliterated and localized from English thus causing further erosion of vocabulary and ideas.

Regardless of the stage in life you are at, the confidence and value placed on oneself takes a beating consistently only because of a single language one is unable to speak, regardless of one’s actual capabilities. Why, thus, would we not be the under-confident and self-sabotaging people that we are?

Complaints about the quality of education are a cliche by now, but the image of a student not even able to structure their own thoughts clearly, let alone rephrase someone else’s complex idea, is a very real thing. What we have now is a mass of educated idiots amidst a collapsing culture who are unaware of their condition and their identity, aggressively seeking a western socio-political definition to their existence. This dissonance is nothing but an experiment gone wrong, where they were meant to think English but they never could, with no fault of their own. The ones who do think English are the ones running the show, again unaware of their condition, but confident in their actions being righteous, which is more dangerous a headspace than conscious malevolence.

All of this said – English cannot be the national language of India.

The Inner Conflicts:

India’s languages are a recurring topic of discussion and mostly, if not always, these are controversial, whether it is the erosion of the native languages and their purity by external influences, or straight-up imposition. The diversity and its beauty has been reduced to in-fighting providing more fuel to the political formula of divide-and-rule. Everyone loves to think of their language to be the best, and immediately shuts the door to anything different, (which is a very human thing to do) but where Indians go wrong is that this bias has an exception, which is English. Indians from two different regions would, by default, prefer communicating in English rather than figuring out a common Indic-language they speak, as one party would often feel it to be a compromise of some sort if they speak a language other than their native tongue which they do know but refrain from using – the trust and understanding needed to make this work lacks from both the sides.

The political center being amidst Hindi speaking States also unknowingly gets influenced by the thought bubble where it is oblivious to the differences and moods of the rest of the country. One just cannot convince a group to adopt your language when their beliefs are strongly rooted in their language being the oldest and best in the world. In such a scenario, imposing a language would only repeat the imperialist practice where the language of the court has now become Hindi, which, ofcourse, makes the speakers of other languages feel sidelined.

The linguistic diversity of India is a strength we have failed to benefit from and now it lingers on in our system, as we quarrel over who speaks and who doesn’t. This very diversity, if prioritized and pushed for at every level, can offer great social, cultural and even administrative benefits. Social in the sense that a large part of the population that gets excluded from participating in the knowledge building process can be included, cultural in ways of bonding the nation through its similarities, and from a nationalist and administrative perspective as something which builds national identity and adds security through exclusivity.

Proposed Solution:

The solution to the Indian education system is directly tied to the languages and how they are taught in its framework. According to me, solving one solves the other. We cannot enforce languages and we, obviously, cannot discard the education system completely for it is tightly bound to the system. But what we can do is suggest and try to bring about a few changes which are realistic and the least destructive in their implementation.

ONE. We must make two Indian languages compulsory (one being of the state or region) for everyone across all education boards. English should hence be a tertiary language, (which can be compulsory or not) depending on the school. This will not only allow the coming generations of Indians to be fluent in two Indian languages but also open up job opportunities for them in different parts of the country without arriving there as a population that gains resentment from the locals for eroding their native culture through passive or active language imposition. This will also fill in a huge gap for jobs that are important but often neglected, like teaching, even if done as a part-time gig. The increase in the demand of language teachers and their movement across the country will offer its benefits in tightening the fabric of the nation as well. What the national highway system did to the United States in bringing them together as a nation, I strongly feel that it will be this improved national linguistic network which will do it for us.

TWO. The other part of this solution is just about adding an additional step in the workings of higher-level educational institutions – where all research papers/dissertations are to be submitted in English along with one Indian language of the author’s choice. So, our student will be contributing not only to the English speaking scientific journals but also to, say, Kannada speaking scientific repositories. This also adds opportunities for translators to play a more active and interesting role, who are presently limited to legal or legislative work. Even if the output is coming from lower-tier colleges and universities, this will rapidly build up the backlog of missing research literature in Indic languages, where recycled projects and plain repackaged low-quality undergraduate research makes up for this gap rapidly. An added benefit of this two-language publication rule would be that with every translated research paper, the training data for machine translations in-between Indic languages would benefit. The uses of this sophisticated system would eventually go beyond just translations but also aid in enrichment of vocabulary in native languages. This will directly affect what is taught in schools, about any subject, as the control over it will be loosened from the hands of an education board that still is very Anglo-centric in its thought – with the Internet, students at all levels who are instructed in their native language will be able to access information from this literature directly.

PS – I just had to put these thoughts out there, even when I know that none of this will be read. All I can do now is watch our society descend into chaos with a clear conscience, unsurprised.

Temporal Moment

Thoughts while waiting in a temple queue.

People from all walks of life are around me, with their own stories and problems in their hearts, the most heart wrenching of complaints and the most miraculous of wishes can be found in this room. Among all this gravity, children run and play. I used to be like them once, this open hall with adults as dynamic obstacles would be the board for countless new games. This temple on a hill in Pennsylvania, though thousands of miles away from the homes of the people who stand here right now, is no different than any other temple in place and time.

And then my gaze goes over the idols, the decorations, the ritual and every step it contains within as the coordinated acts of worship, the chanting, the music, the symbols and everything that makes a religion what it is. Someone must have created it at some point – it was surely conceived by the imagination of a highly creative individual of the time, an imagination cleansing itself of the pride to praising something greater than itself. And now thousands of years later, people do this, parts of it but in a similar spirit – names and titles and facts have faded but there is still a link I see in this moment. What is all religion and tradition but a way to honor the art of one’s ancestors? And, can art even exist without them?

Today, I see the beauty in the lifeless carved rock. There is a lump in my throat, I feel insignificant in front of that unknown sculptor’s patience and belief in something so abstract – that it cuts through time and space and sweeps away my entire existence, something which I have comfortably rationalized to myself even when it stands on a weak and often faltering foundation. This is the truth of the greater abstract within which my lie of a little existence lies.

Time of the year: A Graduating Class

This is the time of the year when the atmosphere on any major American university campus is a fascinating one. The weather decides to become forgiving and the relief of the last exam can be felt in the air, even when you do not have an exam to take. This is the time of the year when you can see movement, in things and lives.

And the most heartwarming of sights, for me, is when I see parents of international students visiting this country to witness their children take the grad walk. Indian parents, waddling around for their evening or morning walks and being given campus tours by their sons and daughters – of a place they had probably not even imagined in their wildest of dreams, maybe even unpronounceable to some, but they still put all their money and trust into it. There is nothing but excitement and pride you can see in their faces – legit and well deserved. And thus, this is also that the time of the year when you can see the movement, in dreams of the great Indian middle class, where they take a tangible and recognizable shape, wings spread and ready to soar.

Driftwood Polystyrene

When the oceans rise and the floodwaters come rushing into your big cities, I am optimistic that the plastic in the oceans, what we passionately unify and outrage over, will be what keeps us afloat.

I am confident that the last man alive will sail to the higher grounds on the ark he made from Starbucks straws.

Ho Gayi Peer Parvat

An attempt at translation of one of Dushyant Kumar‘s most well-recognized poems.


 

It must,

This glacial pain of the mountains

Must melt,

An outpour Gangetic,

Something pure and holy.

 

They must,

These walls, these concrete curtains

Must tremble,

Behind them we yearned

for quakes, not storms

 

It must,

In streets, alleys, cities and hamlets

Must march,

Every corpse, as the living

A dance fervorous.

 

They must,

These times

Must change,

In this influence,

My only offence.

 

But she must,

In our hearts

Must burn,

This fire

If not in mine, then in yours.

New Light On Dancing Shiva Symbol

This is a review written by my father which was published in The National Herald on 08/06/1996.

[Dancing Shiva in the Ecological Age: By Henryk Skolimowski, Publisher: Dr. Henryk Skolimowski, International Center for Eco-Philosophy and Indian Institute of Ecology & Environment New Delhi. Paperback. Pages: 214, 1995, Price: Not Written]

The collection of articles by the learned author who is a Professor of Philosophy in the Programme in Humanities, College of Engineering, University of Michigan, USA, is an attempt at giving a new meaning to the dancing Shiva symbol so commonly available in the Hindu temples, Hindu households, museums of arts etc. Although in the Hindu religious mythology, Shiva is one of the Trinity responsible for destruction preceding a rejuvenation, the author tries to cull out the basic essence of Hindu philosophy in which destruction is never final and creation is never complete in the sense that they are all part of the same cycle in which there is no beginning or end.

2. The author has quoted profusely not only from Upanishads, Buddhist literature, Christian theology but also from the present day savants such as Andre Malaraux and T.S. Eliot. The vastness of the range and the depth of the author’s learning is also evident in his mastery of language and ability to use the words as instruments of revelation.

3. Although the volume contains 15 articles each of which can be read independently yet there is a common theme running through all of them. The theme is that man’s relationship with nature should be that of reverence, love, devotion and not otherwise. According to the author, participation at the deepest level is the true essence of life.  there is an interesting article on structures, symbols and evolution. The author describes in some detail what the dancing Shiva symbol of Hinduism means to him.

It is a symbol of continuous metamorphosis, a ceaseless beginning of life, a symbol of fluidity and essentially undefinable character of life. There is something fascinating and mysterious in the conception of universe conceived in the image of dancing Shiva. It is this conception that some of the Western thinkers (such as F.Capre) have evoked to replace the petrified conception of the universe in the image of the Neutonian clock.

4. an abstruse book which could be understood only by a person having reasonable proficiency in philosophy and metaphysics, it seeks to emphasise the wholeness of the universe and oneness of life manifest in plants, animals and human beings.

The author seems to be a votary of Hindu view of life which underplays differences and divisions and accentuates oneness and wholeness. The author feels that the dancing Shiva symbol enjoins upon mankind to feel responsible for the nature and the universe, the responsibility of which will result in the rehabilitation and protection of everything that is good in the world and in turning good of whatever is not.

One could disagree with the author but one can not help feeling moved by the sense of urgency that drips from every paragraph of the book. The author feels that we had better get together our acts including our pursuits of ‘scientific knowledge’ otherwise it will be too late.

– Shashi Bhushan

 

Departures

September 2013

The Ganges roars, a wind above it in this night, dragged along with the torrent that made the hills echo only a few hours back. Nothing to be seen beyond what the floodlights show of this concrete bank, this ghat is like a train station drifting through the night. The platform where the last goodbyes are said. With a vessel in my hand, I step into the cold water – coldest thing to be out there in this summer, my bare feet are pierced by sharp rocks. There is a clinker that can be heard through as my feet drag through the steps. Bones. Thousands of pieces accumulated. The ticket stubs left by countless who left from this spot. I think of them, try to fit all their lives within a moment of closed eyes before I offer the remains to the river. The river swallows them readily into the grander offering which is the garland of bones under these muddy waters.

Of Dogs & Mountains

Whenever I have hiked in any part of the Himalayas, there has always been a dog that tagged along. And this is something everyone experiences – anyone who has taken a trail leaving a village or a town. The reasons will not be known as to why these mountain dogs accompany travelers in their treks from one village to another, only to mysteriously disappear and reappear again. Maybe they do it as a duty or with the hope of getting some food; or for their own sense of security, to have a human to walk along with through these isolated paths that might harbor some danger. These dogs are the much-mentioned, often-photographed but seldom-discussed aspects of everyone’s Himalayan journey. Their stamina will surely surpass yours and they could do the same trek several times in a day, both ways – your challenge is their neighborhood and one should never forget that. Their friendliness comes from seeing this world right from their doorstep – these are wise beings that must be treated with respect.

Climbing right now, my legs hurt and these urban lungs gasp for the very cool air that makes my ears hurt, and I slump down on a rock to rest. If I climbed too fast, the four-legged friend will come trailing along, I ask him whether it was the flower in bloom that slowed him down or if it were the bones in the grass I had quickly glanced over; if I climbed too slow, he will be up there ahead of me, gazing from some vantage point waiting for me to start again.

In the towering silence of the mountains, away from humans, I become aware of this other being’s presence and the trust and familiarity we have in this short duration of knowing each other. Briefly, I understand what Yudhishthira might have felt when asked to let go of the dog at the end of his climb to the heaven. And maybe the dogs that climbed with me (and you) were indeed Yama in disguise – who knows? But anyway, a part of this story about the final test of a demigod repeats in each and every such climb; staying alive as long as there are dogs, mountains and men.

mount_doggo_climb

The Spirits Of Those Times

What is nostalgia? Why do images or videos from a bygone era crystallize fascination in all of us? Is it the simplicity of the lives lived back then? Is not all past looked at with some yearning for crumbs of positivity, so that our lives do not feel like an utter waste? There is always a past to look to and smile at no matter how bad and unsatisfying our lives have been. Because in it is the fleeting moment at its most familiar, that familiarity is what we relate to our present, for good or for worse.

When I come across imagery from times other than now; if it was the time when I was alive, for me, I think of where I would have been when that image was captured. How the flutter of some butterfly’s wing would have related it to my day.  I think of the objects in that image – that they were the best outcomes, a result of the apex of technology of that time. I try to remember if I had owned or used one of those objects, or if I had interacted with one and, if yes, when did I interact with one for the first time. These can be anything from telephones & chairs to electrical switches. And prior to my existence, I think of where my parents and family would have been, the fake memories from their stories I plant in space and time appropriately. Nostalgia is an expert level family puzzle game for all ages.

Whether it is a video from the 2000s or from the early 90s, there is always something to connect. Then there are the images from further back in time, and I look at all of them and think of the people in those frames – each and everyone with an important story to tell, their life central to their reality which is the most important of them all. And they walk out of the frame to their lives and days as more like them walk in – these people who are always on the way to something important.  There are ultimate geniuses, and leaders as well as complete desolates and degenerates in those crowds – some of them are now dead and some of them are still around to witness how far we have come. It would be interesting to see how they connect their youth to the media they come across from their times – how does that weigh against their childhood memories and which connections of memories survived and which ones did not? How would have the 90s’ technological boom affected their attitude compared to how our parents recalled their youth?

Old Car Smell

The carcinogenic new car smell is often prized and romanticized, but we never mention the smell of old cars; part motor oil, part petrichor – the smell of the road and the trips it had been on. And now that too is a rarity to come across, because how the design of the vehicle-cabins has evolved.

In the years when cars did not ship at default with an air conditioner and all there was a fan, the body was not designed to seal the environment within the car from the elements, at least not in the same way as it is done today. And as the car would get older, the smell of the road crept in. The lack of comfort compared to the modern car could also be a sign of the machine being closer to its environment than it is now, distant from our range of comforts yet more truthful to what it was and which soaked in everything it had gone through. In these cars, just by the mere smell, one could accurately guess where they had been parked and whether people took care of them or not, or even whether they drove them too much or too little. Car fresheners would also ride the strong foundation of these natural smells, unlike today where they just hit you in the face with the sweaty smell of a closed air conditioned chamber. The only thing I can accurately guess in the modern car is whether someone ate an EggMcMuffin in it in the past two days. And maybe there is a hint of this old car smell on an old public bus, but it still lacks the personal character and lies in public space and use.

But hey, now we are far from that, cars are not cars anymore – just electric carts which you would not even have to drive in a few years. But blessed would be those who saw the automobile at its most raw – a man made machine which was very much a part of its environment, with its own unique smell. Among the various descriptable and undescriptable, tangible and intangible feelings of driving and owning a car, the smell will also be something we will miss when we entirely stop driving as a society.

Seasons

In Rochester, weather is the most easiest-to-converse-about topic between strangers. Everyone and anyone can get started about their own snow and storm story. This post is based on one such discussion I had today with a Lyft driver about it – rather than the “back in ___ we got _ feet of snow”, this conversation was more about appreciating this climate, even with its extremes.

Living in the upper latitudes of the northern hemisphere is way different from where I have spent most of my life. Here, all the four seasons are very salient and each comes with its own intensity and beauty.  This is unlike how it is in the temperate climates, it gets hot or cold but your surroundings pretty much look the same throughout the year. Nature reminds one loudly about time as it passes and a new appreciation develops as each year ends and starts over back again.

For people like me, who arrive here in August, it is almost like starting a biography of someone from somewhere in the middle. You get to see the individual age, shrivel up and die, but you also start the book again to see what you missed. Maybe that is how I will write my autobiography, that might help me know myself better.

Fall

The colors of the summer can be found to be lingering on for a month or two and give one enough time to observe what will soon be gone. It quickly rustles away with the winds, the same omnipresent winds which once felt like a breath of life, now carry with them the remains. Life measures time with decay, but in that decay it puts on a grand show, its last colorful push of reds and yellows – maybe a struggling display that this life, these trees, these leaves and flowers, too existed in this space and time. And then they are gone.

Winter

Winters are long and unforgiving, thus meditative. They bring in that necessary pause our lives require. One can just sit for hours and look out at bare trees, with maybe an animal skipping through quickly gathering the last bits before heading home. A crow would often break the silence bragging probably about how it has braved these winds. I am always fascinated by that one leaf which is dry and dead but still clings on to the tree, as if by some miracle it will revive once again; and maybe it does, and no one notices. Even within this stagnation, one can see decay occur – in the wet ends, at doorsteps and carpets, in what happens under the snow and the salt. Life recedes back to the bare necessities, around the heart and the hearth, and the extremes and excesses are numb so we can only hold the layers tighter to our chest, bent in and closed off from the death that stands at its strongest in this veil of stagnation outside.

Spring

The burst of the spring through the sleet, wind and snow, is that reminder of life’s return which one tends to forget about in the months of the winter. This happens almost by magic, within a week or so, and you see life raise its head once again. It feels like it would only get colder there onward and it often does – the winds and the rains crush and dissolve the large chunks of snow that lay out there for months, the same winds which had suppressed life now destroy what they had set. And then, one can see the grasses rise through the snow and the flowers dot the trees. From that, which one assumes to have been dead and stagnant, comes a sign that life was always there. It only survived in decay.

Summer

Summers are absolutely beautiful here in the flower city. It never gets too hot, and rains cool down the weather whenever it gets too uncomfortable. The days are long and the sunsets at 9 pm with their long shadows and the reds make the whole place look like a few places I have seen in my dreams. There is this laze which sets in even in the life people lead here. Now at its most fertile, this is when humans come out – we are the decay which feeds on this tree from the top.

Why did I ramble about the weather of Rochester? I do not know. Maybe this is my ode to it.

 

Guitar: Giving Up To Continue

“Makes me want to quit playing the guitar.”

“I should sell my gear on eBay.”

While conversing with my roommate, KK , as Guthrie filled the apartment with his brilliance through a mere television speaker, I realized that my pessimistic approach of quitting the instrument (or at least the influence of that feeling over me) upon seeing better players is not the correct way of dealing with insanely talented guitar players. The right way would be to keep playing and gain a higher appreciation for the person and his skill. Recognition of the fact that you shall not be the best should not be the end, it should be a sigh of understanding that you are only a human not capable of yet another thing – but, so what?

The joy now comes from the discovery of a small lick or an embellishment which makes me appreciate the player even more when I understand what was overlooked for years in my favorite song. As religion seduces a new convert through its rites, the initial fascination of a player focuses on antics and speed a performer has to offer; and this matures and often slows down as he grows to seek new sources of inspiration. And he finds himself playing and enjoying music he had imagined he would never like.

No wonder they have called it a spiritual journey.

On Freud & Jung

Dreams play a key role in the respective psychoanalytic theories of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.  Freud argued that dreams are “the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious,” whereas Jung asserted that “dreams are the fertile soil from which most symbols grow.”  Each adopted very different theories about the nature and significance of the dream, however, and very diverging strategies for interpreting them. Compare and contrast Freud and Jung’s ideas regarding the nature of dreams.  Which do you find most appealing and why? Which has the most efficacy for interpreting works of art? Finally, above all, which theory best acknowledges the ethical or moral dimension, that is, the act of taking responsibility for one’s own dreams?

With the end of the 19th century, dreams had lost their mythical qualities as messages of impending doom from the divine. The Interpretation of Dreams sealed this by questioning the composition and the reasons for the dreams we have, it also set the foundation for psychoanalysts to develop and to disagree on. Freud’s analysis of dreams came from the core belief of there being an unconscious which controls one’s perceptions, actions and thoughts. Though Jung and Freud ascribed to different frameworks for their psychoanalytic methods, their ideas were grounded in the fact that there is an unconscious and a conscious mind. In 1913, Carl Jung parted ways with Freud and the conflict was mainly because of his rejection of Freud’s idea of life energy being a purely sexual one. What Jung did, I feel, is that he questioned Freud’s own confirmation biases by putting them into a more encompassing box for which Freud was not ready. This is a commonly seen confrontation between geniuses, where two rigid worlds collide on the same ground they stand upon.

While Freud believed in a primal libidinal unconscious to be the sole explanation of human action, Jung saw it as an important force, but that which was not alone in shaping our minds. He went on to further subdivide the unconscious into the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. Unlike Freud, who believed neuroses to be only rooted in childhood trauma, Jung also believed that the repression of traits by the individual themself, as the ego wishes no association with that thing or trait, caused neuroses – thus repressions can happen throughout one’s life. Another reason for what might have led to these differences can be seen in the interesting parallel of both Freud and Jung being the sons of men who were a religious authority in some capacity, the former’s father was a Rabbi and the latter’s was a pastor – their relationships with their mothers also differed. A maternal authority in the case of Freud and the lack of, which Jung substituted with his own understanding or anima, explains exactly (in a very Freudian way) as to why the two men might have differed. The inclination of Jung towards Eastern religions is his anima, which could identify and relate to,  and thus sought, its presence in the Eastern cultures where gods exist in both masculine and the feminine forms. This was something completely neglected by Freud to the point where one could safely say that most of his observations were Eurocentric. Though, Jung was more accommodating to the other views, Freud’s views formed a stepping stone without which probably we won’t have had the clarity to grasp Jung’s ideas.

On Dreams:

According to Freud, dreams are a wish-fulfilment, which is a response to the repression of our unconscious primal urges – these sexual urges are kept in check by the society but are always present in our minds. The dream-work must allow the release of this pressure of repression, which the censor tries to regulate, else it would lead to neuroses. Dreams address to these these developmental milestones by making it possible, as an interface, for these thoughts to be comprehensible. Anything and everything was grounded in the Freudian idea of the Oedipus Complex, but these had to be first dug out, identified and ‘cleaned’ to be understood as the symbols that they are. The experiences of the day, which condense into imagery (an individual imagery compared to a symbolic one) in the mind, hold some meaning which points back at what went wrong. A psychoanalyst would, thus, interpret these symbols and almost reverse-engineer it down to what might have been the cause and put it in a way that is tangible to the patient – it is a dive from a leaky boat of this real world into the sea of dreams to bring back up what might have caused the holes. Meanwhile, Jung’s idea of the dreams included the collective unconscious which he believed to be the instinctual element we have inherited from our ancestors. What we see in our dreams are symbolic representations, not of the Oedipal kind, but instinctual. These go much deeper into the humanity’s heritage and thus span culture. While Freud, for example, would look at anything in a dream that was pointed as a representation of the penis; Jung would add more room to think by saying that the penis in itself could be a representation of something else. The personal unconscious would thus work with the symbols from the collective to hint at what was wrong and would also try to fix it. Freud saw dreams as a day residue from previous day, integrating the information as a continuation of life while Jung saw dreams as a separate integration not related to real life with new areas of psychic exploration that could provide sudden burst of personal insight. But giving Freud his due credit, the Jungian instinct could be seen as a more developed form of the primal unconscious which he talks about. Freud’s only mistake was that he focused solely on the sexual element of it.

Religion & Dreams:

Both Freud and Jung also had differing opinions on religion – Freud, being anti-religious, saw it as a mass neuroses which sought to establish a parental figure for an individual. Jung saw religion as the tool to reach self-realization, which was also a form of psychotherapy. The knowledge that had enlightened Siddhartha to become the Buddha was this Jungian self-awareness and management of mental suffering.

He went beyond the scope of Abrahamic faiths and Graeco-European myths which influenced them to study Eastern philosophies and faiths. And being the rational man that he was, he did disagree with certain aspects of them, (as grounding one’s beliefs completely in one story or fable can yield to biases as held by Freud), his ideas encompassed their teachings as well. Studying the symbols from the East, he could, in a way, back his theory of there being a universal collective unconsciousness. Thus, the Jungian individual as being a loose collection of living sub-personalities – as a plurality loosely linked into a unity – could be one of the reasons why pagan cultures had gods for such human attributes. Emotions had always been personified as gods that transcend the psychological entity. Jung saw a constant interaction between dream and the reality where dream occupies uncertainty and fleshes out an unknown reality. Dream does its best to express a reality that is beyond conscious comprehension. And as all of this is very real when we are asleep, dreams might just be the temporary oceanic feeling of oneness Freud addresses to, where both matter and the mind are united.

Science of Dreams:

Freud had a hardline physiological explanation for his hypothesis of dreams, which relied on the presence of electrical activity in the brain during sleep. It must be noted that until then the existence of electric activity was known, but its behavior had not been studied until much later. Freud thought that dreams function by keeping us asleep for longer whereas Jung saw them as a way to reintegrate the traits to be reassessed. Sleep, according to Freud, was the best when it was completely dreamless –  ie. there ought to be no mental activity but modern day studies have shown otherwise. Jung’s explanation was beyond what can be called scientific at that time, he believed in there being more to just than the firing of the neurons. The firing of the neurons in the brain was not random but was something that generated an abstract structure. Now, we can see how science has taken us to a point where we question reality itself through the existence of multiverses. There is another theory which brings back some science into Jung’s ideas. It has been suggested that sleeping provided us an evolutionary advantage. People who get adequate sleep live healthier and have lesser chances of developing mental problems. The explanation is that the ancestors would dream up the anxieties which would influence their decision making in the real world, thus increasing the chances of their survival. And perhaps this is why a collective unconscious exists that stays omnipresent in the realm of dreams. Another interesting thing is that the influence of Jung’s thoughts on this collective unconscious memory is also visible in Freud’s Civilization and its Discontents. It is just that Freud saw it as an anxiety that society banked upon to survive while Jung could have seen it as what had made the human society survive – two sides to the same coin.

Realizations from meanings:

Freudian interpretation of dreams is more about looking into the past to explain what was while Jung uses it to pave way into a productive future. I feel more in line with Jung’s ideas, though both the individuals were in their own way trying to help people out – I feel that dreams hold some key to a future. One such personal experience has been of a recurring dream I had had of my teeth falling in clumps, which I immediately informed my parents about. They were shocked and the fear was very much visible on their faces, because for them, this meant that a harm would come to the head of the household. My father, who at that time had been battling cancer during that time, died a month later. I think of this dream again and again, as it holds both a Jungian facet as well as a Freudian one. The hardships a family must face for a long period of time when a member suffers from an illness, such as cancer, provides so many inputs that get repressed over time. Looking up the meaning of this dream tells us that it commonly hints at illness in the family – I see it as one such symbol from the collective unconscious. The question is, as Jung might have put it, was I awake back then to realize and learn from it?

Creativity & Art:

Humans are bound to interpret symbols, we seek patterns in everything and that is what sets us apart from rest of the animals. This is both a boon and a bane. While we process a vast amount of information on a daily basis to survive, the intake also consists of what we have not used. It needs to be explained. And dreams do just that. Rightly so, Freud believed that there was something really informative to dreams. In the generation of these explanations and ideas lies creativity and thus comes the influence of dreams on the arts. While Freud believed that the dream had to be a slip through the censor (thus almost having a attribute to its nature), Jung believed that the dream tries to communicate with the individual as clear as it can. The dream, thus, can be considered to be the birthplace of thought just as how the artist is the birthplace of culture. Jung saw creativity as the push towards the unexplored which was sourced in the realm of dreams. It is supposed to be a place where anyone and everyone (regardless of how they are in waking life) thinks in images.

Ancient cultures did so by attributing these dreams to a power that was beyond their explanation, and this might have been the very source of myths and stories which were later represented through various paintings, stories, plays and sculptures. Both Freud and Jung believed that the birth of mythology and literature was from the dream and that they shared the mode of information presentation through a narrative structure. Though dreams bear a relationship to how one’s day has been, it is also nature speaking of its own accord. Jung believes that the dream happens to you because nature creates it – that means something is thinking within us. But once, the myths and stories were found have much more than what the gods would engage in, a new approach was presented where dreams and the recurring themes within them were discussed differently by creatives.  Dali and Hitchcock immediately come to mind when it comes to artistically exploring the inner facets of the mind through this non-religious Freudian lens. An example, that too an extreme one, is of the mythological stories across cultures with the theme where a mortal woman gets raped by a god. The symbol, though explained back then through stories of gods, still lives in the form of women having dreams of being sexually assaulted. Cultural norms also play into account on how the dream in itself gets interpreted – and this includes Freud himself. And as we know that most of his patients were not completely cured of their neuroses, it does tell us a lot about how at that time, an interest in the topic of childhood abuse and whatever piqued the interest of the times was used as an explanation of dreams. This is also a point that Jung in a way frees his postulate from.

Freud sees art as having no value but yet being something which we could not do without. Art, through a Jungian lens, is what our dreams have made out from the massive inputs we receive both as individuals and as a collective. It needs to be analysed by the mind  and this analysis can lead to a spiritual self realization, but also shake one’s grounds of belief entirely. This self realization can be therapeutic and thus art can address to this, which is a release by itself of the images in one’s mind that need to be shown. The Jungian theory gives a more responsible approach to the individual by putting the power back into the hands of the person, they can learn from their dreams themselves and use it as a way to better themselves. It hints at action rather than reliance on someone else’s explanation of one’s own reality. This process can be spiritual or religious but it is creative nonetheless – we might think of creativity in a very traditional mindset as being able to write or draw but there is much more to that. Creativity exists in all forms of work. There have been countless cases of mathematicians dreaming up solutions to the most impossible problems, at times with a divine intervention – the genius Ramanujam would often attribute the knowing the answers to the toughest mathematical problems to the Goddess of Learning, who would tell him the solution in his dreams. And in other cases, people try to achieve these states, to learn more about themselves through meditation or medication.

Numerous writers, philosophers and artists have tried to explore the realm of dreams but none can be sure except for that it is yet something really uncanny and subjective about our lives which we have become completely used to. What might be someone else’s dream is either a very unpleasant or intriguing experience for the other – and that is what, I feel, certain art films and artworks aim to address. Jung’s mere realization of there being a self which spread beyond this mind and that there is an collective unconscious that connects us might just explain for this fascination with dreams and all that is dream like. Then again, the ideas of Freud (as he had postulated for the human mind), stand in between and within these newer like in a city with an ancient past.

On ‘The Uncanny’

In his 1919 essay titled ‘The Uncanny’, Freud describes the notion as a ‘hidden yet a familiar thing that has undergone repression and then emerged from it’. It is a confrontation of the subject and the unconscious, and the repressed impulses which reflect as an irreducible anxiety back at the real world. Freud was one of the first few to discuss the concept of the uncanny – here, he starts by analyzing the word itself and the various meanings it might carry. Both the German words, unheimlich and heimlich could be considered to be the two faces of the same coin wherein their meanings almost blur over each other. The essay further delves into the myths and fables with themes that are known to cause this feeling of uncanniness. But as it could be easy to make vast generalizations from a handful of examples, Freud also draws very clear lines through careful explanations for different situations where the same situation might not be uncanny. He also states that the uncanniness is what pushes the set reality of that experience or story towards what it shouldn’t be – the formative elements which pull the observer in through the details which reinforce a reality can only then be broken down by the dissonance that results in uncanniness. In ‘Playing with Dead Things’, Mike Kelley adds more color to Freud’s ideas by putting it in the context of the realist figurative sculpture and how it has been perceived and what it has stood for. He refines the concept by studying the representation of the human form in sculpture, and our interaction with the inanimate through lenses that cover religion, death, aesthetics, fetishes and culture. Each one of the causes given by Freud for this uncanniness, is demonstrated by Kelley through examples from human history spanning cultures. While Freud looks at this uncanniness caused by us being reminded of our mortality & a challenge to our expectations, it could be said that Kelley directs the dialogue ahead, beyond mortality and to the building of such expectations.

Kelley’s assertion encapsulates both the characterizations of the uncanny presented by Freud, where they arise either from what our ancestors have experienced or what one has experienced in the childhood. The ‘uncanny’ is supposed to remind us of our own Id, our forbidden and thus repressed impulses which when placed in uncertain situations remind us of infantile beliefs in the omnipotence of thought. The super-ego, ridden with Oedipal guilt, feels threatened by this as it fears symbolic castration via punishment. Also, the example given by Kelley about the Church trying to discourage the use of sculpture was in a way this very uncanny feeling it had towards the pagan relics of one’s mortality. Though, the Church in itself would also thrive on the fear of one’s own mortality, it could not comprehend in the same way how pre-Abrahamic cultures had used sculpture. Thus, a super ego at a cultural level was now trying to check whatever remained from the early stages of this ego’s development. Though, it eventually had to come to terms with the use of sculpture for religious purposes, one could safely say that its attention might have shifted on another such pagan issue. I think Kelley’s examples include much more than what Freud was trying to demonstrate through the folklore. The mention of ‘unfamiliar familiarity’ and ‘familiar unfamiliarity’ also ignites countless examples in one’s mind that must be mentioned in brief. This goes beyond the arts and into the sciences where discoveries of ancient artefacts are still met with speculation and fears regarding their origin and working – an uncanny feeling wraps such findings. Another example would be of the uncanniness that is felt usually by newer cultures towards the traditions and customs of the older cultures – there might have been remnants of it within these newer societies that give rise to fear. One could even attribute this to be one of the reasons for the Oedipal Complex, where the child experiences what his father did, through him, and ends up in conflict with him.

The infantile narcissism, which still holds ground in the mind of the adult, projects itself onto other objects as it tries to form doubles that give it the assurance of immortality. It mutates, with age, into a recessed space where its own assurance turns into constant reminders of its mortality. This struggle of the self, to stay alive, question reality while also constantly being aware of its own fragility, keeps it torn between inevitable death and the constant desire to create its doubles. These doubles can range subjectively for people, some may wish to live through their artistic work while others would strive to get statues of themselves made. Others might wish to be immortalized (or at least preserved) through their collections, which for them, capture the time and the intangible aspect of their lives. Society in itself pushes this conflict further, especially when it pertains to the aspect of death and birth. We still follow certain rites, across cultures, that hold some primitive ground in them. Thus, there arises usually a feeling of uncanniness related to these topics. The desire to get an expensive coffin or a well crafted tombstone is just another manifestation of what the Pharaohs thought when they witnessed the pyramids being erected. Only the expectation of an afterlife has turned into a wait for resurrection, but there is always this will to still live, somewhere after and in between. And while we are struggling in between this conflict, I feel, we end up creating something.

On ‘The Ego & The Id’

The first statement, from “The Ego & the Id” (on the ego being primarily a bodily ego), makes the point that the ego is dependent on the external world, ie. the conscious self that observes, processes and responds cannot exist without the constant stimulation presented to it. It must rationalize whatever it receives from the real world. But then again, the self should also view itself separate from the outside world so as to preserve itself and not ‘dissolve’ into it. The ego, thus, an organization of the mental process, must arise from the Id itself.

Since the ego forms the interface from where an individual responds to and gets stimulation from the outer world, consciousness could be considered to be what covers this interface. All of this, as it rests on the Id, is in fact the part of it that has modified itself after interacting with the external world. Though ego’s development comes from the nucleus which is the perception system – the development of Id from the instinct, and ego being built on the Id, introduces some room for unconscious to exist within the ego’s reach. Since the consciousness which ego puts forth to the outer world is indeed standing on the boundless unconscious, it affects whatever the Id eventually responds to. Though the ego feels that it is an independent entity, its actions and desires are always in line with that the Id wants. The ego must also operate according to the reality principle, working out realistic ways of satisfying the Id’s demands, often also compromising on satisfaction to avoid negative consequences. It stands on a middle ground between the Id and the outside world (and its stronger manifestation existing within as the superego), trying to make the Id conform to societal rules, while also trying to make the world conform to the Id’s innermost passions. This conflict often leads ego to an anxious place, if not a guilt ridden one. For the human race, our instincts work to preserve oneself, survive and procreate – these are hard wired into our unconscious. Put simply, when we assume that we have made a rational choice, several layers below, it is nothing but a primal desire we are responding to by assigning a rational meaning to it.

The perception here refers to external input and whatever the ego has tried to understand of it. Any lack of such, that is, an ego which leans more toward the super-ego or is unable to explain these actions to itself results in psychological problems and/or coping mechanisms. I feel that the implications of this claim are a validation to Darwin’s then-recent work from a psychoanalytical perspective.

Through the oral and anal stages of the psychosexual development of an individual, the faces of superego and the ego show up and cause early conflicts with what the Id has set up for itself up until then. These have been observed by Freud as the Oedipus/Electra Complex where the parent is seen as a competition for what provides pleasure and even preservation.

At the very beginning, all the libido is accumulated in the Id which in itself is driven purely by the pleasure principle – the early stages are the years where the Id is ‘testing the waters’, ie. it could be considered to be reaching out, knowing and setting its outer layers (consciousness) accordingly to what works and what does not. The pleasure comes from the outside world to serve the Id, thus the pleasure arising from a satiated Id is what paves the way to the narcissism observed in children. But Freud does state that auto-eroticism precedes the formation of the ego – this is the point when the child views his or her body as a source of pleasure. Since narcissism is defined as an investment of libido in the ego, the ego and narcissism must take birth at the same time. The Id sends part of this libido out into erotic object-cathexes, whereupon the ego, now more mature than ever, tries to gain control over the object-libido and tries to force itself on the Id as a love-object. The narcissism of the ego is thus a secondary one, which has now been withdrawn from objects.

Narcissism is analyzed through examples which discuss the early hold of an ego-libido in homosexual men, how children address to the object libido demands of the parents and how love (which is an object-libido investment in an another individual) between men and narcissistic women plays out for both the parties in an imbalanced and often conflicting way; a strong emphasis on either one depletes the other and is definitely not healthy when paired against the opposite, as in the myth of Echo and Narcissus. What Freud does make clear is that love, when reciprocated back, makes up for the disappointments and vulnerabilities that come with it.

In the two essays discussed here, the development of Freud’s ideas pertaining to the structural model of the human psyche can be clearly seen to take form. Conflict is a core pillar being universal to all of Freud’s work so far. Whether it is the conflict between the individual and the herd (in Civilization & its Discontents) or the individual’s invisible war against their own self, conflict is what Freud might as well present as the element of being human. Another interesting aspect of these essays is the exploratory yet a ‘surer’ dialogue than the hypotheses Freud presents, doubts and contradicts often in his later work. The impact of Darwin’s work can also be seen where the primal Id could be the common connection to the compounded conscious experience of our ancestors. Or maybe it is another father-son conflict for yet another essay.

Originally written as a critical response paper for a course.

On Freud’s Oedipal

In the article ‘Ardent Masturbation’, Leo Bersani compares the methods by which influential thinkers of the west like Descartes and Proust presented, questioned and convinced their audience of what they thought was the truth about the world they are in. While questioning the self-appropriative nature of ontology itself in this piece, Freud is examined through his interpretation of the subject-object narrative in the Oedipus Rex. As per Freud’s view, when simply broken down, the story of Oedipus was about a son’s wish to possess his mother and eliminate his father. What was missed was that the aggression towards the parent was not directed by the child but came from the aggression and self preservation drive from the parents who abandoned him to die such that the prophecy they had known of wouldn’t come true. What Oedipus did in the years that followed was to only avoid the fate of being the one who murders his father and sleeps with his own mother. It is fate that wins, rather than anyone’s desires to preserve or to kill.

The given remark of Bersani, when thought of at the level of the civilization, sets the role of the father that protects yet also acts as a threat. This role could be best assigned to an authority such as a government. It is this authority that keeps us safe, from what could be said to be the primal within and the hostile exterior world. The survival of this authority is based on the control over the sexual urges and confusions of the society, which could be analogous to an child exploring his or her phallic stages of psychological development by seeking pleasure from and assigning it to different objects. This rivalry is at root in all conflicts at a social scale and thus the reform, where the child becomes his own the father through a sacrificial murder, is the bloody struggle of a revolution. The entire idea of questioning the established narrative to protect or lay claim to what we feel is naturally ours (resources, personal rights etc.) can be seen at the core of all revolutions and reformations that occured in Europe. Even now, in a society that has probably been at its healthiest, safest and at the peak of its freedom, we still see this in a constant strive to better and overthrow what exists.

The rivalry and challenge to authority is not exclusively directed to the male parent but also the female, as was proposed by Carl Jung through the Electra Complex. But there is another facet to the female authority in the story of Oedipus, where it doesn’t play accomplice to what the male has to say. The Sphinx is the representation of the feminine authority that dominates and punishes with much deadly a force than what the father would unwield. This female figure is not only a match when it comes to physical strengths but is also cunning. Her suicide shows the intensity of this dishonor felt after having Oedipus solve the riddle. This reveals the other controlling end of vanity that results, as Freud suggests, in females when the reverse Oedipus Complex is not properly addressed.

Bersani sees the story of Oedipus more than just a tragic story of a family but rather as a struggle by human consciousness to gain autonomy, in which it separates itself through struggle and recognizes itself as separate from the object realm, with ‘crudest sexual fantasies to the most refined scientific inquiries and philosophical investigations.’ From a Cartesian perspective, it can indeed be the individual gaining control over the forces that made him, creating that demarcation between man and nature which is ever so strong today, more so in the developed world. But then again, there is also a yearning to get back to it, which could be said to be the wish of becoming that father – the illusion of control that is laden with guilt that we as a developed society exhibit towards the world around us.

But when the child identifies with his father, this is the points where he submits to authority and gradually ends up later being a father to a child like himself, choosing a mother that emulates what he had found attracted to in his own. The conflict repeats almost like a ritual – a sign of an illness according to Freud but so essential to human existence. This is where the differences between Occidental and Oriental philosophies show their face, especially relevant to this issue.

The Oedipal Myth, in a way, does largely pertain to the thinking of the West, at least to how it works in the sub-dermal. I feel that Bersani limits his statement safely to an Occidental perspective because of the Greek influence on Abrahamic faiths, which eventually influenced the Western thought. While the Old Testament was largely about an enigmatic father figure exhibiting his authority, usually through severe punishment, things took a different turn in the Bible. Christ’s life in itself was all about questioning the establishment and his crucifixion could be an equivalent of the child murdering the father (or a part of him) thus being bound by guilt. God, or a symbol of his, was brought down from an unreachable place, humanized and murdered by his children. All of this lies at core of what Freud presents through the story of Oedipus – the fact that the son must murder his father only to be reborn again as his son. This influence from more recent and influential stories might have played some role in Freud analysing the myth in this way.

In eastern philosophies, particularly Hinduism (including Buddhism), examples of father-son conflict do exist but they go beyond the mere dialogue that revolves around the claim and access to the mother (the closest being of Ganesha being decapitated by his own father, Shiva, only to be established as a new divine entity by replacing his head with that of an elephant – an analysis of this scenario interestingly correlates the trunk of the elephant to that of the penis and discusses how Ganesha is a celibate, thus ‘put in place’ by his father’s authority) – in the rest of the cases, the father was to be obeyed and there are countless stories about sons being sacrificed for the preservation and sometimes the selfish needs of the father. This approach does show up in the passivity of the eastern thought where historic reforms at social and political level have not been as aggressive as in the west.

The Oedipal Myth, as interpreted by Freud, does not directly influence or play about in the modern Western culture but its theme of challenging an authoritative figure has the essence of what could have led to the influence of Judaeo-Christian thought. It should also be stated that the outcomes of it are not a universal phenomenon but the conflict between the parent and the child is a universal one.

On ‘Leonardo, A Memory Of His Childhood’

Provide a brief critical précis of Freud’s classic speculative essay on Leonardo. Why did Freud decide to write about Leonardo, and what evidence do you find here of Freud’s own personal feelings of ambivalence, doubt, despair and hope?   Is there any evidence that Freud identified with Leonardo? Does Freud’s mistranslation of “nibbio” undermine the entire argument according to Meyer Schapiro? What is Schapiro’s central point and does it strengthen or undermine Freud’s position?  Do you agree with Peter Gay’s remark that Freud’s reconstruction of Leonardo’s early emotional development “stands—or falls—on its own account.

In this essay published in 1910, the Renaissance polymath’s life is analysed by Freud as a puzzle with many lost pieces. Though largely speculative and even flawed in its logic and core derivations thorough mistranslation, both DaVinci’s work and accounts, of what apparently is his childhood memory, are used to construct the backbone of his personality. Surprisingly, Freud, who considers art to have no real use or value, relies mostly on Leonardo’s art to analyse him. This also amplifies Freud’s own contradictions as an individual where he surrounds himself with ancient art in his room and travels the world to see archaeological wonders and collect these artifacts yet claim all of it to hold no value in his eyes. Freud commences this essay by stating that he wishes to bring a more human face which the other historians and biographers tend to overlook when it comes to writing about greats like Da Vinci. With whatever little information he has available, he tries to fill the gaps in our understanding of the artist. Freud takes Leonardo’s childhood, of having been reared by two mothers as a huge influential factor over his sexuality and creativity. The lack of a father in the initial years of infancy and the passivity of his father towards him even after having been around also acts as an explanation to his lifelong childlike curiosity with which he pursued the phenomena of the world and the rate at which he abandoned them. Despite of Leonardo coming across as a man ahead of his time who was not understood, often accused and alone, probably like his single mother, Freud did maintain that he would not have achieved what he did without this almost tragic upbringing.

Freud considers Da Vinci to be one of the most influential and important humans to have ever lived – his outlook in the essay is of reverence and understanding. This work could also be considered as an homage by a man who wishes to seek similarities between himself and someone he admires, this he does first by bringing him to the level of a human who can be analysed (which he explains at length incase it might feel blasphemous to some) and then questioning and speculating on the aspects of his life as if he were just another subject. I feel that Freud feels a time spanning bond with Leonardo, where he sees him as a man who would have exactly understood him even when having an entirely different approach and perception towards the world. Though the essay also aims to explain Leonardo’s dormant and almost maternal homosexuality, it also defends DaVinci. Bringing Freud himself, as a writer into the analysis, one can feel an almost maternal level of understanding with which he writes about Leonardo in this which just might have been the reason why this was one of his favorite pieces.

Freud saw himself, through his analysis of society and mankind, having reached a place or a zone and now was curious to know the way which led Leonardo to the same vantage point. The essay reveals much more about Freud, to me, than it does about DaVinci. Some interesting points are that Freud directed his mental pursuits to what was within, and most of his explanations were centered around the primal facet of mankind among which sexual force was the most dominant for both the individual and the group. Leonardo’s pursuits were directed to the outer world and very visibly avoided the topic of sexuality. Also, Leonardo was met with disappointment from his peers for having abandoned many projects and his scientific pursuits were not really recognized or shared with the world back then. This was there even toward the end of his life where he had found himself to be closer to alchemists of the day than the artists. On the other hand, Freud was almost a celebrity and an influential figure in the field of psychoanalysis which in itself was swinging between a  being a largely speculative pseudoscience and a proper scientific field. While Freud claimed to not feel any use in art and considered himself to be a man of pure reason, Leonardo gravitated toward the sciences through art – the paintings led him to study light and color which ultimately led him to study the physical sciences in a greater detail. The ways with which both the individuals explained the world around them also differed, where Leonardo would try to demonstrate and explain via experiments, Freud would rely on observation and explanation. I feel that Freud was very well aware of these differences while also knowing the similarities that bound them. I would also go as far as to say that one can feel Freud seeing a more feminine side of himself in Da Vinci – the same, if not less, level of rationale and awareness that completely leaves Freud fascinated to some extent. And like Freud, Da Vinci also had some contradictions about himself – while he was a person who did not eat meat and had an almost pagan interpretation of nature and its forces (highly feminine qualities for those times), he would also design weapons of war and show an indifference towards that nature as something beyond our control.

With these differences, he also connected to Leonardo on multiple levels placing both, first and foremost, as natural scientists. Also, Freud’s own sex life was largely inactive prior to his marriage and after the birth of his children. He also was involved with Wilhelm Fliess – a romance that might not have been physical in nature but definitely was strong. Freud, in this shows Leonardo almost like a hero whose flaws and difficulties made him what he was. A childhood full of questions that cross into the realm of adults is another commonality, in a way, with Freud’s own upbringing in a conservative Jewish household, his eventual abandonment of the faith and the anti-semitic climate he grew up in Europe during those days.

Freud did indeed misread the translation of the word “nibbio” from Oskar Pfister’s work. What was meant to be a kite in Italian, Freud mistook as a vulture and continued to defend the decision to confirm to his own bias. This breaks down most of Freud’s hypothesis regarding the bird  which Peter Gay has rightly skipped in his version. The bird which was supposed to be a vulture, thus, is not Leonardo’s mother nor is it the representation of Virgin Mary. Schapiro sees this memory of a kite touching the infant Leonardo’s mouth with its tail in a much more plausible way. DaVinci had a lifelong pursuit to bring flight to mankind. Most of his designs concerned flight in some way or the other, this also meant that he closely studied the physiology and the behavior of birds in flight. The bird and its tail, which acts as a rudder, could be considered to be a manifestation of those essential actions in flight over his breathing, his life. The tail touching an infant’s mouth could also be viewed as a literary pattern that Leonardo was aware of and repeating. This pattern has been observed in various cultures where a prophecy or a blessing is handed over to a mortal by a bird’s tail touching the infant’s mouth. The works of Valerius Maximus, which employed this pattern, were also prominent around the time of Leonardo and must have had some influence over what he saw as symbolic in either memory or in dreams. Maybe, beyond Freud’s explanation of dreams of flying being a yearning for improved sexual performance, Leonardo saw himself as the forebearer of the gift of flight to mankind and this lifelong pursuit gave him these memories – the ego of the artist in him saw it more than violation by a bird but a divine message.

Freud assumes that all was well between Leonardo and his mother, which also fits well into the story he is trying to build. Schapiro points at Freud having had dismissed the contents of one of Da Vinci’s notebooks called Envy, in which the kite is the opposite of a model good mother. This brings in a fair balance to what Freud tries to push as a largely peaceful and admiring yet highly impactful relationship of the artist with his mother. All in all, if some other details about the family were considered, one could very well state that Leonardo had not forgiven his mother for his illegitimacy and abandonment at a later age. The same would also be reciprocated by the mother as the shame and burden of having reared a child out of wedlock. Once either one of these becomes possible, it isn’t important who points the barrel of hatred towards the other first. Both of these arguments by Schapiro undermine Freud’s position in a manner that is superior in its research.

I agree with Peter Gay’s statement of this reconstruction being self supported on the assumptions it makes. He mentions in his introduction that this was Freud’s favorite essay but also the one which exposes Freud’s flaws in his chain of argumentation, also thus becoming the favorite of his critics. Surprisingly, Freud was also aware of its flaws and even though it was initially claimed to be as ‘psychoanalysis’ conquest of culture’ – a large part of it was argued back into the realms of pure speculation. In my opinion, the assumptions made by Freud would have held some ground thad there been no mention of Leonardo’s memory of childhood. The symbolic interpretation of sighting that bird, and that too a wrong one was a spiral Freud chose to go down for himself. Once that was done, the vulture became obvious to spot in the painting and the mythical relations behind it could quickly be found in Semitic myths – a common parallel of this in contemporary times would be the numerous conspiracy groups for almost everything that exists. The only positive aspect I see of the essay, like the conspiracy groups, is that it opens up an alternate path that might hold true under certain circumstances for someone else. Or, at least it makes an individual on a similar path relate to a person like Da Vinci at some level, and for that, one could say that Freud succeeds in humanizing him in a way for all of us. Just by initiating this dialogue, one could say, that the legacy of Leonardo stays alive through all the absurdity and the logical reasoning – probably that is what Freud was trying to do after all in Leonardo’s own ways of play.

 

On ‘Civilization & Its Discontents’

Freud’s opinion on art and beauty in context to the culture and the civilization comes from a place of pure reason which does sound sensible at first but then later exposes the biases and assumptions which Freud himself is vulnerable to as a human being. For example, though Freud largely dismissed art and beauty, he used to keenly study the life of artists from his psychoanalytical lens – he studied, appreciated and even critiqued the work of Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo and Dostoyevski. This stance softens in his statement on the description of beauty and the importance it holds to civilization – it is almost like a surrender of a very rational man to something which he cannot explain. That, and the fact that he had travelled and collected art gives, in a way, a look at how pained yet fascinated by art the man was. But, that is something which applies to all of us too at an individual level – a person who claims to appreciate the beauty in the world around themselves would have as sensible a definition of it as someone who is always dismissive of it and or is cynical about it.

He also mentions in the second chapter of Civilization & its Discontents the difference in the working of art for the creator and the viewer. While art has the tendency to sway the artist in a direction away from ‘unpleasures’ (often to places of delusion if left unchecked), the viewer experiences it from behind the safety of its temporariness. I would add to this by stating that any change in the way either of these roles work, that of the creator and the viewer, results in bad art or cult-like obsessions.

For me, all art is sourced in religion, or at least inspired from an unachievable ideal that is beyond our reach – this might be a godlike father figure for which it is created as form of reverence, or it might just be a state the artist wishes to see the world as or himself in – whether it is political in nature or a means of rebellion against the existing systems, it is an aspiration for the better even when it is showing the grim face of the society (shock art). Through Freud’s lenses, both these scenarios are states of delusion where an alternate explanation of reality aids the individual to avoid the ‘unpleasures’ offered by this world. Though initial idea of art was completely dependent on religion of that time, art has now become a tool that competes with religion in certain cases – this separation and shift in the attitudes of the societies is observable where art which exists within and without religion becomes aimed at it when it is on the outside. Though this might be because of historic events which have made art a tool to  express concerns and achieve higher levels of self awareness as a culture – one must remember that all the great works of art have arisen amidst suffering and in case that ideal is ever achieved, there will be nothing to dream of nor anything to create towards. This is similar to the example Freud presents with respect to religion, where the unpleasure needs to be for an alternate watered down path of religion to exist for the masses.

The point about art being accessible to a few is indeed a true one, though anyone can create with almost anything available as a raw material or a tool – only a few enjoy the act of this creation. The phenomenon of being in a flow state shows very clearly as to how the process of creation can be meditative. An example that immediately comes to mind, arising from the common task of writing, is shuji or Japanese calligraphy where no stroke is alike and every stroke captures the mood and emotion of the calligrapher. Though an activity requiring a high level of skill, it is described as something which is highly meditative for both the creator and the observer. As said, even when art is accessible to anyone who wishes to create, it is accessible to viewing and appreciation only to a few who can afford – I see it as something which only holds value once the bottom layers of the Maslow’s hierarchy are satisfied. An example of this is the presence of public art spaces in my city, which is the capital of the country India – these brilliant and at times expensive installations stand unnoticed, unappreciated and often vandalized. This is very much different from how public art exists in developed countries where the primal needs of the vast majority are fulfilled. Art is best appreciated when the viewer has a full stomach, a comfortable home to go back to and someone with whom he/she can discuss its meaning – only then would they stop and smell the roses. I have yet another example to back this opinion of mine, there is a huge difference in people opting for fine art education in developed countries versus the developing countries where the focus is primarily above what interests the self in fields that provide job security. Even if not wished for, this brings in the aspect of class into art and design – within these societies, art remains exclusive to the ones who have ‘self-actualized’ while outside these regions, the creative works from these societies are either often outright dismissed or presented with a blanket that keeps them separate (and at times beyond criticism – a positive bias).

But this difference also brings to mention the concept of beauty. Freud looks at beauty as an extension of the sexual, he looks at beauty positive sexual traits which we assign to objects and secondary sexual characteristics even if the primary sex organs themselves are not really considered beautiful (which does explain the development of object-fetishes for many individuals) but doesn’t fully explain the oceanic feeling of oneness in countless other situations. This explanation might just be the weakest among his attempts at explaining this beauty.

Looking away, the complexity and subjectivity of beauty and art in itself explains their purpose. Beauty is subjective not just at an individual level but at a cultural level as well. This subjectivity also influences what the art of that society addresses and considers important – in a way art does find a purpose as a documentation of history, an interpretation free from what the writers of history see the same events as, where the dreams frozen in time can be stared at long enough to view the aspirations and the spirit of those times.

Originally written as a critical response paper for a course.

Savelized!

First came their forefathers, thumping their holy books over our heads and telling us straight up but talking down atop from beasts we had never seen, that we were savages. With that they tried to save us and shape us, shave us off of our primal deeds. I was taught that what I had understood until now was wrong, that they knew better about me, my family, my faith and my people. They allowed me in places I anyway would have had been in, just that making my presence more visible to themselves is what justified the conquest that civilized savages like me. Bound but clothes removed, I was taught to teach the others like me, that only the master best knows the servant.

In a battlefield, bringing death at my own brothers, I am a weapon against the things Master says he protects me from – my roots. But I am also his shield.

Now come their children, riding high on virtue and pills, looking a bit like me this time though; telling me that I am misunderstood – pointing at my skin or hair, reassuring me that I am beautiful yet hated by others because no one understands me like they do. I am misunderstood because they know better about me, my family, my faith and my people. They still allow me in places I anyway would have been in, just that making my presence more visible among themselves is what justifies the inclusion that civilizes savages like me. Unbound but a cloth wrapped around my head now, I am taught to teach the others, that only the master best knows the victim.

Away from the carnage in a new battlefield, I am a weapon against the things he says he protects me from – this time, his own roots. But like then, and now once again, I am also his shield.

On Paper

I.

I just wish to know if there is a word for the feeling which is more of an urge, an urge to write on an empty page. To fill it up with letters and curves or anything else that necessarily need not be read, but not let it be so blank anymore. And sometimes when it is a ream of paper or even a half, the feeling compounds as if it were measured by the thickness of the pile.

I get fidgety around piles of paper but the only thing that stops me is the lack of ideas I have at that moment. It is strange how emptiness reflects back from page into this mind. And someday I will have enough ideas and time and then I will fill them all up, perhaps in that pile of paper I will come across and create the word I seek, for this feeling which is more of an urge.

 

II.

Paper is expensive. Paper just looks cheap. – that is what my father said. He said this often when we solved math problems in the empty margins and spaces of the Sunday newspaper- the idea was to be resourceful while also being free to err. The correct solution was then copied down to the notebook, which was tamed and boring compared to the newspaper and offered no joys like working on an already used page. The space in between the photos and the text came in new structures and horizons with every page to embrace the graphite infestation of the weekend we were to seed in it. It really confined the solution and also taught me quite early in life to work inside a framework which was empty & dynamic and hence made up like almost all frameworks out there in the real world. A decade later yet every now and then I still find myself writing in between the margins, articles and columns of old newspapers but usually it is only names of people and their numbers, the symbols are gone and it is not the same.

I feel bad for every space and margin on a Sunday newspaper that I missed filling up with my infestations so far.

 

III.

I liked to draw everyday, my mind could fill up any blank page within minutes but such is the privilege of being a child I suppose and there isn’t anything special about it. Yet we lose it quick, this usual reality which later stays and becomes a gift to the few while some of us spend our entire lives trying to claim a part of it back. My mind consumed paper and paper was all it needed.

So, my father would get two A4 sheets for me from his office, five days a week for almost six years. Sometimes he would also get the flowers from his office on Fridays so that they didn’t wither in loneliness in a dark room on a desk over the weekend. Or maybe he hoped that life would seep away from them slowly in the presence of our family and the comfort of a home. You tend to find the deeper meaning in the actions of boring romantics like him, all you have to do is remember them even if it is too late. At times when he was over-encumbered, the stems of these flowers used to stain my pristine paper sheets with light drops of pink or green because they shared the same hand for a brief distance. I drew around them – these epitaphs of flowers.

I used to be done with both the pages (all four faces) within an hour or two. I suppose it is the only thing that I could claim to have done religiously in my entire life. When I cut down on the drawing aspect because of the hectic later years of my school and the many new passions that I had found, my father would still occasionally leave a few sheets at my study table as a reminder, or maybe as a way to pull me back into what I had always loved doing, or just as a way to remember that dead child which was my past and still his son.

 

IV.

I collect used paper and fill its unused sides. Reused pages deserve a book just like books printed on one side of the page deserve to be filled up on the other. Contrary to what many might feel, paper feels even more precious to me now than ever. Paper is alive. It feels like the bearer of information who should not be discarded away after hearing only the news he was supposed to bring. He should be allowed rest and asked about the other aspects of his life.

This brings me back to the ream again. A ream, or maybe less, of used paper deserves a word of its own more than just a ‘pile’ or a ‘stack’. The feeling is the strongest when I write on such reams, their fibers now having aged and absorbed the moisture like man gets rigid with his own wisdom. The pile gently gives in and pushes back against one’s movements as if it were alive, as if it were a skin – a characteristic which fresh pages lack. This feeling, if not the others then this, I definitely hope that there is a word for that.

 

Seeds Of Paranoia: Bengaluru’s New Year

– A newspaper reports of ‘mass molestation’ on the new year’s eve in Bengaluru with nothing as proof but pictures of people who look hammered – both men and women! But the blurred faces in the photographs instantly fire something in our heads which resonates with the word ‘victim’.

– While still questionable, one should not completely rule out that there must have been a good amount of scum in that crowd, there always is.

– Someone writes about her experience and ‘fight’ on social media rather than going to the cops. The excuse of maintaining anonymity is not there anymore but the legal method is still not approached.

– A few ministers from a distant decade make comments which are alright within their realm of understanding but the context is misinterpreted and propagated even further.

– CCTV footage shows nothing of the sort happening at the event. The reporting media outlet makes up excuses when asked to provide the people with further proof.

– One clip of a single attack arises BUT from a different part of the city. Media mobs it and pushes it along with the now questionable piece of news which started it all.

– The culprits of this singular event are apprehended. It turns out they had been stalking the victim for a while – not a case which is exclusive to Indian sex offenders.

– Still no proof of the aforementioned ‘mass molestation’.

– Meanwhile, Indian men get schooled by almost everyone on how they should not rape a woman when they see one.

– International media joins in. The information gets more muddy at their end.

– Everyone projects their righteousness through open letters, articles and hashtags (which slyly shift the aim now to the statements of the ministers rather than the actual issue) while circle-jerking each other aggressively.

– At this point, it is no more about justice, truth or even women’s rights but has rather reduced itself to a game of ‘Look at me! I am nicer, more aware, sensitive and hence better than you. Now like my post and share it so that I get featured somewhere.’

I would really love to see any progress made once that train of thought appears in a movement.

Koyaanisqatsi

Koyaanisqatsi is one of the finest examples of an experience very rare in life when art is surely able to carry you to a different place. I have rarely seen films end on such a powerful note but then again, I have not seen many movies like this. Though today was the third time I was seeing this and it blew me away harder and better than it had the first time.

The part which totally dissociated me from myself and in towards the film and its message was in fact one of the ending scenes where the exploded engine of Atlas-Centaur plummets through the atmosphere back towards the ground.  As it seemingly falls free yet tumbling against an unseen force which burns and bends it whenever it resits it too much, within a few minutes the now-absorbed viewer might suddenly remind himself to check whether this fall is really that long as shown or rather the director’s obnoxious little trick. The slow rotation and the burning up of metal section by section with each spin is terrific to see. This huge piece of human genius, dreams and effort condensed into a mass burns away right before your eyes against the bluest of skies.

Countless other interpretations could go in there and I am sure they do because this film is purely at a level that is meditative yet not focused on a certain message or agenda. All of this happens while Philip Glass takes you back to square one, back into the ground from where you came alongwith the melody of a primitive beginning now louder and more confident than ever – worried but optimistic. What else can represent the human spirit and life better than this I really do not know.

Familial

I do not know how it is for most people (and cultures), but for me, I relate family to late summer afternoons. It is usually during the summer break when either I used to visit my cousins and aunts or they used to come over. Every summer was one to look forward to.

Here in this darkened room where curtains dance with the persistent light from the outside to the draft of a cooler humming in from the window it blocks in some corner, keeping the ruthless summer along the edges of this house full of ten people or more – silent, well-fed and sleeping they are but something wakes me up. I assume it usually is a gulp from the bottle of water that has sweat itself over the table by now because someone forgot to put it back in the fridge.

They sprawl in threes and fours, the women and the kids; probably because this rest came unplanned though was foreseen as they fell asleep while chatting about the heavy lunch they had had. I glance over their calm faces, lost in their own dreams and worlds, they will never be this carefree or silent when together and awake. It is like a congregation they are participating in but one which no one else, not even they themselves, but only can I spectate..

Gracing With Uninvited Presence

I glided peacefully through a traffic jam keeping my footwork balanced between the clutch and the brake. While the traffic in its movement held the spirit of a lazy teenager trying to wake up for school on time on the first Monday morning after the Christmas break, its slumber broken by huge and hasty leaps, the music happened to be just the perfect thing present on my phone for that moment bringing in the much required calm in a mental state where usually there are waves of idea-slush gyrating inside one’s skull. It tamed and shaped what was otherwise a clunky and monotonous washing machine into a wine glass inside my head – a containment which is clear, fragile, smooth and reflective.

Post yesterday’s degeneracy and brain splitting discussions followed by a ten hour blackout, I had to drop Ishan back to the metro station but the traffic made us opt for a quick trip to McDonald’s which with each passing moment became more important than ever. Doing a very careful and an oh-so-smooth parallel park, I stepped out and cinematically pulled in the entire evening for my lungs to see. Even with my eyes closed and through the minor hints of the smells of petrol and rotting garbage could I tell that each breath held the bright navy blue sky accompanied by the warmer hues of the street lights below – the moment had been objectified, packed and successfully consumed. I was seeing with lungs.  

Right now, I am in a video shot at a boy’s ninth or tenth birthday party. I am blissfully lost in the background while oily crispiness of capitalism waltzes on my tongue. All of that but my mind is completely present at the other table as if it had been invited in person. I noticed how the mothers here are acting lamer than the kids. I can feel the jealousy and the competitiveness of the modern world behind their silly jokes and pleasant smiles. The conversation hurts intelligence on multiple levels but that is nothing in front of the most important issue at hand – the birthday boy really needs to cut down on his television intake, it would ruin him! Three and a half gulps of ice tea and a passing thought which is extremely funny pull me away for a while. The second time I return to the partying table less critical of things and people, I realize that a part of me in a moment of stupefied joy has been captured in a complete stranger’s memory. Someday the birthday-boy might watch that video with the same cringe I have right now and perhaps he would be able to spot it on the face of the weird guy sitting at the back who keeps turning around to look at the ruckus his friends are making.

After this absolutely silent yet a very engaging dinner, I further navigated through the traffic like it was a video game. By the time I dropped Ishan off at the station, the skies had darkened but the orange streetlights stayed steady dancing in and out of my car dashboard as I finally drove back home singing ‘Happy Birthday To You’ loudly with my windows rolled up.

 

A Mascot So Corporate

The crowd’s warmth was too overwhelming for the poor air conditioning unit which was sweating and gasping with struggle in its own unique mechanical way. Everyone and everything felt on the edge and ready to break. It is simply amazing how even the slightest unexpected increase in footfall on a particular day can make private banks turn into old government offices. In the chaos, my wait took my gaze to something which is so commonly found in such environments and hence is as quickly neglected. It was either boredom or the lack of sleep which brought me to this conclusion but sitting there in the foyer of that bank I realized that plastic plants are the one true symbol of corporatism.

Think about it, what else holds better characteristics than this object which stands silently in boardrooms, desks and waiting areas across the world. Here, even the shadow below this artificial plant stays stagnant because the fluorescent light above its head won’t let it go anywhere. The light itself has a duty to ensure that there is nothing such as a night or day within these walls which can hinder the flow of shifts and capital. Don’t the businesses wish for employees like this plant – always present, looking and feeling human yet requiring negligible upkeep? Don’t the employees too not wish for a similar life like this plant’s – no need for self improvement because of a secure stagnation, no effort in a comfort zone without disturbance, challenges or growth but a rare cleanup just enough to brush off the dust. Is it not sad that these plants are manufactured and brought in specially inside buildings to mellow down the artificiality that is bursting through every corner and surface?

Pretending in this way that things are alive in the heart of the corporate machinery is the moment when we must stop and re-analyse our lives and histories among all the other things we have done in the name of progress.

For The Soldier

Soldiers are men who are sent in someone else’s battles under a flag which convinces them that the fight is their own. The discipline and the courage that drives them to stand first against a rain of ammunition directed towards their land shines through the grime, the blood and the smoke a war brings. Wars have been filled with instances that show the presence of the human soul in the mayhem which surprisingly feels misplaced but I believe wars are the most human thing we can witness. Wars are a cultural heritage of man that teach us about the fatal mistakes of our forefathers and in some unfortunate cases encourage us to repeat them.

I saw a very moving video today, it resulted in a buildup of something profound and sorrowful. The video is a footage from The Kargil War and shows Indian soldiers returning the dead bodies of their Pakistani counterparts to a party that has come to take them. These men were probably trying to blow up each other to bits only a day before this meeting and now in this moment they stand in the most gentlemanly order inside a bubble so exclusive that it makes them the closest to no one else but each other – even more than what they hold for their respective countries.

War never ends, it only changes form but within its flames you could always find two brothers looking at each other through a barrel as long as the men in comfortable rooms behind them tell them to do so. Both of them have a common wish that their sacrifices will be recognized and honored whether they live or die. The sad truth is that no medal or gun-salute back home can match the unsaid respect they hold for each other even if it is focused through a machine gun’s sight.

Vedic Fashion Comes With A Health Warning

As I strolled the lawns of a college through the lines of white tents standing on a budget destroyed by a student leader, my gaze was fixed straight through the movement of flesh and bone on nothing but the food stalls. Cuisines which I could not recognize let alone pronounce lay waiting for my tongue. The only problem was that in this fest, like most fests I had been to as a student, I didn’t have any money.

Planning with, for and against hunger, I found myself climbing a small hill that led to a stage which shot the latest techno tracks in hemispherical concussions towards the crimson skies. All I could imagine was a paper plate in my hand overloaded with samples from each of those food-stalls with oil glistening in the bright lamps that lit up this dream of mine. Sadly, the only thing that glistened right now was my salivating tongue.

The music reverberated from the buildings that towered around the stage and as I tried to make sense of it through the bass I ran into a man in a grey suit. He was speaking in a heavily accented English with two of his friends who seemed more like his bodyguards. His beard was cut short, he had a piercing in his left ear and had covered up his sunburnt skin with a lot of makeup – he obviously seemed important. As he tried to avoid me standing there and gazing at him, I instantly recognized the man. It was Baba Ramdev. The man himself. The man who bent himself through the masses to climb and sit atop a pharmaceutical empire that is giving international consumer product brands a run for their money. The same sodium laurylsulphate that Unilever sells gets a special Vedic property when sold under his name. He was the Yoga Prophet of Profit. Now his gaze and the quarter of its flicker caught this fool looking at him again.

I decided to not creep him out any more and started a simple conversation with him from which I learnt that he had been invited by this college to judge their fashion show- the main event of the night! I was heavily confused at this point as nothing was making sense and really felt like recording all of it because this was unbelievable. The conversation ended as quickly as it had started and a crowd began to assemble around us. I realized that the stalls would close soon and made a dash towards them to get a plate full of that unhealthy filth. The music started again, louder than before as the first model stepped on the ramp to the beats of an artist who was really famous in a chamber in my head. I looked ahead as I ran down the slope to see the tents drift further away with my ever increasing speed. I think I had been cured.

Sabse Bade Bhaisaahab

It did not take much for the truth to come out, only a mere twelve years even when it had always been present. What was more shameful than Salman Khan strolling out of the court after driving over a few people sleeping on the pavement was the support he got from his fans all along. Money had obviously influenced the Indian Judicial system like it always does but fame and popularity had also blinded the masses against a person’s proven misdeeds. He had accidentally killed one of their own and still these men cried and whistled when he briefly appeared and waved at them from his balcony. Celebrity worship took a new low when people started taking the effort to justify his actions. The shamelessness with which witnesses were bought off, evidence bent and the denial still running strong at the end of it was not only appalling but also a lesson about how in this country, you are a God if you make money by entertaining the lowest of the low.

Some defenses which the fans had were that Salman Khan is a great philanthropist and a helpful soul, his good deeds should sort of ‘cancel out’ his mistakes (and crimes) etc. It is true that Salman does a lot for those close to him and beyond but that has never been a legit defense in the court of law. What is surprising is that these defenses mostly come from the well-educated hard working subset of fans who usually support the correct issues (some sane voices have discussed this problem). It is great to see these very people use the tool of inductive reasoning in the way which really makes one tear up and break into a slow clap for their forefathers who fought and survived to see their collective genetic perfection stand up, sit down, log in and type this. They are still not paying enough importance to the fact that a man died because of him! All I have is a message for them: ‘Just imagine yourself on a fine evening walking down a pavement back from work with those glorious ideas behind that pretty face of yours. In your life, you hold value in some people’s eyes and you do not want to disappoint them or yourself but then, out of nowhere, an SUV swerves in and crushes you into a stew on the pavement. Your blood and bones crust up like pizza toppings before the cops arrive. Your entire life and its worth is summed down to (maybe) 50000 INR and your ageing parents don’t have the will or the money to fight this superstar whose twitter feed looks like a slambook of a fifteen year old. And then in the end he walks free.’ This sounds like a perfect plot for a Salman Khan movie with a social message! Wait… what?

We must get this simple thing straight – Salman made a mistake and he should be punished for it like any other citizen of this country. Or maybe I want to live in a world which is too far to reach or too deep in my dreams because here in the real one, some animals truly remain more equal than others. But even if, say, in a distant future should I forget this hit-and-run case, I would never forget Jai Ho. I am sure that I would be diagnosed with cancer anytime in the future just because I watched this film. For that if not for anything else, Salman Khan should definitely be hung.

 

Calm

The earth has now finally flattened herself to rest. Who knew that her chaotic dance would come to this calm soliloquy. The winds do not carry the soil with them anymore and the water has eroded everything that stood around it. Everything has settled down as the new uniform muddy floor a few feet below the waters that cover the entire planet. There was no movement, no waves, no life but just the water profoundly reflecting the dead sky.

But not very far from the spot where the first rock carved by man had stood was the last rock he would carve. It jutted just a few feet above the water and was the only place left to stand on. On it lived the last man who spent days carving this island into what now looked like a marble coffin in the sea. It might be difficult to have a point of reference in such a place but I have seen men find a home between two steps in a stride. He worked without breaks and only rested on moonless nights. The tides did come in perfect intervals and he would simply let them pass under him. The mud was uniform but it moved and it raised him and his rock to the crests when the tides came.

It had been decades since he had last spoken or heard a word. he could not remember his own name but he remembered the name of the last human he had seen and it was a young man who called him The Scientist. His hands had completely cracked with exposure to the sun, the water and the salt. With these hands and whatever little fuel and metal that had remained, he built a capsule in which he had shot him into space.
Now sitting alone he thought a lot about his fellow men and how they used to make things out of rocks to leave behind their proofs of presence for the generations to come, proclaiming in one tongue or another rather simple words – “Yes! I too had lived.” each such wail only wanted to be found in this ocean filled with noise. Everyone had their rock carved and left it here to be found but The Scientist was sure that no one would see what he would leave, even if it were the best rock ever to be in this sea.

Overview

The girl stands on a mountain of rocks and through the crevices she sees people below her. Dressed in white shirts and black ties they are running as fast as a crowd can run. It is yet another lost civilization that runs in circles in that underworld lit only by fluorescent light. She waits and keeps looking at them till her medication wears off. She returns to where she was, standing on the staircase of the subway station and looking through its corners at the busy platform below.

High Action

In the middle of a very intense chase, Batman and Joker walked into a shop full of customers. Obviously, everyone else present was stunned and did nothing but stare as both of them carefully walked around the store exchanging glances. They acted as if they were there to buy groceries while keeping away from each other yet in some weird form of a chase. They didn’t want anyone else to recognise them even though both of them were fully dressed in their respective costumes. Only the carnage they had caused outside lay between the distant police sirens and them but in here their frantic squeaky footsteps broke the uncomfortable silence within the store.

I was present too, and the shopkeeper who had just printed out my bill slowly leaned forward and said, “Yeh saale dono roz gaanja pike yahan aake pakdam pakdai khelte hain, aap chalo yeh toh dhai ghante aisei lage rahenge.” This was Gautam’s city.

Hey Dog!

Fidgeting with my phone while sitting on a park bench, I am waiting for a friend to show up. The only sound is of the hissing garden hose, it has leaked and flooded a section of the field and those plants are definitely going to die. There is not a single person to be seen in the sun which beats down on the living and non living alike. Usually I too have no business of being out here on this afternoon, but I still am. Sesh is important.

And then I see them, the boys, a pack of dogs heading somewhere. They are striding determined, but with an urgency. They have a goal and they are on a journey. One of them limps but he matches up to the speed of the pack. The brown one is the alpha, and right behind him is his sidekick, slightly smaller but looks the sharpest with his black spots. If there was a Quentin Tarantino movie on dogs, it would be this.

In admiration, all I am capable speaking in my mind is a question, to them I ask – “Oh, Brave travelers, what takes you where you go – is it food, is it the riches, is it the fair-maidens, or is it war?”

They diagonally cross the park and exit through two gates loosely chained just enough to let one person pass in between them, provided that they bend under the now infused chain and lock. I used to be puzzled by the flakes of rust in my hair whenever I used that entrance.

And then I see my friend, scared, standing in the corner waiting for them to pass. It is a tense few seconds for him. “Hey Dog!” – I call out.

From far flutters the flag free

Atop dead sandstone

A wheel of progress that rolls on the path of peace

crushed by the warring saffron and green

And below, within the rock

Are men with the same flag in their hearts

but colored a bit more with their choice

Mostly with one of the two colors that fight or

anything new what this palette of a land may provide

Anything but that fucking white

 

 

The Academy

Today, sitting in a tightly packed Auto-rickshaw which was shared among seven other people, I witnessed myself sitting in what a discourse between Plato and Socrates would have been like in the modern era. I was shocked how much I was like them in my undergrad years and how most of those common visions and beliefs I had shared were now replaced by something more realistic but impure and vulgar. In twenty seven minutes I carefully heard their views on poetry and writing, drama societies in the city and their culture, politics, media and newspapers, men losing their brilliance after marriage, college privatisation and their extortion tactics, cellphone technology and surveillance, revolutionaries and finally it came to the descriptive praises of the breasts of their newly married college senior’s wife. No one had been paying any attention until the last topic was mentioned and now it held the attention of each and every man in that vehicle. You don’t really need to clear the SAT to appreciate that one. This was exactly when both these young philosophers had reached their destinations and gotten off. It was a pity that the others couldn’t follow the brilliant discussion now and had to stay but the pain of missing out on this last piece of immense knowledge was evident on everyone’s faces. I could now see what the world was all about. The Internet cooed into my ears with the slightly cool but pleasant September wind, familiar words and the answer to it all – “Tits or GTFO!”

A Poem for Us

The cosmos laughs on us my friend, the cosmos laughs on you and me.
As we fight battles or make love through the night
Like the fools we are, we try to subdue its laugh with gunfire and passionate moans
giving meanings to its billion toothed smile.
Yet we can’t help but stop and look up, every now and then,
On this night and more, my friend, the cosmos laughs on us.

Dreams: Immovable

This is about another dream I had today in evening (since my sleep cycle is absolutely wrecked and I sleep during the hours when the world wakes) I was in my usual place of great memories, my home in Pandara Road and this time I was playing a song. I started off with singing the first two lines of a Nirvana song (cannot remember which one) and completely went into a different but original melody which was soon joined by someone on the violin. This is one thing that I had actually enjoyed after many many days because I haven’t really done anything after my band dissolved into a pile of corporate plebs. Like anyone in such a situation, I told myself that this was really good so I better write it down or record it or at least play it a couple of times just in case I forget so I proceeded to perform it several times before an audience which seemed to love it and they expressed the same concern about forgetting something so good. While playing it to what seemed like a portable Zoom field recorder I realized that I was in a dream. This is when things started to slip. I wanted to remember this piece and carry it with me to the real word but apart from memories nothing else would leave this place. Even the recorder would not come through. If there was only a way to be sure of storing it in my memory without any loss or alteration. This song was truly a good one and at least it was one thing that would get me to the point of getting up and recording it in its entirety. So as the dream collapsed and I stood there in my old bedroom repeating the tune loudly to myself so that it would stay with me. I came back and woke up in a house which was absolutely dark, beautifully silent but could not stop the voices of the children playing outside after the sun had set. My mother was out somewhere and my dog was not barking like a maniac, which is rare. A silent bubble like my head, this home, consumed most of its inhabitants directly or indirectly while the world played outside. I tried to recall the song and it was not there, not even a trace, not even the slightest hint of the melody it started with. The sounds were silenced as I entered this bubble of reality, or did the dream silence the sound itself? It didn’t surprise me as I have become used to these but it did really hurt me because I had not been inspired like this in a very long time and I do not know how long, if ever, will I have to wait for the next beam of inspiration to come through.

Face Off

Your hands usually tremble when you are holding a gun to the face of your own lies. They followed you for life and grew on you till you completely forgot why, when and to whom you were lying to. But the sun has set and this shadow has grown and now is the perfect time when you caught them in form, standing next to you.

The lies stare at you.

Only the weapon in between will break this silence for good. But before you pull the trigger you decide to end it with a dramatic but necessary line.

“I…” you start, but before you can continue they cut you off – “WE.” They say.

It is too late.

Cities & Sunsets

I look at images of big influential cities slowly embracing the evening with sunsets that turn the sky into a painting of a holy battle between the cold and the warmth. The glare of the day’s dying god bounces off the colossal glass structures diffusing into a mellow orange. I can’t help but drift off and think of the lives of the people out on those streets in that moment, holed up in their apartments, coming home from work early, putting on their shoes to go somewhere else, feeding the cats, returning from funerals, studying for an exam the next day – I try to see them all. I consider the story of each and every one of them and feel like a benevolent crease of the universe experiencing itself but then my head begins to hurt which makes me quickly stop. All of them so precious but all of them will someday cease to be. Limited and occupied, I realize, I am just like them.

And there is something very special about sunsets. People write about mornings all the time but to me, mornings feel limited – they have a single direction and purpose and are generally the same for everyone. Sunsets are where one sees possibilities. If you need to really study humans, look at them during sunsets – the variance in their plans for the remaining hours will overwhelm you. It is the time when people start getting fidgety at work, it is when the self-enforced monotony starts losing its grip. And at a particular moment, not a fixed time though, it breaks – as if it were waiting for that one streetlamp to turn on earlier than usual.

Looking far into the future, these buildings that proudly reflect the evening will also fade away into new structures of either either man or nature. Only the orange hue of days like these would probably remain. I wish it does. It is all that matters.

Ends

Many men have gone beyond this line of reality. Some came back as learned heroes or messiahs of their times while the others returned as wanderers of the streets, completely destroyed by what they had seen.
Step over this line which is in your mind and you will find a place where the gentle breeze of the heavens fuels the fires of hell.

A Postful of Revelations

A study was conducted where five test subjects were made to consume six cakes of Maggi everyday for two months. The other five were given an equal dosage of noodles manufactured by other brands.

The lead was given enough time to be absorbed completely into their systems. Results show that the subjects had a constant case of diarrhea and unusually high levels of attention while watching Varun Pruthy’s videos. It should be noted that the latter case is no different from the sights and sounds a diarrhea patient experiences when alone.

A shockingly intense observation was made when the other five test subjects were made to watch the same videos of this actor. They pleaded relentlessly that either they should get cancer or this particular actor should stop acting. The study was brought to an abrupt but a sad end when one of them hung himself in his ward with a bedsheet. No notes were found, only that he had neatly written the words ‘Scoop whoop’ on a wall with his own feces before killing himself.

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For The Junkie

Only a glimpse is what I can afford to give as I drive past this man while the rabid columns of traffic dance around him. Under the hammer of this June summer sky of Delhi, he trips harder than the burning pavement he sprawls on.

I cannot tell what drug did he choose to hold hands with but I am sure it takes him to that paradise every single time without fail – something life really sucks at. Drugs are more dependable than life when it comes to delivering happiness. That is the reason why everyone has that one substance of choice to depend on.

The buttonless shirt and torn trousers are not his but they have been long enough on him that he could easily call them his own. His bearded face is caked with dirt, like the walls of this city, it has seen the hot days and has braved its dead cold nights. But this face does not give away what this man was and what he could have been. It guards that story very well and all one can do is guess.

Now I try to look for him in the rear view mirror just one last time but he has blended back into the street. This trip might be his very last and he might never wake up in that dried spot of his own piss. I cannot help him and I would never know what became of him but there is this feeling of comfort within me, slightly dark but pure – Not sure if there is bliss after this life, I am absolutely certain that right now as he breathes on that concrete slab, he is in a better place.

When Vaibhav met Lucy in the great Thar Desert

This is one of my favorite videos on youtube and I bumped into it sometime back while surfing on the ‘high waves’ of the internet. As harmless or fun or stupid it might seem to you, it actually demonstrates the exact opposite of what the mainstream demonised image of narcotics has been painted in our heads by the paranoid and authoritative.

The video is a narration by this young man, probably named Vaibhav who goes by the name of Eddy Gordo on youtube, to his camera while he roams the great Thar desert on the peaks of his LSD trip. Contrary to what many might think, this is a non-violent man somewhere in a loud introspection getting a bite of that colorful slice of life. Transitioning between laughter and weeping (because of the sheer beauty of what he is experiencing) he talks repeatedly about the beauty of life and how he loves everything and everyone. His experience is positively positive and his narration definitely an honest one.

Now there already are many videos of people on youtube recording themselves tripping on god-knows-what but this one makes a cut because of its rawness, the guy is not ashamed of what he is up to or how he speaks or what troubles it might cause if the video ends up on public domain – nope, he doesn’t care. The description of the video feels like he had to write it all down in that one impulsive moment, an explosion of feelings where you really do not care about sense but only need to put it out there on something or someone.

I won’t say more but I can’t help but quote Bill Hicks here:
Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.

[I looked up his youtube channel and he has a few other videos of himself trying out bhaang and other spiritual gateways. Also, being the curious researcher I am, I found him informing the viewers on another video that he was bothered by the cops because of this video but he firmly believes that he did not do anything wrong and will continue to explore the new levels of his consciousness. Well, Good luck Vaibhav, ride safe!]

Dreams: Leaving Behind

And then there are dreams where you fall in love with someone- a figment of your imagination so perfect that none of your real experiences could ever match up to it and even if you know slightly somewhere that it might not be real, it still remains too beautiful to leave and you try your best to stay.

This person whom you had never seen or met before suddenly becomes everything and all, you get to know bliss in its purest form and with all your guards down, here is a world where you are not weak if you cry.

But like all dreams, it ends and you part without getting a chance to say goodbye, you know you will never meet again no matter what you do and it hurts. You wake up to a soaked pillow with just a stupid wish that you could meet them here someday. Now, within minutes, this sorrow turns into a painfully restless feeling when you cannot even recall their face any more. That is the beautiful stranger we all have known.

The moth

A moth fluttered through the crowded metro coach today and hit ten things before flying straight into my face. It was frantic like moths usually are and zig-zagging through columns of hands clinging to the grime covered bars and rails, I saw it as a living specimen of the restlessness everyone felt within.

I sent it away with a quick nod of the head.

After making a round and managing to not get killed it came and perched on my arm. This time I let it be and noticed its magnificence closely. It must have been purely psychological but there was a warm feeling where it sat. It kept sitting on my arm while I moved through the crowd to get a seat and stayed there till we reached the last stop.

As soon as the doors opened it shot out of the coach like a bullet. I followed and stepped out feeling a bit sad while trying to look for it as the crowd dispersed. (It was obviously foolish of me – what was I expecting? A thank you from a bug? Its phone number? Haha, I do not know)

Suddenly something lightly bounced off my shoulder and I instantly knew what it was. I saw my dear co-passenger rising above me towards the station platform light. He was alone and so was I, that white mercurial bar of photons was all his and even being a tiny creature from some distant end of the pyramid it looked glorious. The thank you had been said.

The Son

Tell us about your sun, they said to the last of us in the cosmos. He recalled the time before he was sent to sleep in a womb made of iron.

Our sun, the fireball of the sky. None like it shone that white yet we drew it so yellow. Its warmth ran through everything that stood and fell. We worshipped Him and tried to understand but it was He who measured us in his flashes of day and night. Because He was the one who was always on time. And even now as I stand here so far away I can feel that I am a part of Him,  in my breath, which is nothing but filled with the scent of that dying star.

EoD

Now the rats run out from their tunnels into the open fields, anticipation still burns bright in their eyes fueled by nothing but the false wisdom they gathered in the darkness. They fought, earned, fattened and grayed in those drains, but now, in the pasture, lazy they stand bright against the green – a flock of sheep.

Greater Waters

Comparison of common words and their possible alternate usage can bring us to very thoughtful mental spaces. These places are usually found by a mind slipping slowly into the realms of sleep, giving it a rush of thoughts in a single go to tire the muscle that shall be drifting for hours through a dream. My friend Praveen and I were brought to the same place while very much awake through a conversation inducing leisurely stroll. The thorny walls of this Mother Dairy, a standard design, towered behind us as we looked at summer loiter into the empty park from all the gates with winds blowing a trumpet of rustling leaves.

The words in question here were –  leher (or lahar) and dhaara. Both the words are so similar and commonly used yet very different. Leher is used in context of the waves of the sea while dhaara refers to a current of a river or a stream. Both refer to the movement of water but one is turbulent while the other has an order even when strong. We saw the faces of parenthood in them, not necessarily universal but a socially defined image of the two genders – the masculine force and clumsiness standing with the feminine calm and persistence. The idea seemed beautiful.

“Look at the leher – unstoppable, raw, violent, unpredictable – the firm hand and presence of a father. He will smash you against the rocks and test you so well before you step against him again for he will have his way. Then comes the dhaara, the motherly tenderness which carries you away regardless of who you are or what you are like, fighting against her is easy but she never changes. She is strong nonetheless and equally destructive when challenged. Stubborn in her thoughts the maternal love will welcome you and take you to the same place every single time.”

Lyrical Analysis: Honey Singh’s Love Dose

The lines are, “Bas jitna aapki beti ek mahine mein udati hai, Ek hafte me meri gaadi utna tel khaati hai.” [English: Your daughter’s monthly expenditure in luxuries and vanity is equivalent to the amount I spend on my car’s fuel in a week.]

The lines, I do agree, are creative and a good way to boast of one’s wealth. But the fun increases exponentially if we take it very seriously and come to our own conclusions. Why am I doing this, you could say that this is one of those things in life which you dislike to the point of having an obsession about. (And boy oh boy, Urvashi Rautela is a beauty for sure)

 

Let us assume that upper middle class independent working women of India in their late twenties spend about 20,000 INR on things other than food, bills and rent (which is also usually covered in cases where the woman is living with her parents – hello uncle, namaste)

Consider that Honey Singh has a Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder (which he had in the music video of the song “Blue Eyes”) which pulls out an urban fuel economy of 5.53 kmpl. The price of petrol in Delhi today is 61.33 INR/litre. With that rate, 361 litres need to be consumed by Honey Singh in a week to have an expenditure of 20000 INR. For this, he needs to drive his Lambo in and around Delhi for (5.53 x 361 = 1996) about 2000 km.

2000 kilometers in a week – Though being able to afford the fuel for that every week is impressive but it is not something which you would boast of to your future father-in-law. Why? Because a cab driver working for a Gurgaon/NCR based company easily levels up two thousand kilometers on his odometer every week. No biggie. This either means that Honey Paaji is bullshittin’ or he just drives his car all day, which still is a definite NO if I were the father here. OK Bye.

http://youtu.be/TvngY4unjn4?t=2m32s

Life, in short.

He carries the corpse of a child in a huge bag on his back. He knows the boy really well, it is him from the past but he doesn’t remember when this kid died. All he can conclude is that it was a murder.
Drunk out of his skull to forget about the boy and escape the rotting smell he goes from one place to another with an unforgiving greed and a hardon that complements it all really well. This is growth as he was told and he is all grown up now.
Seventy summers pass and he forgets about the dead body on his back which is now nothing more than an odorless shriveled mass of elements – a rock whose name he has forgotten.
One day he stops at a place where there is absolutely nothing and nobody to be seen. He decides to rest and looks into his bag and at once his numbness melts and goes through an avalanche of emotions as he stares at the rock it contains. The face in the bag is his own which even best of the mirrors couldn’t show. This is where they meet – the ones who lived and the ones who didn’t, only to know that they were bound by this wall of time which seemed to divide them.
Memories now start coming back and he is running a violent fever, his wails cut through the still air that keeps him pinned down to where he sits but there is no one else to hear him. Despite all of this, crouched holding the bag, it is the first time he doesn’t feel alone.

On, In and About Time

Time, being in it is like being in a smooth glass thread which connects birth to death, point to point. It holds them together while it wraps itself over and engulfs them in its complex strands and layers. These thick knots of time dissociate and confuse us when we stand at these end events. I like how birth is also the other end here. What precedes this end is absence, the synonym for that absence, that state of being a part of your surroundings, that area outside the knot, is death. Were we dead before we were born?

Another (hyper-aware) sunrise

Just like all cycles of nature, what if the universe really does get destroyed and recreates itself again. What if it expands, slows down and falls onto itself only to be so so compressed in the end that it has to explode once more. And I am sure that there is an exact arrangement of atoms, like myself, in a similar moment lost within these uncountable cycles, looking at the rising sun of his age and day. Where ever in time his reality is whether it’s the past or the future, he thinks of that very moment and the possibilities it shows him (as it does here and now) and maybe, even if it is for a second, he thinks of me – a light tug on a thread that I hold in this empty room.

A Relic

Got the straps and the glass replaced on this 35 year old HMT which was a wedding gift to my father by my maternal grandfather. It still ticks perfectly and will hopefully do so for another three decades.

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Both my father and grandfather are long gone, only this physical representation of time stands for now. Through this relic, time reminds me of and mocks my insignificance in front of its unstoppable might.

Dreams: Absurd Film Sequence

I can only recall the last few episodes of this dream before it dissolved into a distant vibration of my phone. Obviously, I do not know how I got there but there was some kind of a tension buildup followed by a release of people and their emotions in a swarm at a harbor. There was a huge cloud on the horizon with sun rays behind it rising upwards to the sky, a clouded sunset against a harbor through which I drifted like a camera operator in a movie set. I landed at a place behind these buildings, carefully walled from each other and linked by huge wooden double-doors.  This was a town of war and I already knew that the frenzy here would never end. People would fall or jump from balconies of their homes or run in small groups across the street, some would randomly fall and never get up but there would be no sign of who or what they were running from, or any hint of this unseen force which was knocking them down. I proceeded to run randomly through the streets seeing everything in my way for the first time but, at the same time, still being sure of where I was heading to. I reached the harbor and it was crowded with more such aimless runners. A ship seemed to stand there like a black mass taking up the entire port, a form which never escaped the corner of your eye no matter where you looked. It was the only thing in that place which had no movement or any other sign of emotion or life. It was the spectator of this dream I suppose. I ran along its length to the nearest pier I could see and jumped off into the water.

Even though I do not know how to swim, here, in my head, I just shot from the pier perpendicular to the port till the cloud on the horizon seemed like a mountain in front of me. I slowed down and looked back and saw the shape of the harbor town with the ship marking itself as its center. Outside the structures on the land and away from the things which crowd and limit your view, in the sea, the horizon encircled me.

Darkness and the cold started to creep in which I took for fear in the beginning but it was nothing but pure isolation. It felt like one of those places in time where you either completely get depressed and insane or you learn more about yourself. It is like a Russian Roulette of meditation where you risk losing your mind to learn alot about everything in a short span of time. I half swam and half drifted to the point of getting bored of feeling nothing but water all around me – I felt like water, water with a head coming out of it.
In the early hours of the night, the cloud was still there taking up a quarter of the sky. Clear skies, no stars, just moonlight spreading all over from behind this other spectator. I cannot call the cloud a ‘new’ spectator because it had been there all along. What a weird day it was. It only got weirder when a school of dolphins came in from behind and slowed down to my pace, it seemed pretty much like a challenge which I arbitrarily accepted. We raced for hours and I used to drift away from them every now and then to see how they would react to my absence – they did, they used to slow down, circle an area in a staggered way till they saw me and I joined again. I really wonder what they thought of me because the challenge was over, there were no winners and I was now in their team.
The darkness slowed down and my dream felt like another dream, the one you get when you are half-awake in a fever. In this state a dot of light caught my eye and without much thought I split from this new isolated family in this empty sea I had found and swam towards this other new world which would probably hold a better story. Dots and distant sources of light, you see, have that effect on me. As I got closer I learnt that it was a very very small island the size of a studio apartment, its existence was probably caused by a furious stem of land down below which tried to shoot up from the sea floor, surfaced and broke its direction, arrogance and force on seeing the vastness of the sky and the sea it had lived under. Nature, I believe, does awe and humble itself in various ways.
The island had a hemispherical hut, a bonfire, a boat tied to a tree-stump and darkness. No one else was there now but I was sure that someone had just gotten up and left. Everything looked like it had been left midway. This absence of a stranger didn’t make me want to stay there either. I felt curious and wanted to find this person who had probably left on seeing me approach. I looked around and saw that the cloud was now gone. Knowing not what I had to do next, I just went to look inside the hut. That is when the buzz came in from all around and grew louder into long and deep pulses of a drone. I realized that the land on which this hut stood was still angry and had finally found someone, a spectator to exhibit his disappointment. Frantically I knelt down and clawed at the ground but it would not stop, my mind was paying way more attention to the sound now. All forms melted away and I opened my eyes. It was 6:50 am.

Sea First

I reached Pondicherry at the end of a day which was just a long and tiresome bus journey through the villages of the Indian South. I remember a distinct smell in the air a few hundred kilometers even before I had reached the town and realized that this must be the smell sailors and adventurers talked of in their books and journals (or maybe my mind was making things up in excitement).

Despite reaching way late into the day I decided to do first what I was there for and head out to the beach. It was night and the beach lights dissolved right where the rocks broke the waves. The roar of the foam and the steady humid wind had some kind of a silence hidden in them. In front of me was a palette of black and dark blues, dotted in a few places by distant boats crawling across the horizon. I wanted to say something to myself but there was a lump in my throat. I had never felt this small yet happy and probably never will. Everything I had read about the sea came to my mind and at that moment I stood there and wept like a little girl. It was so beautiful.

You can just sit and look at it forever
You can just sit and look at it forever

Through Dark

Citizen of the Night
In this static darkness, my thoughts are concentrated on a distant source of light. I do not know what it is but it comforts me. Maybe, even I hold something for it, something important which keeps it there. We hang in this emptiness looking at each other- the more I stare at it, the more I learn from it and the more I remember. And then I recognize this bright dot as an old friend of my race, hope personified, the friend who instilled the same feeling of warmth in countless men like me who traveled in such long and lonely nights.

Rajnigandha: Full U-turn

While on my long commute back from work I noticed that Rajnigandha Pan Masala’s age old marketing campaign changed the theme from its selfish holier than thou approach to rosy pink altruism. From “Muh me Rajnigandha, kadmo mein duniya – rajnigandha khaane waale aisi vaisi cheezo ko muh nahi lagate” it has now become, “Muh mein rajnigandha, DIL mein hai duniya – jab dusron ke khwaab pure karoge tab apna kal bante dekhoge“. Somewhere among all the material gains and fame the product promises its users, a woman named Ayn Rand feels betrayed.