Musings of a Happiness Seeker

2008-11-05T09:51:00.000-05:00

That one. Won.

Fatherhood Face-off (ffoff)

2007-12-30T22:37:00.000-05:00

This is it!! I've found an awesome site that puts your comics on-line for free, and that's where my future posts will go. So please make sure to check it regularly!

Dad-dom

2007-12-20T21:25:00.001-05:00

It's true, I'm officially a dad. Little baby Shivani was born on Nov 14th 2007 at 00:02 local time. There are so many cliched ways of describing the awesomeness of the experience in words that I'm not even going to try. Disappointed? Well, don't lose hope just yet. Starting next week, I'll try and upload a weekly cartoon strip depicting some aspect of the crazy journey called parenthood. Let's see where that takes us!

Which Batman Villain Are You?

2007-04-16T13:32:00.001-05:00

You scored as The Riddler.

The Riddler

89%

Poison Ivy

89%

Two Face

67%

Cat-Woman

67%

Mad Hatter

67%

The Scarecrow

67%

Clay-Face

56%

The Joker

44%

The Penguin

33%

Killer Croc

22%

Mr. Freeze

22%

Which Batman Villain Are You?
created with QuizFarm.com

Signs

2006-11-22T10:26:00.000-05:00

Pictures taken from the net (definitely not mine).

Here you are one moment, living the sub-urban life, increasingly becoming the center of your world, and making Godzillas out of the geckos of everyday existence. And the next moment, Nature grabs you by the balls and shows you something so majestic, so unabashedly glorious that you can't help but revel in the understanding that you are just a tiny smidgen of Nature itself, no less beautiful, no less scintillating.

Driving to work a couple of days ago, NPR fighting for oblivion in the rest of the habitual morning noise, we swung onto US 682 where it hugs the Hocking river, and shoots off a driveway to the allegedly haunted Ridges, where I earn my keep. Before we could take that turn, however, a huge bird alighted on the fence. It was definitely larger than the ubiquitous turkey vulture. We drove past, missed our turn, turned around and drove back. Oblivious to the rush of the morning traffic, not a mile from the town's busiest thoroughfare, feathers glinting in the morning sun, there it was: a glorious golden eagle. Its cursory glance at our passing vehicle held all the dignity of aeons of perfection. All noise seemed to go silent. It was timeless.

Then it happened again, this morning. Going about our everyday scramble to decide what to have for breakfast, what to take for lunch - our overarching issues of the day, we were accustomed to seeing our lanlady's five canine companions potter around the front yard and litter by our window. But as I looked out today, I froze, only to breathlessly whisper to my wife to come see. The yard had emptied, the frigid temperature and frosted ground dissuading the dogs from staying out too long.
And right in the middle of the yard, still as any of the garden ornaments, but oozing life from every sinew, stood a magnificent six-point buck. Proud head raised, broad shoulders poised to spring, it listened to maybe the dogs barking from indoors. I had a brief vision of our neighbors (who had a dead deer hanging on the back of their house for weeks last year) coming out and blowing its head off, but it faded soon. Then, as though realizing how pathetic the little chihuahuas really were, it turned around and walked lazily to the three-foot high fence that surrounds the yard. It stopped when its forelegs were almost touching it, as if it had just noticed the fence's existence. I was wondering if it had to pace back in order to jump, when it raised its forelegs and cleared the fence with such fluidity and effortlessness that I burst out laughing. It sauntered down our driveway and back into the woods whence it had come. Again, total silence.

These moments seem to be Nature's way of laughing at us. Our little fences, our little vehicles, all our ruses to get around our little two-legged nakedness, and if we can't dominate, we pull out a gun (or bomb) and kill whatever (or whoever) does something better (or differently). But in such moments, we are the proverbial "deer-in-headlights", where we stand, in all our nakedness, shocked at the self-sufficiency of a being that is a perfect part of its ecology, awed by the prospect that we still have the choice to follow that path, scared by the very fences that we have built in our way, deafened by the very silence we have disowned.

The Joker's Song

2006-09-08T14:14:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, it almost seems to make sense....

Above: The Joker and Harley Quinn -- Art by Alex Ross.
Below: Lyrics by Alan Moore (taken from "the Killing Joke").

When the world is full of care
And every headline screams despair,
All is rape, starvation, war and life is vile

Then there's a certain thing I do
Which I shall pass along to you,
That's always guaranteed to make me smile:

I go loo-oo-oony as a light-bulb battered bug!
Simply loo-oo-oony, sometimes foam and chew the rug!

Mister, life is swell
In a padded cell,
It'll chase those blues away:
You can trade your gloom
For a rubber room
And injections twice a day!

Just go loo-oo-oony like an acid casualty,
Or a moo-oo-oonie, or a preacher on T.V.

When the human race
Wears an anxious face,
When the bomb hangs overhead,
When your kid turns blue,
It won't worry you,
You can smile and nod instead.

When you're loo-oo-oony, then you just don't give a fig,
Man's so pu-uu-uny, and the universe so big!

If you hurt inside,
Get certified,
And if life should treat you bad,

Don't get ee-ee-eeven, get mad!!

There is always a Higher Vision

2006-06-16T14:23:00.000-05:00

Fridays seem to be the day when everyone is celebrating the end of the work week, the passing of another stint at the world of doing something that one does not love.

"My job is not my life." A person once mentioned that when he goes home at night, after working all day, he reminds himself of his purpose in life, which is not to work all the time. "A job is a means to an end." What end? I sked him. Wearily he said, "I'm still trying to figure it out.

There are three mindsets, it seems, in the working world.

I work because I have to so I can raise money to get things I need (ie food, home, car, clothes).

I work so I can have money to play with and so I can do what I want to do (ie go to the movies, go see a concert, buy an iPod) or save up to get better things.

I work beacause they love what I am doing.

My theory is...if you are going to spend 8 hours a day at your job, it better be something that you like to do.

I beleive that one's Higher Purpose is to transform energy to make change that benefits the Higher Vision. What is the Higher Vision?

You answer that. But I can tell you...it's not making gigantic amounts of money.

Corporate dream

2006-05-30T08:52:00.000-05:00

Scene: Large, cold room with yellowing walls, the smell of disinfectant in the air.

I am walking back to my seat with a file containing briefings on my new client. But my boss is sitting at the head of the room, looking more like an exam proctor than a project manager. This is my "office", I think, nothing more than a large computer lab. I sit down in my swivel chair (God knows I'd always wanted one as a kid) and turn towards my computer screen, my hand instinctively grabbing for the mouse.

But the screen looks different - large, white and oval-shaped, with liquid collecting at the bottom - Wait, I'm sitting in front of a urinal. I realize that the lab is really a toilet, rows of urinals with swivel chairs before them.

I get up, matter-of-fact. So this lab's busy. I'll go to the one upstairs. A voice in my head says, "That's a different department. What if that's busy too?" I know I can log in there, I've been here long enough to use other department labs. I step out into the hallway.

There are children everywhere. They are crowding the hallway at the foot of the stairs I need to take. So it's break-time, that's why the labs are turning into toilets, I think. But I'm sure there's at least one computer available in the upstairs lab...though I don't know what happens there during break-time.

I sidle past the children, a towering, swashbuckling man among a bunch of starry-eyed kids, staring at me in the wonderment of seeing someone go upstairs, a place strictly forbidden to them. I wink and smile at one little girl with grey eyes before lunging up the steps three at a time. She giggles and whispers to her friend.

But I grow more circumspect as I'm out of sight of the kids. The staircase brings me out onto a hallway that looks more like a coal mine than an office building. The floor is covered in slate-colored sludge, and the columns holding up the roof are rough-hewn lignite pillars. And behind those pillars is the large hall that was once the computer lab.

There are rows of niches instead of cubicles, but no human occupants. The niches contain what look like gargoyles suckling out of the wall. Their backs to me, these statues seem to be carved out of, and feeding on, the same material that the room is made of, and the impression is that of pigs at a trough. "Oh," I think, "the experiments." It's then that the floor under me gives way.

The sludge dissolves like quicksand, and a gasp escapes me as I grope for a hold. And slowly, one of the gargoyles down the hall comes alive. About 4 feet tall, it is shaped like a tyrannosaur with a triceratops head. But it is fast, and runs with an almost human gait, its jaws open and its unseeing eyes fixated on my moving arm.

Just then, a shout like a thunderbolt rings out, echoes killed by the sludge around. But the spell has taken effect, and the gargoyle freezes with a startled expression, its jaws melted shut within inches of my fingers. I turn to look at my savior for help, but before I can catch more than a glimpse, I feel his spell hit me. But I know who he is. It's my boss.

I fall right through the floor, Prince-of-Persia style, into a dark chasm filled with spikes. But I'm not hurt, as I have grabbed a spike in each hand, and am hanging in mid-air.

That's when I wake up sweating. I grasp desperately at every visual in the dream, binding it, nailing it down in my memory to recount elsewhere. I think of the chilling dream sequence from the movie Being Cyrus, and the memory of Dimple Kapadia's face makes me sweat even more. It's a full hour before I can go back to sleep and to another dream of death.

Commenting pays off!

2006-05-01T11:45:00.000-05:00

Click on the image to go to the place where I won this! And leave a comment there yourself, you never know what you may win!

Also, saw this blog. Good stuff! Stay tuned.

Wachowskis' Vendetta?

2006-03-24T15:44:00.000-05:00

Ok, I haven't read the graphic novel. Alan Moore's fans are gnashing their teeth over yet another instance of a movie defiling the vision and soul of one of his works. But one of the major fighting points is how one of the movie's early scenes where the two lead characters meet was disastrously re-written. The sequence is this:-
Dark alley in fascist England. Corrupt cops corner cowering heroine. Masked vigilante interrupts, makes short work of villains. He then introduces himself to the girl.
In the book, he's supposed to quote Macbeth. What he says in the movie, to me, is an amazing use of English, celebrating words which are as forgotten as the "hero" his guise represents. Of course, it can leave people dazed, but I just had to go look it up on the Net. Not surprisingly, I found it. Surprisingly, though, the only people to quote it were those ranting against the pompousness of the Wachowski brothers for writing stuff like that, putting it in the same league as the mind-boggling conversation between Neo and the Architect.
What amazes and shocks me is that language seems to have become reserved for times past. Any attempt to shun the predictable, banal banter and colloquial vernacular seems like a heresy. Complex dialogue, intriguing precisely because one doesn't understand it on first hearing, is seen as pompous. Erudition is vanity.

Oh, well. C students can become Presidents.

The Heartbeat of a Dying Star

2006-02-16T14:41:00.000-05:00

The firmament spins in a matter of seconds. To my yearning, a second is still a day.
But we dance our cosmic dance to celestial music, and our laughter echoes through the heavens.
Now, I draw you close; now, you careen away. You glow and dim as my heart skips and gains a beat.

We were both children of the light. We swam the tides of time, ever growing, ever waning.
Till we came together in death, never so passionate, never so alive.
As Now.

Not for us the fate of the recluse, of the poet, of the lunatic. Our dance is our penance, our madness, our poetry.
We are worlds, nay, the originators of worlds. But we are content to fill each others' skies.
And now, my dear, breathe one last breath. Turn one last time away. Spare one last moment of distance.

For this is the minute of our union. The longest minute in our life of aeons, yet the shortest for its ecstasy.
For as we meet, and merge, and shatter, our laughter is the loudest, and our screams pure music.

Sometime in an alternate future...

2006-02-09T15:59:00.000-05:00

The class listened with interest as the science teacher scrawled on the blackboard: "Homosaurs".

"5 million years ago," she said, looking around at the expectant reptilian eyes in the room,"they disappeared without a trace. Can anyone tell me how?"

There was a general muttering, as several half-hearted answers fought for ignominy. Apparently the teacher heard something that satisfied her, or else she pretended to.

"That's right," she said, "Nu'Kyular radiation." She wrote the words on the board. "Homosaurs were a vibrant, intelligent species. But their HeadNewts were not always of that caliber."

"They had HeadNewts?" asked a tiny eft on the front bench. The salamanders in the back snickered.

"Not exactly HeadNewts, Kha'jur," said the teacher indulgently. "The homosaurs chose one of them to lead them, one for every tribe. But some homosaurs told the rest of the homosaurs that they were the chosen ones, although they weren't, and became HeadNewts. And -," she continued, pre-empting the wagging tail of little Kha'jur, "and they fought each other."

"Why?"

"Oh, for all kinds of reasons - let's just say that what the homosaur HeadNewts wanted was not what the rest of the homosaurs wanted. But they used fear and ideology to keep the homosaurs from thinking about that. And to keep that fear alive, they had to fight."

"But fighting removes fear", said a burly, self-important looking newt.

"Only when the fighting stops," said the teacher. "Not if it is fueled forever. Anyway, we can go into that in the philosophy class. The point is, they had done this before, twice before, in fact. But that was the weakness of the homosaurs. Each thought its life was different, its ordeals were different. They detached from history the way their live young detached from their mothers. That's right Kha'jur - unlike us, they didn't lay eggs."

She paused and looked around the class for effect, but some newts were yawning. It was getting close to lunch-time, and they were looking expectantly out of the window-hole toward the pool.

"Then there was the Nu'Kyular." Eyes turned back toward her. "A fearsome energy they learned to release somehow. Our foremost ScienceNewts are working on finding that out even now."

"But," said Kha'jur, unwavering, "what caused this final fight?"

"We don't exactly know," answered the teacher. "But it is believed that a being called Fripress Cartoon Prophet created a clash between the two largest tribes of homosaurs." She wrote the name on the board. "We don't know how it happened, but we have a hypothesis. The scraps of records our ArcheoNewts found speak of the tribe called West, and a tribe called Terro Reast, which kept fighting each other almost since they were founded. When some sort of peace was reached, the false homosaur HeadNewts would find a new way to disturb it.

"But Fripress was someone they all liked because of its openness. But then the West used Fripress to say something bad against the Terro Reast. While Fripress said a lot of bad things about the West, too, nobody paid any attention, because they had something new to fight over, to keep the homosaurs from realizing that their HeadNewts were liars.

"But there were no fighter homosaurs left, because they had been fighting so long. So they released the Nu'Kyular on each other. In fact, the last leader of the West gave that energy its name."

The class was silent. "Hmm...," said little Kha'jur "I hope our ScienceNewts never find the Nu'Kyular."

"Or Fripress," said the burly, self-important looking newt.

Another sketch

2006-01-14T12:36:00.000-05:00

Title: Schoolgirl

A moment...

2005-12-08T09:07:00.000-05:00

I just wanted to take a moment to put down my feelings on seeing the comments on my artwork.

I always felt that pictures run deeper than words. Though some writers can paint vivid landscapes with their words, there seems to be a certain richness that comes with the multiple interpretations available to the viewer of a picture.

Truth is, I'm just as much of a viewer as you are with the work that I'm posting. It's been a while since I did them, and what I think they mean now is sometimes a lot different from the original inspiration that drove me to pick up the pencil. It feels like opening up, like the eerie feeling of looking at oneself as a separate person in a dream. It's fascinating. Your comments make me re-think my thought processes, inspire me to re-invent my ideas, and in the process rejuvenate the embers of creativity that still glow within.

Thank you.

Today's sketch

2005-12-01T11:41:00.000-05:00

Title: The Dance

Oh well, might as well...

2005-11-03T11:52:00.000-05:00

The writing bird has clearly flown the coop (for now, at least), so I think I'll just rest on my laurels for a while and post some of my drawings, a lot of which have been scanned thanks to the diligence of Yadbhavishya and Pradeep. Today's definition for happiness - having friends who can say,
"And since you know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which you yet know not of."
(from Julius Caesar by Shakespeare)

Here's how it works. Take these posts as the pictorial version of Pingi's Joie de Vivre. Take a look, and leave a comment on whatever the drawing reminds you of/makes you feel. Once I run out of my drawings, I'll just post other interesting pictures I come across.

Todays sketch:
Title: Hope

The Fountainhead in 4 days -- IV

2005-09-19T07:44:00.000-05:00

We moved through the land like an errant arrow. Other trains side-stepped to let us pass, station masters waved their green flags - we were the tortoise in this race, putting on the final spurt of speed. And in the book, characters collided, rose and fell like the visions that flew past my window. I had to read, compulsively, to lull my brain into a world different from my present, into believing that nothing could go wrong anymore. I had filled my bottle up and bought a bunch of bananas for dinner at the last brief stop, leaving about Rs.20 for lunch and Rs.2 to call home for my brother to come and get me from the station. And so, with a quarter of my book left, we pulled into Titlagarh. It was about 3 pm, and not even the Parle-G biscuits could keep me from being ravenous.

As the train filled up on water, we filed out into the town outside the station, looking for any place that served anything that could pass as food. Signs like "Sambhu Resturant", "Aanand Hotel" and "Hanuman Palace", written in garish reds, yellows and whites across tin sheets welcomed us into small tumble-down shacks, with menus scrawled in white chalk on blackboard. The proprieters rushed out from behind their little cashier desks to usher us into their establishments. The white guy emerged looking rather lost, his companions having deserted him in their quest for satiation. I gestured to him to join me as I walked towards one of these humble havens, when one of the trains in the station let out a long wail of a whistle. I knew it wasn't our train - the source had been farther away, and it was too soon for ours to leave - but the white man turned on the spot and bolted, with long, loping strides, back into the station. He was back out in a couple of minutes, looking rather pale and sheepish.

We entered the "Sambhu Resturant", and I assisted my new found companion in ordering. We ate fast, in silence, and proceeded back to the train. I was acutely aware of the single Rs.2 coin that rolled in my pocket, and my empty wallet. We exchanged e-mail ids, and that was the first time I had heard of excite.com. His name was John Watson (I swear), and he was a journalism student in London. Back at the train, as he returned to his seat, I lingered at the door, looking back at the platform. We were 12 hours and many miles away from Khurda Road, and I reflected a moment on what it meant, and how much worse it could have been. But now I was on my way home. Whoever said the Indian Railways was bad?

"Jara rasta dijiye", someone said. A lady, almost 5 feet in height, bespectacled, wizened trying to enter the train. I hastened aside and helped her up. Once inside she turned to me and said, hopefully, "Teluga babu?" I couldn't help but smile. She told me she was traveling with her two boys, ages 16 and 10. They were going to Jamshedpur, too. She asked me how I was going to get home. I showed her my 2-rupee coin. "Ayyo pillada," she said, and pressed Rs.15 in my hand. Somehow, I thought, she looked a lot like my mother.

There isn't much more to the story, except that I read all through the night, and finished the book. We pulled into Jamshedpur at about 7am on the 31st of October. I got off, along with a few other people. Mr.Oriya stayed on the train, as did the white man. I called my brother, and as I waited for him, I said good-bye to the good lady and her kids. Auto-rickshaw drivers swarmed me like the press does a celebrity, but I turned them away, knowing that my brother would soon turn up on his noisy, trusty Bajaj Chetak. My legs still felt shaky from the journey, and my skin was covered in grime. But the sun was rising, and the cool morning air felt fresh and full. I would learn later that thousands of people and cattle died in that cyclone, that I had arrived on the same day as the Falaknuma that had left 2 days after us, that our train was even mentioned on the news, that my family had been sick with fear.

Well, that was how I read the Fountainhead.

The Fountainhead in 4 days -- III

2005-09-16T09:13:00.000-05:00

It was quite a scene.

The wind and rain had abated a little, and about 40 of us from two compartments were out, trying to coax the tree into loosening its grip on the train. Some tried intimidation with little handsaws, while others tried cajoling it with lengths of rope. The tree however shrugged off our indignation, and stuck stubbornly to its "stand". It was like Gulliver and the Lilliputians all over again, except that we were the travelers, and the tree the erstwhile native of the lost town of Khurda Road. It was like we were but paring the nails on that gigantic hand.

We broke for lunch. The train was supposed to reach Calcutta before dinner, so this was technically the last meal we were to have on the train. Whether they had any more provisions, we had no idea. We had definitely run out of water. So we got back to the tree in earnest, as if getting rid of this one obstacle could put us half-way there. Not quite the kind of guy who would climb aboard a train to hack at the limbs of a tree, I was with the rope crew, rather excited to contribute, but not quite realizing the seriousness of our position. We toiled till the darkness fell, and had managed to clear quite a few of the branches off the top of the train. As my neighbors and I returned to our berths, there were still a few workmen, mostly the Railways crew, hacking away outside.

Conversation was subdued. Dinner did come, a few last minute supplies thrown together, and we ate thankfully. There was definitely no more food on the train. But then the door opened and there entered a few ragged-looking people carrying large gunny bags over their shoulders. And they started handing out little packages to the passengers. I took one - it contained a small loaf, and a Parle-G biscuit packet. "We are from a nearby bakery", one of them, a youth no older than me, informed us. "We heard your train was stuck so we brought what we could." They were inundated with questions. How bad was it? What were the chances of getting out? Were there any other trains?

They answered as best as they could. There were apparently no chances of going forward. We would have to travel as far back as Vizianagaram, then take an alternate route out of there. The Falaknuma that was to leave the day after ours had been cancelled. The tree on our train was loosening its grip, and it was possible we might start out of there that very night. Hope washed over us like the smell of a warm kitchen. Mr.Oriya even felt light-hearted enough to translate the good news to the white man, who didn't seem very impressed. I went back to reading my book, unable to fall asleep, waiting eagerly for that little jerk which meant we would be leaving that God-forsaken station. And sure enough, at about 3am in the night, after nearly 20 hours of standing in the same place, the train creaked into motion. I fell asleep almost immediately.

I awoke well into the next day. We were speeding away on our new route, which would skirt around the state of Orissa and enter the state of Bengal from the west. I exulted as I learned this, because it meant it would have to pass through Jamshedpur to get there, and I wouldn't have to change trains. The downside, however, was that the train had been unable to replenish its supplies, and would stop at a station late in the afternoon where we would have to go get our own lunch. And as my finances were running low from having had to pay for extra meals already, this news sapped my excitement.

---to be continued

The Fountainhead in 4 days -- II

2005-09-15T07:25:00.000-05:00

I woke to the sound of "Ey, chai - haan teen rupaya, saahab", and the inevitable haggling that followed. I got up and surveyed my companions, while pretending to search for my toothbrush. The 8-berth subdivision of my compartment in which I was situated was the one right next to the door, so there were no families. And by corollary, no girls. (You always look for families, that's where the nice-looking girls can be found, at least on this train. And the families try to cluster towards the middle, to avoid having to deal with the 2nd class citizens that generally crowd the door in a 2nd class compartment. In fact I often walked from one compartment to another, just to look at the people's faces, and....but I digress.) Some passengers had got off in the night, so a couple of berths were already empty.

The tea haggler was a loud Oriya man, slightly balding, a big "tiger" moustache and the bleary eyes of one who seeks salvation in intoxication. He wore his full-sleeved shirt tucked in, his pants held up by a thick leather belt. Between ambling to the door for a quick bidi and haggling with every beverage-vendor that came along, he would carry intimate, boisterous conversation in Oriya with his neighbors, a pair of guys clad in lungis, sleeveless under-shirts and hawai chappals (flip-flops, if you will). Then there was the white man, who was trying to keep a meaningful conversation going with his neighbor, who appeared to be a railway employee of some sort, talking about his free passes on the trains. Then there were me and Ayn Rand.

It was about 7:00 am, and we were almost out of Andhra Pradesh. The weather outside had turned cold, dreary, windy. We pulled down our shutters, got some warm chai and talked about nothing in particular. Mr.Oriya was monopolizing the group discussion, switching to heavily accented English now. I tried to stay interested for a while, but soon got back to my book. It wasn't until I was well into the second of the five-part book that the train slowed to a grinding halt. We didn't take much notice, even though this train was rather good about not having random stops in the middle of nowhere, unlike several other trains I had been on (the Tata-Alleppy being a case in point). But hey, this was the Indian Railways -- you never know when a goods train is given priority over a passenger train.

Mr.Oriya was asleep in a sitting position, snoring with his mouth open. The lungi twins had nodded off too, and the white man was probing his travel guide with a vengeance. The railway employee buried himself behind a cheap magazine. I peered out through the glass pane on my window to see that we had pulled into a small station - Khurda Road, Orissa. It looked thoroughly deserted, and the fact that it had started to rain heavily did not help. Oh, well, I thought, this is exactly why I bring books on trains. It seemed like I would have to catch a different train from Kharagpur after all. Probably won't get to Jampot before 1:00 am.

But in a couple of hours, there came the Ticket Collector, and people began crowding him. The news traveled fast: Orissa had been hit. The tracks ahead were damaged, but whether or not they could be cleared for us to go ahead, the officials did not know. They had ordered two engines to come in from a city close by to scout the tracks both sides, to determine which would be a better way to take. Till then, for all practical purposes, we were stranded.

While people sat back uneasily in the Ticket Collector's wake, it just got windier outside. The rain was seeping in through cracks in the walls, under the lining of the window panes, through the doorway. A little puddle had started collecting at the end of the compartment, that slowly trickled inwards, tasting the luggage and the passengers' shoes. And every now and then, the train would rock ominously in the wind.

There was a small wave of reassurance as the lunch guy came around. But we ate our lunches in silence, knowing that the train had only so much food aboard. I wondered about how sparingly I should use the money I had left after buying two meals and tea already. Suddenly there was a tremendous CRASH!! and Mr.Oriya leapt right off his seat with an "Uri Baba!" The other passengers had been jolted awake too, and the white man leapt to his feet. I threw my book aside and followed the others as they pulled open the door, trying not to let too much rain inside.

A giant peepal (holy fig) tree had keeled over, and had landed exactly in between two compartments, ours and the next, heavily denting the vestibule passage between the two. Its base was behind a brick wall on the other side of the platform, about 80 feet away, but now the wall had been crushed and the top of the tree, branches and all, sat on the back of the train like a gigantic hand that had emerged from the ground to hold us in place.

--- to be continued.

The Fountainhead in 4 days -- I

2005-09-14T10:03:00.000-05:00

The auto-rickshaw swerved to an unceremonious halt outside the Secunderabad railway station, and I got out gingerly, tugging my weather-worn travel bag out from behind the seat before I paid the driver. (You always do that, just so he can't leave with your luggage as soon as he gets his fare.) The coolies that passed gave me disdainful glances at the lack of challenge that my luggage presented, and flitted away in their red outfits towards more promising travellers, not unlike scavenging birds in search of meaty carcasses. I pretended not to notice, hoisted my bag over my shoulder and walked to the enquiry queue to find out which platform my train was on.

A couple of minutes later, up and down two staircases, through a corridor overlooking the tracks, past a few beggars, there I was before the grand Falaknuma, my home for the next day-and-a-half (or so I thought then) till I got to Kharagpur, where I usually had anywhere from 1.5 hours to 15 minutes to catch a connecting train to Jamshedpur, where my family lived then. This time I was expecting my train to run a little late, because Orissa had just been hit by one of its annual cyclones. But what the hell, it happens every year. Nobody knows (or usually cares) what happens in that state, right. Most of it passes in the night, anyway - we usually get to Bhubhaneshwar (the state capital) by 11:00 am.

So at 4:00 pm on the 28th of October, 1999, I boarded the train and found my berth - a side upper, my favorite. No one asking you to get up so that they can pull out their middle berths to sleep on, no one asking to "share" seats till the next station. You get to do your own thing on the side upper. Unless you're six feet or taller, which I wasn't. So I took off my sandals, pushed them to one end, propped up my bag at the other, and lay down with my head on it, pulled out my Koti market copy of the Fountainhead and began reading. (You always lie down with as many of your body parts on top of your luggage as possible, so no one sneaks off with it at a stop. My bag and I had a symbiotic relationship: it served as my pillow, and my head on it kept it from changing owners.)

The train soon gave a gentle shudder, and the platform outside began rolling away. People stood in doorways and waved to their loved ones, who ran alongside the train just to prolong the moment of separation, addicted to the "sweet sorrow" of parting. Vendors of snacks and cheap magazines, coolies, the waifs who swept the compartments for a living, all hurriedly jumped off before the train gathered speed. But I had to get through at least five chapters before dinner, so I read on, lost in the stark world of Ayn Rand till I heard the crew member come around asking what each traveler wanted for dinner. (You always keep an ear pricked for this guy, especially if you're on a side upper, because sometimes he just walks right past and then your only hope is to get off and buy something on the platform, which is always risky - you could lose your wallet, or your luggage, or miss your train, or just buy bad food.)

But then I heard the guy speaking in English, rather loudly. And I heard a gruff voice reply, "I'll have the non-vegetarian, please. Yes, the egg curry, too, thank you." I looked up from my book to see that on the top berth opposite me, there perched, quite comfortably, a white man, lean and about 6' 7", in his twenties, bald, glasses. His neighbors were looking at him with curious but indulgent smiles, but he, seemingly oblivious, returned to his little travel guide. The Western tourist, I thought, hungry for the third-world experience. Good for him. I ordered my dinner, which arrived in due time. Night fell outside, and my train, the Sec'bad-Calcutta Falaknuma Express, cruised at a fair clip into the lesser known parts of Andhra Pradesh, ever nearing the Orissa border. About ten chapters into the book, I fell asleep, while the lights around me went out one after another, and the desultory conversations of the others sharing my compartment died down in the darkness.

That night into the wee hours of the morning, a massive cyclone struck Orissa, obliterating an entire village, destroying thousands of homes. The monster reared out of the Bay of Bengal days after its predecessor had sent in the first warnings.

....to be continued.

Ramayana

2005-08-31T07:29:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: I learnt this as a kid, from parents not totally conversant with Sanskrit. In other words, there's more of Shruti and Smriti in this than structural soundness.

Ado rAma tapOvanAdhigamanam etvA mRgam kAncanam
Vaidehi haraNam jaTAyu maraNam sugrIva sambhaSanam
vAlI nigrahaNam samudra taraNam lankApurI dAhanam
pashchat rAvaNa-kumbhakarNa hananam tretAdirAmAyaNam

Each line above had the following scheme (one swara for each syllable):

A---do--rA--ma--ta--pO--va--nA--dhi-ga-ma-nam
g2--m1--g2--r2--g2--m1--m1--g2--r2--s--s--r2

et--vA--mR--gam-kAn-cha-nam
g2--p---m1--g2--r2--n2--s

This is a version of the Ramayana that my brothers and I were taught as kids. Although encouraged to say this every night, I would usually fall asleep before I was half-way through it. But at those not-so-occasional times when the mind's eye saw faces in the dark, and heard whispers in the corners, and everyone but I seemed asleep and oblivious to my doom at the hands of the "vile contagion of the night", I clutched the end of my mom's saree and recited this devoutly. And the solace I found then still sweeps over me today.

Nuvvu manishivaa...(Are you a human or...)?

2005-08-26T13:52:00.000-05:00

There are two apellations that invariably follow this half of the question: Mohan Babu or Balakrishna. It doesn't take even the average Telugu movie producer's intelligence to understand what the question implies: that either of the above names has a way of making the impossible seem like a trip to the grocery store. That is, unfortunately, your curse if you are a South Indian movie star. You are the only one who's convinced that's true.

Sometimes, that conviction pays off. Other times it just doesn't. There will always be the "inner circle": the "mass" who occupy the cheapest tickets closest to their idol and the fans associations who will string 20-foot high cut-outs of you with plastic-ball garlands. There will always be the familiar hurricane of paper-strips and 10p coins on the "first-day-first-show", even if it's the only day the movie plays at the theater. Then there will be those who will denounce such paltry behavior, the purists who expect every movie to be an Adoor Gopalakrishnan- (or at least Mani Ratnam-) style mind-blower. "Hah! Telugu movies," they say disparagingly (coming out of the movie theater), "waste of time and money." Then there will be critics who sit through the drill to write hilariously caustic commentaries (such as the links above, thanks to Mithun Verma of FullHyderabad.com).

And occasionally, there will be people with such perverted senses of humor (meaning me) that will pay for a good laugh - at all the wrong times! Be it the various methods that you threaten your on-screen villains with (kanti-choopu, chitikina-velu, mola-taadu); be it the decimation of the bad guys (in one Balakrishna movie, a chicken kills the villain's strong man); or be it your audacity to try coming across as an Indian classical dance teacher (when you look and move like a painted buffalo with an identity crisis). The point is, not everyone who comes to watch your movie necessarily likes you.

But your movies are thought-provoking, nonetheless, though the thoughts are not those intended by the movie-makers. I think about why people take the trouble to bring heroines (some that I like) to dance (sometimes amazingly choreographed steps) alongside Your Gaucherie. And listen to blatantly crass double-entendre and pretend to fall in love with you for that. I think about how difficult it must be for a stuntman to try impersonating you, or to act like you're actually beating the crap out of him. I think about the thankless job of your make-up artist and fashion designer. And I think about what you must think to believe that this will be digestible fare for your audience. The courage of your convictions.

Nenu manishine (I am human). I firmly affirm once and for all that I am not a fan of Balakrishna.

But I do admire his conviction, as proof of the power of mind over matter.

Anger

2005-08-15T08:06:00.000-05:00

It is a luxury many of us are better without.
A dangerous pet: at once a snake that lashes out, or if chained, a leech that gnaws inwards.
A crimson tide that washes over your smiles and leaves them smelling of blood.
That taints reality and distorts humanity. That justifies itself and feeds on itself.
That paints love in the color of lust and vice versa.

What does it take to forgive?
Who will embrace fallibility and not look like he is giving excuses for his mistakes?
Who will open up to others' judgements, their expectations, and welcome them like one would welcome the neighbor's stray animals on one's doorstep?
Yet know better than to make them one's own?

The powerful write history.
They set the standards, they make the rules.
Will we be any less powerful if we do not live by them? Will we be denying our roots if we call History a bunch of lies?

Who will dare to be happy?
Who will dare not to judge?
Will dare not to call another a hypocrite because he doesn't see the same things as one does?
Will teach their children not to point fingers, but to look within and wonder?

Anger.
It is a harsh friend, a ruthless enemy. A searing libation that lacerates the soul whether you drink it or spit it out.
Stop tearing at your own wounds thinking you are causing others to bleed.
Just watch. Just watch.
And wonder.

Grahabalamemi - from Music Mavericks

2005-08-03T16:20:00.000-05:00

my first try at linking an audio file

2005-08-03T15:21:00.000-05:00

Does this song ring a bell?

Witness to Time

2005-07-26T10:48:00.000-05:00

Vaisampayana continued, "Thus addressed, the powerful Bhimasena of mighty arms, affectionately, and with a cheerful heart, bowed unto his brother, Hanuman, the monkey-chief, and said in mild words, 'None is more fortunate than I am; now have I seen my elder brother. It is a great favour shown unto me; and I have been well pleased with thee. Now I wish that thou mayst fulfil this desire of mine. I desire to behold. O hero, that incomparable form of thine, which thou at that time hadst had, in bounding over the main, that abode of sharks and crocodiles. Thereby I shall be satisfied, and also believe in thy words.'

Thus addressed, that mighty monkey said with a smile, 'That form of mine neither thou, not any one else can behold. At that age, the state of things was different, and doth not exist at present. In the Krita age, the state of things was one; and in the Treta, another; and in the Dwapara, still another. Diminution is going on this age; and I have not that form now. The ground, rivers, plants, and rocks, and siddhas, gods, and celestial sages conform to Time, in harmony with the state of things in the different yugas. Therefore, do not desire to see my former shape, O perpetuator of the Kuru race. I am conforming to the tendency of the age.'

'Verily, Time is irresistible' Bhimasena said, 'Tell me of the duration of the different yugas, and of the different manners and customs and of virtue, pleasure and profit, and of acts, and energy, and of life and death in the different yugas.'

Thereupon Hanuman said, 'O child, that yuga is called Krita when the one eternal religion was extant. And in that best of yugas, every one had religious perfection, and, therefore, there was no need of religious acts. And then virtue knew no deterioration; nor did people decrease. It is for this that this age is called Krita (perfect). But in time the yuga had come to be considered as an inferior one. And, O child, in the Krita age, there were neither gods, nor demons, nor
Gandharvas, nor Yakshas, nor Rakshasas, nor Nagas. And there was no buying and selling. And the Sama, the Rig, and the Yajus did not exist. And there was no manual labour. And then the necessaries of life were obtained only by being thought of. And the only merit was in renouncing the world. And during that yuga, there was neither disease, nor decay of the senses. And there was neither malice, nor pride, nor hypocrisy, nor discord, nor ill-will, nor cunning, nor fear, nor misery, nor envy, nor covetousness. And for this, that prime refuge of Yogis, even the Supreme Brahma, was attainable to all. And Narayana wearing a white hue was the soul of all creatures. And in the Krita Yuga, the distinctive characteristics of Brahmanas, Kshatriyas, Vaisyas, and Sudras were natural ... And then Brahma was the sole refuge, and their manners and customs were naturally adapted to the attainment of Brahma and the objects of their knowledge was the sole Brahma, and all their acts also had reference to Brahma. In this way all the orders attained merit. And one uniform Soul was the object of their meditation; and there was only one mantra (the Om), and there was one ordinance. And although of different characteristics, all of them followed a single Veda; and they had one religion. And according to the divisions of time, they led the four modes of life, without aiming at any object, and so they attained emancipation. The religion consisting in the identification of self with Brahma indicates the Krita Yuga...

'Do thou also hear from me of the character of the Treta Yuga. In this age, sacrifices are introduced, and virtue decreaseth by a quarter. And Narayana (who is the Soul of all creatures) assumeth a red colour. And men practise truth, and devote themselves to religion and religious rites. And thence sacrifices and various religious observances come into existence. And in the Treta Yuga people begin to devise means for the attainment of an object; and they attain it through acts and gifts. And they never deviate from virtue. And they are devoted to asceticism and to the bestowal of gifts. And the four orders adhere to their respective duties; and perform rites. Such are the men of the Treta Yuga.

'In the Dwapara Yuga, religion decreaseth by one half. And Narayana weareth a yellow hue. And the Veda becometh divided into four parts. And then some men retain (the knowledge of) the four Vedas, and some of three Vedas, and some of one Veda, while others do not know even the Rig. And on the Shastras becoming thus divided, acts become multiplied. And largely influenced by passion, people engage in asceticism and gifts. And from their incapacity to study the entire Veda, it becomes divided into several parts. And in consequence of intellect having decreased, few are established in truth. And when people fall off from truth, they become subject to various diseases; and then lust, and natural calamities ensue. And afflicted with these, people betake themselves to penances. And some celebrate sacrifices, desiring to enjoy the good things of life, or attain heaven. On the coming of the Dwapara Yuga, men become degenerate, in consequence of impiety.

O son of Kunti, in the Kali Yuga a quarter only of virtue abideth. And in the beginning of this iron age, Narayana weareth a black hue. And the Vedas and the institutes, and virtue, and sacrifices, and religious observances, fall into disuse. And (then) reign ... disease, and lassitude, and anger and other deformities, and natural calamities, and anguish, and fear of scarcity. And as the yugas wane, virtue dwindles. And as virtue dwindles away, creatures degenerate. And as creatures degenerate, their natures undergo deterioration. And the religious acts performed at the waning of the yugas, produce contrary effects. And even those that live for several yugas, conform to these changes.

O represser of foes, as regards thy curiosity to know me, I say this,--Why should a wise person be eager to know a superfluous matter? (Thus), O long-armed one, have I narrated in full what thou hadst asked me regarding the characteristics of the different yugas. Good happen to thee! Do thou return.'"

The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, BOOK 3, VANA PARVA
Translated into English Prose from the Original Sanskrit Text by Kisari Mohan Ganguli [1883-1896]

Hare Potter, Harry Potter, Potter Potter Hare Hare

2005-07-18T07:54:00.000-05:00

Much as certain Tolkien-Nazis may disapprove, the ride on the Harry Potter bandwagon isn't entirely unpleasant. There are still places where the paths run close to each other and if you crane your neck just a little, and peer into the mist, you can see the bobbing lanterns of the Tolkien travellers, maybe even an enterprising hobbit or two waving.

I was a Tolkien-Nazi myself till about 2 years ago, when after running out of gas midway into the Silmarillion, I stood waving my thumb at a horseless carriage that came rattling down the street. It stopped a few feet from me and the door opened, and in there sat an old wizard with sharp blue eyes and half-moon spectacles. I pursed my lips and got on. The old man silently handed me an hourglass-shaped object.

"It's a Time-Turner", he rasped. "A couple of turns should do it." And that was how I landed at Number 4, Privet Drive.

Five books and seven chapters later, I realise that (in these days where "Generation Gap" means a couple of years) the author has not written for just a generation, but for a generation to grow up with. Granted, the depth and seriousness of Tolkien's work can never be emulated, but the Harry Potter world doesn't pretend to do so, and that's what saves it. The dragons, the wizards, the elves that inhabit this universe don't make deliberate attempts to be similar or different; they are just as convinced of their reality as "Muggles" are of theirs. And that reality isn't the stuff of fairy-tales either.

Before my brother gave me a leg-up onto the Tolkien wagon, I was tricycling up and down the driveway on a different vehicle: Enid Blyton. While a lot of my friends graduated to Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, and dreamed their earliest American (wet) dreams, I resolutely stuck to what is often dismissed as "kid stuff". The Famous Five (and the lesser-known Five Find-outers) were closer and more real to me than cheesy teenagers who were ju-jitsu experts and flew planes and had sexy dates. It was a part and parcel of my happiness, to grow up with a bunch of ink-and-paper characters, to know and befriend them.

That is what JK Rowling has given the present generation. There have been books and books about the Harry Potter phenomenon. But when I see my 9-year-old nephew listen to his dad read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, hear him create imaginary incidents with Dumbledore, watch him scare himself by imitating Vol - I mean, You-Know-Who...I don't need an analysis of what makes it work. And I know that growing up, he will identify only more with Harry, see his liking for Hermione change shades. JK Rowling hasn't created a cult, or a religion, or a lasting pop-culture icon, as much as merely handed a broomstick to the child that lives in everyone, and let their imaginations fly with hers.

I breathed a song

2005-06-20T15:06:00.000-05:00

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
....
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

- H W Longfellow

Even thus do one's idle thoughts fly back into the attic of the mind, after having roosted in other homes in other worlds......

The little bird of happiness

2005-06-15T07:34:00.000-05:00

One of the highlights of the intelligent movie K-Pax (Kevin Spacey, Jeff Bridges) is when Prot (Spacey) cures a person suffering from severe depression by asking him to look for "the Blue Bird of Happiness". This patient, being totally non-responsive to medication, is seen to find incredible elation in witnessing an aim come true for him, although the aim itself is no more than a small bluebird fluttering busily in a bush - an almost common sight for the ordinary person. The scene touches you at various levels.

And today, I saw my bird of happiness.

In the yard in front of our house stands an august gathering of hooked iron bars, from which are suspended several receptacles containing matter which members of the aviary species regard with esculent interest. One such receptacle, in particular, is an inverted pitcher with a narrow channel at its bottom, and contains a bright red, semi-sweet, fragarant solution. The liquid is contained within purely through the phenomenon of atmospheric pressure, the outlet being too narrow to allow the liquid to escape and air to enter at the same time. Unless, of course, an outside agency were to flutter up to it and suck the liquid out.

After weeks of moving into this beautiful cedar-sided house in the country, I have seen several feathery fliers that I could never have witnessed in my life in uptown Athens. Cardinals (scarlet streaks), woodpeckers (aerobatic experts), blue jays (bullies with ADD), chickadees, finches and bluebirds (size doesn't matter), mourning doves (clumsy fliers), waxwings (wannabe cardinals)...are all regular partakers of the hospitality of our landlord. It thrills the heart to watch these winged beings, flying seemingly effortlessly (except for the doves who make it look as difficult as it probably is), living a life of defying gravity, yet exhibiting personalities and mannerisms as unique as the human fingerprint.

However, once in a while, when the light is just right, and the wind is blowing in the perfect direction with just the right speed, there is another magnificent mystery of nature that manifests itself. With a drone it hovers over the flowers, gently persuading them to open up their innermost hearts to yield libations which only the humble bees can claim to have tasted. Despite its absolute mastery over aerodynamics, there is a quietness to its movement, a simplicity that mocks the elaborate showiness of beings even other than birds. The sheer innocuousness of the process is belied by its complexity - 90Hz wing speeds, stationary and reverse flight, air speeds of upto 70 miles an hour - unparalleled in any example of flight conceivable. And as I stood on the porch today, sipping my white-tea-and-honey, this 3-inch-long phenomenon made its way to the incongruously red pitcher of faux-nectar in the yard for an early morning breakfast.

"Hummingbird", I whispered/prayed.

For a second it flew at a perfect "standstill" under the feeder, quenching its hunger/thirst; and then it receded, turned and shot directly past my head into the trees behind our house. I turned to barely follow it with my eyes, while it perched for a moment on one of the lower branches of a pine. Then as I stared open-mouthed, it retraced its path by my head and flew across the yard, the road by it and the valley on the other side, a speck over the yawning openness, into the woods beyond the valley.

People pray for all sorts of things. For a mate, a job, a house, a car. Give me this one thing, they say, and I won't ask for more. Sometimes those prayers are answered the way they are expected to be...but at other times, when you know that prayers are not the answer, but you pray nevertheless, the Power answers with a gentle joy sent your way....

a little bird

of Happiness.

To learning

2005-06-01T15:05:00.000-05:00

All you poetry maestros have made me go ahead and do it...Haven't written poetry in ages!!

The image above was taken from USACC.org website, courtesy Google image search.

I walk a tightrope 'cross the breast of Fate -
A staff I bear to keep my vision straight;
And on the staff on one side are the hearts
That I have broken; on the other half
Are fledgling dreams in mute and hopeful wait.

With every step I take the weighing grows;
Another line a-furrow 'tween my brows;
Another day, a month, a year flows;
I stoop a little lower on my way
And set my sights upon the yonder clouds.

The pinnacle I seek if I do reach,
I will not be a Master all to teach;
Yet I can set my fledgling dreams on wing!
But if I fall -- O what may happen then?
I will not die or leave the world of men,
But mine will be a life 'tween Fall and Spring
The silent death-life of a vanquished soul.

Weekly World News

2005-05-17T16:28:00.000-05:00

In case you're wondering what's new on my blog, I just added a link on my sidebar to "Weekly World News". Check it out, it's hilarious.

The goddess, the beer and me

2005-05-05T10:50:00.000-05:00

It's one of those evenings which threaten to ruin a perfectly good day. When reality tackles you with the subtlety of a football player and demolishes the exhilaration of a touchdown on the field of happiness. When to be a philosopher is to be a fool. When the mind runs in circles, like a dog barking at its own tail. When the censure of a lover seems like the toll of a death knell. It's not happy, I know. Why do you think I call myself 'the Happiness Seeker'?

I open up my drawing book -- an assortment of cheap toned construction paper -- and pull out my new pastels. It feels like blue in my head. Blue and red. The face of the Goddess Kali looms.

"Want a beer?" says the loved one.

If I ever wanted a beer, it's now. I've always hated the taste of beer, and believed there are "highs" one can have being perfectly sober. But at this moment, there is a need to silence the ravings of a self-flagellating neural pattern. And a pint of Guinness Extra Stout can do that. So I run to grab that bottle of bitter salvation. And sit back at my drawing, cherishing the Tostitos and salsa that serve to dispel the beer taste.

Wait a minute. It's the Goddess Kali that I'm drawing. And I'm drinking? The vestigeal Hindu in me stands up in dissent.

It's just a drawing, I tell him. But the symbolism, he retorts, what does it say about you? My hands, flying over the paper, pause for a minute in mid-air.

I sit back, finish my beer while the loved one reads to me passages from Jhumpa Lahiri's 'The Namesake' (She thinks it says a lot about my own state of mind). Then I go back to the drawing, and finish it. It comes out fine considering my lack of experience with pastels and fear of color. It even looks scary in the dark, the blue, black and red creating an ominous mood.

The loved one looks up. "So, why did you call on Kali?"

"She's a source of obvious power," I say, "good to think of in times of powerlessness." I look at my drawing, and feel the familiar satisfaction of accomplishment. It is a pacifier to the screaming mind-baby, and the beer is a lullaby.

For what it's worth, I'm whole again.

Narada's vision

2005-04-20T09:56:00.000-05:00

"And Narada, beholding the fortunate Yudhisthira's prosperity that was born of that sacrifice, became highly gratified. Beholding that vast concourse all the Kshatriyas, the Muni Narada, O king of men, became thoughtful. And, O bull amongst men, the Rishi began to recollect the words he had heard of old in the mansion of Brahma regarding the incarnation on earth of portions of every deity. And knowing, O son of the Kuru race, that that was a concourse (of incarnate) gods, Narada thought in his mind of Hari with eyes like lotus-petals. He knew that that creator himself of every object one, that exalted of all gods--Narayana--who had formerly commanded the celestials, saying,--'Be ye born on earth and slay one another and come back to heaven'--that slayer of all the enemies of the gods, that subjugator of all hostile towns, in order to fulfil his own promise, had been born in the Kshatriya order. And Narada knew that the exalted and holy Narayana, also called Sambhu the lord of the universe, having commanded all the celestials thus, had taken his birth in the race of Yadus and that foremost of all perpetuator of races, having sprung from the line of the Andhaka-Vrishnis on earth was graced with great good fortune and was shining like the moon herself among stars. Narada knew that Hari the grinder of foes, whose strength of arm was ever praised by all the celestials with Indra among them, was then living in the world in human form. Oh, the Self-Create will himself take away (from the earth) this vast concourse of Kshatriyas endued with so much strength. Such was the vision of Narada the omniscient who knew Hari or Narayana to be that Supreme Lord whom everybody worshipped with sacrifice. And Narada, gifted with great intelligence and the foremost of all persons and conversant with morality, thinking of all this, sat at that sacrifice of the wise king Yudhisthira the just with feelings of awe.

The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa - BOOK 2 - SABHA PARVA
Translated into English Prose from the Original Sanskrit Text by Kisari Mohan Ganguli [1883-1896]

The asker

2005-04-08T11:15:00.000-05:00

Happiness.....contentment.....resignation....how many sides does this coin have??

Have you ever asked yourself if you're happy and felt yourself go on the defensive - "Yes! Yes I'm happy! Why should I not be? Look, I'm smiling!" Ever wonder why this happens? How it happens? Who asks and who answers? Does the asker not know the answer already? Can the answerer ever be a good liar?

The asker is like the guy in the passenger seat. If the drive is fun, he shuts up to watch. If it's not, he pipes up with questions...but never gets in the driver's seat.

But he also helps to keep you awake.

Reluctant feminism

2005-04-04T10:23:00.000-05:00

I remember reading somewhere that eventually, men will be extinct.

No, ladies, I'm not talking about the human race. It's men I'm talking about...the male of the species. Not too far in the future, our earthly remains will rest in peace in the world's sperm banks. Androids with positronic members will be instruments of satiation for Women's Lib(ido).

If all this seems too far-fetched, consider this:

In Japan, an increasing number of women would rather stay single. Life is just less complicated that way, they say.
"Love" has been proved to have the same symptoms as addiction, including dependence and withdrawal. So as long as the stimuli exist, the subject doesn't matter. And if you want to get rid of the addiction, that's OK, too...just eat more whole foods and you'll feel better.
The media has already adopted the viewpoint, portraying successful marriages as miracles, and divorce as just another bump in the road, like an accident or a flat tyre.

Role model women are Britney Spears (who gets married 'as a joke' and files for annulment a week later), Paris Hilton (who....oh, you know!) and the leading ladies of Sex and the City (who throw a fit even at being called 'girlfriend').

Role model men are steroid-enhanced hunks with IQs in the negative, who keep their flat bellies even after kegs of beer. On the other end of the spectrum, stereotypifying the real world, are Homer Simpson and Drew Carey.

'Data', an android ("If you are referring to sexuality, I am... fully functional") from Star Trek: the Next Generation, has the highest (female) fan-following among all the characters on that series.

And if you think about the fact that women are capable of almost all the touted guy jobs, and still are the only ones who can deal with the physical aspect of the procreation of the species, I'll say that at this point men seem a lot more dispensable than women, and male chauvinism is little more than a lame excuse. Heck, even gay marriages are illegal.

Moral of the story: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Think, how can we be better than positronic androids with sculpted bodies, manufactured expression and zero maintenance? How are we more than our sperms (especially those of us that can't swim)?

Think. Our future depends on it.

Smile...tomorrow will be worse!

2005-03-15T10:50:00.001-05:00

Have you ever looked for something in one pocket and found it in the other? Ever had a set of two similar looking keys and always started with the wrong one? Whatever was Blaise Pascal thinking when he said that the probability of two mutually independent events occurring was 0.5? Ask Capt. Murphy, and he'll tell you that if one of those events is "something wrong", its probability jumps to 1.

No matter how you try to disguise it as the Second Law of Thermodynamics or Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle; no matter how philosophically you smirk when you euphemise, "The only constant is change"; there is just no escaping it. It has been stated in a variety of versions, using such sophistic techniques as tautology (If anything can go wrong, it can), syllogism (Everything in life is important, important things are simple, simple things are never easy), recursion (It always takes longer than you think, even taking into account this law) and Mathematics (Laundry Math:1 Washer + 1 Dryer + 2 Socks = 1 Sock). Its applications transcend all domains of expertise, ranging from Technology (To err is human, but to really foul things up requires a computer), Commerce (A pat on the back is only a few inches from a kick in the pants), Photography (If you can't remember, you left the film at home), Transportation (The largest vehicle always has the right of way), Parenting (Murphy's mother told him so) and even Graphic Design (Your fonts will default).

There's only one piece of advice I can offer...don't stress yourself out. There's no way you can out-think nature, for if n things are prevented, the (n+1)th thing will screw it. I think this statement sums it up best of all:

If Murphy's Law can go wrong, it will.

PS: If you can, go through the e-mail exchange in the "Real-Life Example" section on the site.

"What have you learned?"

2005-03-05T16:22:00.000-05:00

We were sitting in the living room, strangers to each other months, days, even hours ago. It was late, almost 1 a.m. and the children had gone to bed. Some of us lay spread-eagled on the floor, others in armchairs with their legs up, still others leaning on whatever was near and back-worthy. One in particular, whom I had persuaded to stay, half-sat half-lay on the couch, nodding in sleep and looking beatiful.

Someone asked a question.

"I don't really ever think of it as learning", replied one, whose last job forced him to work 12-hour days starting at 3 am. "But I guess I learned that with two kids, you can never really keep track of time. I hardly talk to my wife...and then there's the thoughts I don't talk about anyways. But one day I'm screaming at my 5-yr old daughter, and my 2-yr old son walks up and hugs me. I look at him thinking 'What are you doing? I'm screaming at your sister!' He smiles his shy smile. Man, that's unconditional love right there."

"I'm learning about powerlessness," said another, whose 1-yr old daughter had had surgery when she was a month-old and has learned sign-language and is the most active child I've ever seen. "I know I'm doing what I love to do as a teacher, and it's challenging when people who know nothing about it take charge of it; but I'm learning about the faith and strength to keep doing what I do."

"Sustainability," said a third, who had ridden a Greyhound for 7 hours to get here. "I've sold my car, drive my bicycle around, use public transport, and I'm loving it. I'm living with people with similar interests, and it's great to see that we're trying to make a difference by living out our ideal."

My turn. "I'm re-learning simple things", I said, "It's frightfully easy to go back to where you were even after learning and changing. The other day as I was waiting for my bus, the sun was shining and it was snowing at the same time. It was beautiful, but people all around were just bustling about their daily lives, not stopping to look, to taste the snow on their tongues...I re-learnt that it's a privilege to be able to see beauty, in whatever small way, every day."

"I've learned that I'm exactly where I want to be," said the person next to me, a single mother to a 13-yr old dog. "It was a big decision to quit and work from home, and it was really shaky for a while, but I figured it out and now it's fairly smooth. But," she turned to me. "I miss what you talked about."

It's easy for me to say, I thought, I'm a college student who doesn't have to work the whole day, and doesn't (for now) have a career to worry about. But is it that hard to miss? When a rainbow sears across the sky, how can you not see it? When the setting sun kindles the clouds ablaze, would you rather talk on your cell-phone? How far do you have to go to hear a bird chirping or a child laughing? What does it take to turn off the TV and find a moment of silence?

Or to sit with a group of friends, coming together from different parts of the country, even from around the world, and find the comfort to share the thoughts in your heart?

Or the freedom to fall asleep?

Hot stuff

2005-03-02T11:57:00.000-05:00

I'm talking about portabella mushroom ravioli.
We were cooking some of that delectable spaghetti yesterday, and I was reading out the cooking directions loud.
"...Cook to minimum internal ravioli temperature of 165F...."
Man, I thought. That sounds impressive. Perhaps we should all change our temperature scale to Minimum Internal Ravioli Temperature (MIRT). I mean, when we can represent the same physical phenomenon (boiling point of water) with two entirely different numbers (100C and 212F), then why not in MIRT? I'll say water boils at 47MIRT. My body temperature is -66.3 MIRT. Wow! That's cool. I almost know what Kelvin felt like when he discovered absolute zero!
Wonder what the weather's supposed to be like...? What's that? -135MIRT? God, that's freezing!

Tathaastu

2005-03-01T17:58:00.000-05:00

And then, O king, the earth, oppressed with weight and afflicted with fear, sought the protection of the Grandsire of all creatures. And she beheld the divine Brahman--the Creator of the worlds who knoweth no deterioration--surrounded by the gods, Brahmanas, and great Rishis, of exceeding good fortune, and adored by delighted Gandharvas and Apsaras always engaged in the service of the celestials. And the Earth, desirous of protection, then represented everything to him, in the presence, O Bharata, of all the Regents of the worlds. But, O king, the Earth's object had been known beforehand to the Omniscient, Self-create, and Supreme Lord. And, O Bharata, Creator as he is of the universe, why should he not know fully what is in the minds of his creatures including the very gods and the Asuras? O king, the Lord of the Earth, the Creator of all creatures, also called Isa, Sambhu, Prajapati, then spake unto her. And Brahman said, 'O holder of wealth, for the accomplishment of the object for which thou hast approached me, I shall appoint all the dwellers in the heavens.'

"Vaisampayana continued, 'Having said so unto the Earth, O king, the divine Brahman bade her farewell. And the Creator then commanded all the gods saying, 'To ease the Earth of her burden, go ye and have your births in her according to your respective parts and seek ye strife (with the Asuras already born there)'. And the Creator of all, summoning also all the tribes of the Gandharvas and the Apsaras, spake unto them these words of deep import, 'Go ye and be born amongst men according to your respective parts in forms that ye like.'

"And all the gods with Indra, on hearing these words of the Lord of the celestials--words that were true, desirable under the circumstances, and fraught with benefit,--accepted them. And they all having resolved to come down on earth in their respected parts, then went to Narayana, the slayer of all foes, at Vaikunth--the one who has the discus and the mace in his hands, who is clad in purple, who is of great splendour, who hath the lotus on his navel, who is the slayer of the foes of the gods, who is of eyes looking down upon his wide chest (in yoga attitude), who is the lord of the Prajapati himself, the sovereign of all the gods, of mighty strength, who hath the mark of the auspicious whirl on his breast, who is the mover of every one's faculties and who is adored by all the gods.
Him, Indra the most exalted of persons, addressed, saying, "Be
incarnate." And Hari replied,--'Let it be.'"

The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa - BOOK 1 - ADI PARVA
Translated into English Prose from the Original Sanskrit Text by Kisari Mohan Ganguli
[1883-1896]

Touchy subject

2005-03-01T16:41:00.000-05:00

They say that the first thing a man sees when he looks at a woman is her hair. And the next thing is the waist-to-hip ratio. Which says that it doesn't really matter how big Barbie's bustline (or how thin the rest of her) gets.
And I can't even imagine what a woman looks at first when she sees a man. But I suspect it's a lot different from what most people (at least guys) think it is.
So here's to all you 'lookers' out there - get over it. The more you try and impress with your looks the more distant someone is from your mind. Of course i'm not asking you to look like a loser.
Not unless you feel like one.

"He has no genitalia, and he's holding a sword"

2005-02-27T23:11:00.000-05:00

So said Dustin Hoffman on receiving his Oscar for Kramer vs Kramer. Another bunch of those statuettes were given away last night and I sat up diddling on the computer (which belongs to my girlfriend) to see who got what, though most of the featured movies I hadn't even seen.
Peer pressure? The need to know first? The deep vicarious desire for the limelight?
Maybe all, maybe none. Maybe it's one of the opportunities we have to sit back and reflect on the fact that good performances are in fact rewarded.......or are they?
I just think it's the "Ulloo-ka-Pattha syndrome" that made KBC (India's version of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?") so popular.

Who'dathunk?

2005-02-22T19:17:00.000-05:00

That's right, who would have thunk that I'd have a blog too? I botched up the first invite i got to join a blog, lost my invite to G-mail to the junk mail of a (well-known) miserable mail service and misread a fellow blogger's title in various titillating ways....I guess it only goes to show that eventually "Every blog has his say"...arf, arf!
If you're still interested in what I say, do come back or take a look at my other blog. If not, I guess I'll just run into you through some other blogger (mwahahahaha)!