I, Storyteller

Love versus Infatuation

2011-12-30T03:58:00.000-08:00

Another lovely excerpt from "The Valkyries" by Paulo Coelho.

That was when he learned the difference between infatuation and love. Like conversing with the angels, it was really very simple.
Valhalla was a fantasy. The warrior woman, the huntress. The woman who conversed with angels, and was ready to any risk in order to surpass her limits. For her, Paulo was the man who wore the ring of the Tradition of the Moon, the magus who knew about the occult mysteries. The adventurer, capable of leaving everything behind to go out in search of angels. Each would always be fascinated by the other — so long as each remained exactly what the other imagined.
That’s what infatuation is: the creation of an image of someone, without advising that someone as to what the image is.
But some day, when familiarity revealed the true identity of both, they would discover that behind the Magus and the Valkyrie there was a man and a woman. Each possessing powers, perhaps, each with some precious knowledge, maybe, but — they couldn’t ignore the fact — each basically a man and a woman. Each with the agony and the ecstasy, the strength and the weakness of every other human being.
And when either of them demonstrated how they really were, the other would want to flee — because it would mean the end of the world they had created.
He found love on a cliff where two women had tried to stare each other down, with the full moon as a backdrop. And love meant dividing the world with someone. He knew one of the women well, and had share his universe with her. They had seen the same mountains, and the same trees, although each had seen them differently. She knew his weaknesses, his moments of hatred, of despair. Yet she was there at his side.
They shared the same universe. And although often he had had the feeling that their universe contained no more secrets, he had discovered — that night in Death Valley — that the feeling was wrong.
He stopped the car. Ahead, a ravine pierced the mountain. He had chosen the place based on its name-actually, angels are present at all times and in all places. He got out, drank some more of the water that now he always carried in bottles in the trunk of the car, and fixed the canteen to his belt.
He was still thinking about Chris and Valhalla as he made his way to the ravine. I think I’ll probably be infatuated many more times, he said to himself. He felt no guilt about it. Infatuation was a good thing. It gave spice to life, and added to its enjoyment.
But it was different from love. Love was worth everything, and couldn’t be exchanged for anything.

Of Farmers and Hunters

2011-12-30T03:48:00.000-08:00

Finished reading yet another masterpiece by Paulo Coelho - "The Valkyries." An intense and extremely personal account of his search for his "angels". Loved this passage about the two types of persons in this world - the farmers and the hunters.

I see that it is once again linked to the eternal conflict between "being" and "becoming" which is the central argument of books like Robert Pirsig's "Lila". I think the farmers represent the "being" side whereas the "hunters" represent the "becoming" side.

After reading this, I felt that I definitely belong to the "hunters" group and I can also attribute many of the issues of my life to being a hunter. The book describes the continuing conflict between Paulo, a hunter, and his wife Chris, a farmer. And I see a similar conflict mirrored in my life with my wife, Sujatha.

Once you told me that the world was divided into the farmers, who love the Earth and the harvest, and the hunters, who love the dark forests and conquest. You said I was a farmer, like J. That I walked the path of wisdom, achieved through contemplation. And you said I was married to a hunter.” Her thoughts were pushing their way out, and she couldn't stop herself. She was afraid the star might appear before she had finished. “And I am married to a hunter. I know that, and its been very difficult being married to you! You're like Valhalla, like the Valkyries. They never rest. They deal only in the strong emotions of the hunt, of taking risks. Of the darkness of night and the taking of prisoners. At the beginning, I didn't think I'd be able to live with that. I, who was looking for a life like everybody else's, married to a magus! A magus whose world is governed by laws I don't even know–a person who feels he is alive only when he is facing challenges.”

The Mahabharata in English

2011-12-19T23:17:00.000-08:00

A Review of Books

[I wrote this nearly 20 years ago but never got to publishing it. However, my fascination with Mahabharata remains unabated. Thought I will share these thoughts and also my research into the English language translations of the epic. Check out the Wikipedia entry also for latest details. From the introduction to the book “The Difficulty of Being Good” by Gurcharan Das, I came to know that the scholars at the University of Chicago are rendering fresh translations. Looking forward to a chance to lay my hands on these new ones. Meanwhile, you can read these older translations.]

Mahabharata remains the grandest epic ever written. Not only in sheer size but also for the manner in which it pervades every aspect of Indian culture, art and literature, it has no equals. Therefore, it comes as a surprise that the Mahabharata was "discovered" by the Western world only towards the middle of the nineteenth century. Since then there have been many writers who have been inspired to render English translations of the epic poem. The story behind these persons and their translations is sometimes as interesting and intriguing as their translations and taking a short trip through these stories proves to be fascinating exercise. I begin with a brief description scholarly treatise on the Mahabharata by Van Nooten which is a good bibliographic reference to the various English translations of the Mahabharata. Later we will look at some of the translations and their translators.

[1] "The Mahabharata, attributed to Krsna Dwaipayana Vyasa" by Barend A. Van Nooten, Twayne Publ., Inc., New York, 1971.

This is an excellent technical book on various aspects of the Mahabharata. Apart from the analysis, which is covered in seven chapters, the book includes an excellent bibliography. This is where I found a listing of the standard Sanskrit versions of the Mahabharata. Since all English translation draw on one or more of these, it is useful to know a few details about these Sanskrit originals.

· The Calcutta Edition: (or editio princeps), The Mahabharata: An epic poem. Edited by the Pandits attached to the Education Committee, 5 vols, Calcutta, 1834-39.

· The Bombay Edition: (in pothi form) Mahabharata with Nilakantha's commentary, ed. Atmaram Khadilkar, Bombay, Ganpat Krsnaji's Press, 1863.

· The Kumbhakonam Edition: Srimanmahabharatam, ed. T.R. Vyasacharya, 23vols, Kumbakonam; Madhva Vilas Book Depot, Bombay; Nirnayasagara Press 1906-14.

· The Chitrashala Edition: Mahabharata with Nilakantha's commentary, ed. Ramachandra Sh. Kinjavadekar, Poona. 1929-33.

· The Southern Recension: The Mahabharata, ed. P.S.S Sastri, 18 vols. Madras 1931-36.

· The Critical Edition: Mahabharata, for the first time critically edited . . ., ed. Vishnu Sitaram Sukthankar, 19vols. Poona; Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute. 1933-66. Many different scholars edited the different volumes. After April 1943, S.K. Belvalkar became the General Editor.

[2] "The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa," Translated into English prose, 1893. Published and distributed chiefly gratis by Pratapa Chandra Ray, C.I.E. Bharata press, Calcutta. Translator Pandit Kesari Mohan Ganguli.

This is perhaps the first complete translation of the Mahabharata. Based on the Calcutta edition, it was published in 11volumes. To give you an idea of the size, the Adi Parva takes up the entire 647 pages of the first volume! P.C Ray had earlier printed three or four editions of a Bengali version and distributed it free of cost. He apparently suffered some personal problems soon after this which he explains in the preface.

"A little after my first edition had been brought out, I was afflicted by a domestic calamity with the details of which I need not acquaint the reader. Suffice is to say that for some time I was like one demented. On the advice of friends and physicians, I tried the effect of a temporary separation from old sights and scenes. But mine was no disorder of the nerves that a change of climate or scene could do me any good, Mine was "a mind disease, a rooted sorrow to be plucked from memory," and I stood in need of “some sweet oblivious antidote to cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon my heart.” My purposeless wanderings could be of no avail. At length I mustered determination enough to forget my sorrows. The desire that I had all along cherished of doing something in my humble way towards counteracting the progress of irreligion by a circulation amongst my countrymen of the great religious works of ancient India, and which had been only temporarily suspended during my affliction, returned to me with renewed vigor.”

The translator hired by P.C Ray was K.M. Ganguli but surprisingly Ganguli’s name does not appear in many of the earlier volumes. Such was his humility and modesty when faced with the monumental task of translating Mahabharata that, for a long time, Ray could not convince Ganguli to put his name on it! The beginning of the Translator’s Preface written by him brings out the mindset with which he set out to translate the epic.

“The object of a translator should ever be to hold the mirror up to his author. That being so, his chief duty is to represent, so far as practicable, the manner in which his author’s ideas have been expressed, retaining if possible, at the sacrifice of idiom and taste, all the peculiarities of his author’s imagery and of language as well. In regard to translations from the Sanskrit, nothing is easier than to dish up Hindu ideas so as to make them agreeable to English taste. But the endeavour of the present translator has been to give in the following pages as literal a rendering as possible of the great work of Vyasa. To the purely English reader there is much in the following pages that will strike as ridiculous. Those unacquainted with any language but their own are generally exclusive in matters of taste. Having no knowledge of models other than what they meet with in their own tongue, the standard they have formed of purity and taste in composition must necessarily be a narrow one. The translator, however, would ill-discharge his duty if for the sake of avoiding ridicule he sacrificed fidelity to the original. He must present the author as he is, not as he should be to please the narrow taste of those entirely unacquainted with him. Mr. Pickford, in the preface to his English translation of the Maha Vira Charita, ably defends a close adherence to the original even at the sacrifice of idiom and taste against the claims of what has been called “free translation” which means dressing the author in an outlandish garb to please those to whom he is introduced.”

Van Nooten’s comments on this translation:

“The tone of the translation is solemn and moralistic, its style Gothic and at times impressive. But as a translation it is not always reliable, since difficult passages are frequently rendered wrongly. Sometimes Roy inserts passages not found even in the Critical Edition. On the whole, it should be used with caution; as a source book for secondary studies it is untrustworthy.”

[3] “Mahabharata, “ by C. Rajagopalachari, 1^st ed.(1951), 27^th ed.(1986),

Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, Bombay.

The sheer number of editions and reprints speak for the undying popularity of this book written for children by Rajaji. The book is 328 pages with a four page glossary in the end. The inspiration for the book is described in Rajaji’s own words in the preface to the 1^st edition.

“Some years ago, I wrote the story of Sisupala under the caption” Mudal Tambulam” (precedence in Guest-Worship) for a Tamil magazine. The editor liked it so much that he persuaded me to take up the task of giving the whole of the Mahabharata to our people in the form of stories. The work, which I began with some diffidence, soon cast its spell on me, and presently I came to love it and imagined myself telling these stories to dear Tamil children, clustering eager-eyed to hear the deeds of the godlike heroes of our motherland.”

The Tamil version was covered in 107 stories which were later translated into English. The translation and the revision was carried out by Rajaji himself with the aid of P. Seshadri, S. Krishnamurti and N. Rama Rao. The simple structure of the stories makes it an ideal book for educating children and this was Rajaji’s stated goal:

“Vyasa’a Mahabharata is one of our noblest heritages, and it is my cherished belief that to hear it faithfully told is to love it and come under its elevating influence. It strengthens the soul and drives home – as nothing else does – the vanity of ambition and the evil and futility of anger and hatred...”

But this same pedantic viewpoint elicits the following comment from Van Nooten – “In India it is a very popular work, but owing to its implied moral message and didactic phrasing, its value escapes many Westerners.”

[4] “MAHABHARATA, “ BY Kamala Subramaniam with a foreword by K.M.Munshi and a glossary, 766 pages, 1^st ed.(1965), 8^th edition(1988), Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, Bombay-7.

This is a medium sized rendition of the epic, neither too long nor too abridged, which should appeal to the busy modern reader. The size is a result of the author’s views on translations which are mentioned in the preface:

“I have seen several translations of the MAHABHARATA, and not one is satisfactory. They are all literal translations. A literal translation is like the wrong side of a tapestry: the threads are all there but the pattern is missing. It is so with this great epic. It is not possible to do full justice to it in a literal translation. The English used by the translator is not suited to the elaborated similes which are common to Sanskrit. Let me quote a couple of instances. In Sanskrit, Arjuna is called “Bharatarshabha”. This is very pleasing to the ear in Sanskrit.

But, when translated into English it has to be: “O Bull of the Bharata Race!”. One can see how awkward it sounds. Again, a woman’s addressed as ”Madagajagaamini” in Sanskrit. In English it has to be “O woman with the gait of an elephant in rut!” This sounds so ridiculous. Literal translations fail because of the vast difference between the Eastern and Western ways of description. Again, I have seen several condensations of the MAHABHARATA: books which give us just the story of the epic. Here again, there is a handicap. The story is there of course. But the characters in the story are not handled properly. They cannot be, since there is not enough space for it.”

Kamala Subramaniam has also written condensations of the Srimad Bhagavatam and the Ramayana. Van Nooten calls it “Quite comprehensive and rather colloquial in style.”

[5] “The Mahabharata – A play based upon the Indian classic epic,” by Jean-Claude Carriere, translated from French (Le Mahabharata) by Peter Brook. Harper and Row Publ., New York, 1987.

This is a play that was produced first in the French and then in English. Later Peter Brook made this into a movie. This inspiration for this play is explained in the Preface to the French edition by Jean Claude Carriere.

“One evening in 1975 Philippe Lavastine, a remarkable professor of Sanskrit, began telling stories of the Mahabharata to Peter Brook and me. We were completely enchanted. For five years we met regularly, Peter and I listening to the poem without reading it. I took notes, and in 1976 I started a first version of the play.”

Peter Brook explains the inspiration for the play.

“Jean-Claude and I were so fascinated that standing in the rue St. Andre des Arts at three’o clock in the morning after a long storytelling session, we made a mutual commitment. We would find a way of bringing this material into our world and sharing these stories with an audience in the West.”

I remember that the movie version with its international cast was not very well received in India but, I think, the critics would have done well to read Peter Brook’s prefatory comments.

“. . . we are not attempting a reconstruction of Dravidian and Aryan India of three thousand years ago. We are not presuming to present the symbolism of Hindu philosophy. In the music, in the costumes, in the movements, we have tried to suggest the flavor of India without pretending to be what we are not. On the contrary, the many nationalities who have gathered together are trying to reflect The Mahabharata by bringing to it something of their own. In this way, we are trying to celebrate a work which only India could have created but which carries echoes for all mankind.”

[6] “Mahabharata,” by William Buck, Univ. of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1973, 417 pages.

The story behind this book is best described in the opening lines of the Publisher’s Preface to this book.

“In 1955, Bill Buck discovered an elaborate nineteenth century edition of The Scared Song of the Lord, the Bhagavad-Gita of Lord Krishna, in a state library in Carson City, Nevada. Immediately captivated, he plunged into a study of Indian literature which has resulted in this rendering of the Mahabharata, one of the Ramayana, and an unfinished manuscript of Harivamsa - unfinished because of the death of Bill Buck in 1970 at the age of 37.

His discovery of the Bhagavad-Gita moved Bill Buck to read the Mahabharata, and he would be satisfied with nothing but the full translation, an eleven volume set of which was then being reprinted in India. So determined was he that he subsidized the reprinting when it became apparent that the publisher had insufficient funds to complete his task.

Midway through his reading of volume 3, Buck decided the Mahabharata should be rewritten for a modern English-speaking audience. . .”

The translation referred to is the P.C.Ray publication described above. To suit the sensibilities of a “modern English-speaking reader”, Buck has made many changes in the book for which his justification is given in the Publisher’s Preface - “I’ve made many changes and combinations in both books, but I wish to have them considered as stories which they are, rather than as examples of technically accurate scholarship, which I told you they weren’t.”

This book carries a foreword by none other than Van Nooten himself and he praises this book in no mean terms.

“It is remarkable that a Westerner has been able to uncover the nuggets of this Indian epic with such sensitivity. Like the original, it deserves reading, rereading, and even reciting aloud, for it will affect the reader at various levels of his awareness.”

“. . . There are other English versions of the Mahabharata, some shorter, some longer. But apart from William Buck’s rendition, none have been able to capture the blend of religion and martial spirit that pervades the original epic.”

My personal evaluation of this book does not place it so high in technical merit and I wonder what impressed Van Nooten so much? Was it the fact that the writer was a Western or was he simply being polite to a dead man’s memory? Readers familiar with the Fantasy genre of the Western world (works of writers like Tolkien, Michael Moorcock, etc.) will notice the similarities with this class of fiction. The illustrations by Shirley Trieste do come as a shock to an Indian reader like me because they are so different from what we are used to seeing in the Indian portrayals of the epic, be it in art, literature or in Indian films. In a way, this is the same kind of shock one experience on seeing Peter Brook's film version of Mahabharata.

[7] "The Mahabharata- An English Version based on selected verses," by Chakravarthi V. Narasimhan, Columbia Univ. Press, NY & London, 1965. Published in Indian by Oxford Book and Stationery Co. 254pages.

The author was, at that time, Under- Secretary for General Assembly affairs and Chef de cabinet to the Secretary- General of the United nations. Unfortunately, in the copy which I got to see, someone had torn out the Author's Preface and I could not learn more about it. Van Nooten mentions that this was the first English abridgment based on the Critical Edition.

[8] "The Mahabharata, " translated and edited by J.A.B Van Buitenen, 1978 The Univ. of Chicago and London.

Johannes Adrianus Bernardus van Buitenen was an indologist working at the University of Chicago and, naturally, this book is published by the U. of Chicago Press. Van Buitenen set out to create a complete translation based on the critical edition but this project was cut short by his untimely death. He completed five books of the Mahabharata published in three volumes.

Van Buitenen has the following comments about P. C. ray's English version:

"This translation was not well received, either in India or the west. Indeed, the English is grating and refractory in the extreme, and does not allow comfortable reading even to one used to Victorian English applied by the Indian provinces to rendering of Sanskrit classics. The apparatus is minimal to the point of nonexistence, and the reader who tries to wind his way through the Mahabharata finds not even a table of contents to guide him. Still, in spite of the strictures one might level at it, the translation (. . .) was by no means a careless job....

. . . But still recognize that the attempt was a scholarly one. I have of course consulted it often."

Van buitenen's prose flows freely without sacrificing the details of the original. An excerpt from the virata parva illustrates this fiedility to the detail. Draupadi has approached Queen Sudeshana for a job and this is Queens's reply.

"The people you mention are not as beautiful as you woman- so beautiful are only they who order many slaves and slave women who are maids! Your heels are flat, your things are full, you are deep in the three places, high in the six, red in the five red spots, and your voice halts like a wild goose's."

This is definitely the work of a scholar and has all the technical "apparatus" which includes cross references to the Critical Edition and long winded prefatory essays to each book. There is a rare map of Aryavarta reproduced in the book and the cover illustrations are photographs of Indian antiques in stone. Despite being so technical in approach and organization, it is an immensely readable and it is a great pity that it will never be completed!

[9] "THE MAHABHARATA, A Short Modern Prose Version of the Indian Epic," by R.K.Narayan, with decorations by R.K. Laxman, The Viking press, New York, 1978,182 pages.

For fans of the R.K. brothers, this is a wonderful treat in which one can enjoy the narrative style of RK Narayan and the art of RK Laxman.

[10] " The Mahabharata of Vyasa Krishna Dwaipayana- selections from the ADI PARVA and the SAMBHA PARVA," by S.C. Nott,1956, Philosophical Library Inc, NY

This is a book a selected portions from the complete translations of PC Ray. In the author's own words: "It is transcribed from the edition of Pratapa Chunder Ray (Protap Chandra Roy, or Rai ) which comprises some two and a half million words in eleven volumes. . . .

. . . .Although the style is pseudo-gothic it retains the spirit, the flavour , the essence and the tone of the original; and it is much more satisfying to read than the translated fragments. ."

[11] “Indian Idylls,” from the Sanskrit of the Mahabharata, by Sir Edwin Arnold, Trubner and Co, Ludgate Hill, London, 1883.

This is a part of a series entitled “Sir Edwin Arnold’s Poetical Works.”

The author has chosen eight pieces from the epic and rendered into poem form. About this book, Van Nooten comments – “A lyrical though somewhat archaically phrased set of translations.” The following excerpt is from Nala and Damayanti.

"Pledge thyself faithfully to me, and I

Will seek, O Raja, only how to pay

That debt with all I am, with all I have

For I and mine are thine, - in full trust thine.

Make me that promise, Prince. Thy gentle name -

Sung by the swan - first set my thoughts afire;

And for thy sake, - only for thee, - sweet Lord,

The kings were summoned hither. If, alas

Fair Prince, thou dost reject my sudden love,

So proffered, then must poison, flame, or flood,

Or knitted cord, be my sad remedy."

[12] “The Ramayana & The Mahabharata,” condensed into English verse by Romesh C. Dutt, London J.M. Dent and Sons Ltd, New York E.P.Dutton and Co. Inc., 1898.

This is a free condensation of the two epics into verse in which many episodes have been skipped. This book has been reprinted many times. A sample from Dutt’s Mahabharata:

“What great crime or darkening sorrow shadows o'er my bitter fate,
That ye chiefs and Kuru's monarch mark Duryodhan for your hate."

[13] “A Prose Translation of the Mahabharata,” Manmatha Nath Dutt, 6 vols., Calcutta, H.C. Dass publisher, 1895-1905.

Nott mentions in his book that Dutt died before the completion of the work and that it was completed by others. He also mentions that this translation is almost identical to the PC Roy version. A friend of mine told me that, reportedly, Dutt had refused to translate certain verses, contending that they were extremely pornographic, and that he was extremely embarrassed about them!

We see that behind each of these translations, there was some kind of an extraordinary motivation – P.C. Ray’s search for inner peace, an editor’s encouragement to Rajaji, the remarkable Prof. Lavastine telling stories to Carriere and Brook, the chance discovery of Bhagvad-Gita by Buck, the academic drive for technical perfection in Van Buitenen, the poetical inspiration of Dutt and Arnold. I am sure that there is an equally interesting story behind every translation of the Mahabharata into other languages, be it Russian, French, or even our own Indian languages. Perhaps it is this remarkable ability to inspire writers from across the globe, writers belonging to diverse countries and cultures, there is a testimonial to the great enduring value of the Mahabharata.

Bibliography

The following references to English translation of the Mahabharata are from the Bibliography in van Nooten’s book.

1. Jagadissa Ayyar: The Mahabharata, madras, 1922

2. Francis Johnson: Selections from the Mahabharata, London 1842 The earliest English translations from the Mahabharata.

3. S.C.Mukhopadhay: The Mahabharata; Translated into English prose with esoteric commentary. Calcutta 1899

4. Stanley Rice: Tales from the Mahabharata, London 1924

5. Elizabeth Seeger: The Five Brothers, NY 1948

6. C.V. Srinivasa Rao, Mahabharata, 3 vols. Bangalore, 1956-61

Jinnah on Gandhi

2011-12-19T12:01:00.000-08:00

[This is a piece of fiction I wrote more than 20 years ago as an assignment for the Novel Writing Colloquium at Rice University under the tutelage of Venkatesh Kulkarni - my writing guru (may his great soul rest in peace!). The exercise asked us to take a well-known character and try to create a new image totally opposite to the popular image. I thought about the most famous Indian, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, and then who better to criticize him than the great Mohammad Ali Jinnah himself. I did some serious research at the University of Houston library and wrote this piece.

Then around 2009, I adapted this as a monologue and had my erstwhile student, Kamaljit Mohanty, perform this on the stage for the annual WAVES function of NIST, Berhampur, where I was working at that time. I remember that I rubbed in a whole bottle of white poster color into his hair and then combed it to give his hair the salt-and-pepper look. The 8 page long monologue delivered by Kamaljit (with just 2 missed lines!!) was greeted with stunned silence and rapt attention by the students and all other audience. Many of them wanted to check my facts.]

I have been asked to talk about Gandhi. Perhaps you expect me to talk about the Gandhi as portrayed in your school textbooks or may be the filmi Gandhi shown in Sir Richard Attenborough’s film. Sorry! I am going to talk about the real Gandhi, the Gandhi whom I knew in flesh and blood. And to borrow words from Shakespeare – I am here not to praise Gandhi but to bury him.

If you think Gandhi looked like the filmi person portrayed by Ben Kingsley, you have got no idea about Gandhi`s real physical appearance .Far from being a handsome Adonis, he was a small balding man with large Mickey Mouse ears. Wearing his homespun dhoti and the heavy spectacles, you would hardly notice him if you had not heard of his exploits in South Africa - until you met his eyes. I still remember the eyes – they gleamed with a certain maniacal intensity. That was at the annual meeting of the Indian National Congress held at Calcutta in 1920, when I met him for the first time .If you recall, I was still with the Indian National Congress at that time.

As the meeting proceeded, I remember feeling annoyed at the stubborn stance taken by Gandhi. You see, at that time, the Indian National Congress was dominated by moderates like Tilak, Gokhale and Das. We all understood that the British would have to leave India in a gradual phased manner. We all wanted self-rule but were willing to wait for it like gentlemen. Gandhi wanted an abrupt removal of the British. To him there was no middle ground .It was all or nothing. And he wanted to try out his South African methods in India. I tried to point that India was very different from South Africa and his idea of total non-cooperation would bring many hardships to the common man. I also tried to tell him that the British were willing to undertake a gradual transfer of power. But he was stubborn – pardon the expression – but he was stubborn as a mule.

One day after Tilak`s death, Gandhi launched his total non-cooperation-what he called satyagraha. It was obvious that he had been waiting for Tilak`s death to grab control of the Indian National Congress. Then Gokhale died and the total control of the INC passed into the hands of Gandhi and his henchmen – or should I say his yes-men .This was the time I began to have doubts about my own involvement then INC.

The next time that I met Gandhi was at the meeting of the Home Rule league held on October 3rd, 1920, in Bombay. Once again, it was the same story repeated all over again. The moderators like Annie Besant relinquished control of the Home Rule League and Gandhi was chosen to chair the meeting. I wondered – where will this man stop in his quest for power?

My next meeting with Gandhi turned out to be a bitter and humiliating experience for me. This was at the Nagpur meeting of the INC held sometime after Christmas 1920. Gandhi popularity had reached a cult status among the Hindus and this meeting was held at Nagpur – the heartland of the orthodox Maratha Hindus. Once again Gandhi proposed his plan of extreme action against the British and people like Lala Lajpat Rai supported his plan. I thought it was time to inject some sense into this madness by speaking carefully measured words against Gandhi `s proposition. But the rowdy crowd had other ideas. They kept shouting “shame, shame “and I could make out some anti-Muslims insults being thrown at me. When I referred to “Mister Gandhi’s resolution“, people started shouting “Mahatma not Mister, Mahatma not Mister”. I had no intention of calling him Mahatma. When I turned to Gandhi to see his reaction; he was wearing a smug smile of satisfaction like a well fed cat, absorbing the populist adulation. Obviously, he liked the whole Mahatma thing. The result was that I was not allowed to speak any further.

Meanwhile, the common people were bearing the brunt of the British crackdown, not being able to meet even the basic the needs of life. I wondered if Gandhi ever tried to find about these people.

And then came the massacre of Chauri-Chaura . The non-violent movement had spawned a violent bloodbath that took the lives of 22 Indian policemen. Gandhi was forced to call off his movement but did he ever acknowledge his mistake? No! He simply told people that God himself had to call off the movement. And the people believed him! The sheer gall of this man was quite simply amazing.

Tired of Gandhi and his Indian National Congress, I went and joined the Indian Muslim League. Looking back, you might accuse me of deserting my moderate secular values in embracing an openly communal party like the Muslim League. But let us take a moment to analyze how secular was Gandhi and his INC. He did pay lip service to Hindu-Muslim unity but his actions, his lifestyle, and his philosophy were all walking commercials for Hinduism. No self respecting Muslim could call him a mahatma and go to his blatantly Hindu ashram. Gandhi was into some weird things. You must have heard about his experience with various types of diets to find the ultimate diet for promoting sexual continence. He was obsessed with this whole sexual thing! .Then there were these rumors that he occasionally slept among young naked girls just to test his control on his sexual libido. Really extreme kinky stuff!!

Then let us look at his circle of followers. Nehru the son of a rich Hindu Brahmin family, Patel – another high caste Hindu from Gujarat, and Lala Lajpat Rai - a representative of the Hindus from Punjab. Well, you might mention Maulana Abdul Kalam Azad but he was just a ceremonial Muslim prop in the world drama. Apart from these people, I doubted if Gandhi could ever control the Hindu rightist organizations which wanted only Hindus to rule. Looking at all these facts – how can you blame me for demanding a separated Muslim Nation? Pakistan was a necessity born out of Gandhi’s mistakes. If only he had included some of the powerful Muslims into his inner circle - Pakistan may have become unnecessary.

The funniest things about Gandhi were his repeated disclaimers that he was not interested in politics. I have no interest in politics - he kept repeating. Only a fool would have believed him. There was always the hidden implication that he was simply following instructions from God himself – Yes sir! He had a direct line to the Almighty and since he was simply following God’s instructions, no human being should or could question his authority. This kind of man is the most dangerous kind of person to have in politics. A man who wanted absolute power combined with zero responsibility.

Gandhi’s ruthless manipulations to maintain his power base were once again obvious when World War II broke out. Subhash Chandra Bose and his friends opposed Gandhi and very quickly found themselves shunned as outcastes in the INC. Just as I had left the INC, Bose left the INC in sheer disgust. The Indian National Congress had become the Gandhi’s personal congress .

World War II ended and Pakistan was born on 14 th August 1947. India was reborn on 15th August, 1947. Gandhi had achieved his dream – an abrupt withdrawal of all British forces. And what happened? All hell broke lose in Punjab. Trainloads of dead dismembered Muslims arrived into Pakistan. Trainloads of dead Hindus were sent back. Did you know to whom Gandhi and his yesmen run to for help? Lord Mountbatten - the much hated representative of the hated British empire! But for the bloodshed, I would have laughed at the irony of this.

I often used to wonder as to how long could Nehru rule over India with Gandhi looking over his shoulder. Nehru’s westernized ideas were bound to clash with Gandhi’s homespun ideas. Nehru’s dreams of steel plants were bound to clash with Gandhi’s charkha. But Nehru’s impending clash with Gandhi was saved by an assassin’s bullet.

I received the news of his assassination late in the evening on January 30th, 1948. I paid silent homage to the tough old man and sent my condolences .You see, I would have gone to his funeral but I myself was suffering from terminal cancer and my weight had gone down to a mere forty kilograms. As further details came in, I was shocked to hear that his assassin was a Hindu – a man belonging to an extremist sect linked to radical Hinduism. Nathuram Godse belonged to an extremist group from Poona led by Savarkar who apparently believed that Gandhi had betrayed the Hindu case by allowing the formation of Pakistan. When I thought of all the strenuous efforts of Gandhi to prevent the formation of Pakistan, this was the ultimate irony. The man who accepted no middle ground had been killed by another man who accepted no middle ground.

* * *

Men vs Women

2011-12-19T11:14:00.000-08:00

[[I am posting something I had written down more than 20 years ago while I was living in Houston, Texas, USA. Surprisingly, nothing seems to have changed in the man-woman debate. Some excerpts from the TV show, “The Mystery of Gender”, which was aired on the PBS channel]]

· The slave has to understand the master whereas the master doesn’t have to

· The prey has to understand the predator.

This was in connection to the historical domination of women by men and how the onus of “understanding” has been left on the shoulders of women. We also see the antagonistic roles taken by man and woman in their relationships where the relation becomes more of a competition of the sexes rather than one of mutual harmony.

· Males are socially expendable.

A really intriguing statement! This has been cited as one of the reasons behind various human activities like war. What are wars? - A way of expending the males of a society, in particular, the younger ones who have not yet achieved social importance. This is also connected to the virtual redundancy of the male in the process of human reproduction. All he contributes is just one sperm and the rest is done by the woman. The speaker on this show used this as an explanation for the social expendability of males. The expendability is masked under the euphemism of courage to make it socially acceptable.

· Major factors that have led to the modern idea of equality of sexes?

Power technology and birth control. The first removed the advantage of male strength in work. With machines, women can work as efficiently as men. Birth control removed the vulnerability of women in the act of sexual intercourse. Men could have sex without the responsibility of facing any biological consequences. Birth control brought the same opportunity to women, allowing them greater freedom.

· Lack of female role models.

The major problem faced by modern women is the lack of examples to emulate. Each woman has to work at defining her own goals and sense of achievement whereas men can use a lot of historical examples.

· The two images of women - as mother and as bitch.

Same old dichotomy of roles as perceived by the males.

· Only women can be “mothers”

A psychologist studied some children of families where the father stayed at home and brought up the kids and found absolutely normal growth patterns in the behavior of the children. This blow away the myth that, in some mysterious way, only women are equipped to be “mothers” in the sense of childrearing adults.

· Ambiguous or mixed sexuality?

Some Red Indian tribes accept the possibility of having both sexes in the same person. They talk about four sexes. In addition to the usual male and female models they also accept the “man in a woman’s body” and the “woman in a man’s body”. These unusual warrior women are allowed to be full fledged warriors and play all the usual male roles in the tribal affairs. The unusual men usually become priests (shamans) because they believe that these people who have a man’s body and a woman’s personality have great spiritual powers. As one of these priests put it, his ideal is “to be a man among men, and to live among women.”

It is also interesting to note the tolerance and understanding shown towards abnormal sexual tendencies by these so-called primitive tribes whereas the more “advanced and modern” civilizations are struggling to accept even simple things like homosexuality.

Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho

2011-12-19T10:55:00.000-08:00

Just finished "Eleven Minutes" by Coelho and enjoyed the soft touch on my heart and mind. Paulo Coelho is an unashamed and unabashed romantic in the true old world sense of the world. And for once, the happy ending of a book did not seem contrived but had a feeling of inevitability that is the hallmark of all great fiction. And as I finished reading the book, I got glimpses of what he calls "sacred sex". May be I will read it once again from the beginning.

Loved the "Hymn to Isis" at the beginning of the book which I have reproduced below. But following a posted remark in Paulo Coelho's blog to Wikipedia and to the original translation itself, I found that the longer version of the poem entitled "The Thunder, Perfect Mind" (Bronte in koptic) was even more beautiful than the shorter extract.

Do read the full version at http://www.gnosis.org/naghamm/thunder.html

Both versions highlight the confusion of the opposite extremes that men expect to find in women. They seek the most divine along with the most profane in women. They seek the dissolute harlot and the virgin goddess in women. They seek their own mother and their own daughter in every one of them. Men do get confused by these very same manifestations of femininity, unable to comprehend and come to terms with the multifarious splendor of the multifaceted Eve!

Hymn to Isis

For I am the first and the last

I am the venerated and the despised

I am the prostitute and the saint

I am the wife and the virgin

I am the mother and the daughter

I am the arms of my mother

I am barren and my children are many

I am the married woman and the spinster

I am the woman who gives birth and she who never procreated

I am the consolation for the pain of birth

I am the wife and the husband

And it was my man who created me

I am the mother of my father

I am the sister of my husband

And he is my rejected son

Always respect me

For I am the shameful and the magnificent one

Welcoming 2012

2011-12-18T23:03:00.000-08:00

New Year’s Eve - 0000 HRS of 2012.

Is it just another midnight in our long lives or is it special? Don’t know the answer! But I do know one thing. Every once in a while we need to take stock of our lives and ask ourselves all the important questions - Where am I? Where am I going? Which dreams have I forgotten? Which wounds in my mind have I not allowed to heal? Which people have I not forgiven? For which sins have I not forgiven myself? Which loved ones have I ignored and taken for granted?

And the New Year’s Eve is a great and formal occasion for stock taking of our lives. Once we have taken stock, let us throw out all the mental garbage and clean out our minds, preparing for another great year in our lives and in the lives of all our loved ones and all the human beings who need us.

Let us forgive everyone for every wound they have given us.

Let us forgive ourselves all our failings and shortcomings.

Let us make a list of everyone whom we have hurt and tell them SORRY!

Let us make a list of every person to whom we owe our gratitude and tell them THANKS!

Let us thank our parents for bringing us this life and seek their blessings once again.

Let us thank our friends and loved ones for making our lives beautiful.

Let us resolve to love more, live more, forgive more, do more, and aspire higher.

Let us welcome this New Year 2012 as a fresh and better chapter in our lives.

May the force guide you at every step of your life in 2012 in all your ventures and adventures.

Wishing you lots of life’s magic and music in 2012!

Digital Shiva

2011-12-14T03:47:00.000-08:00

Digital Shiva

I did this mixed media painting using acrylic colors and my daughter,Medha, did all the finishing coats of paints (she told me that my scraggly painting technique was not up to the mark!! And showed me how to use wide brushes to do the finishing coats. You live and you learn. Thanks, Medha!!). The "Om" decoration was stolen from a wedding card.
After finishing it when I started showing it to people in Bhubaneswar, their first reaction was - "Jagannath". Only after a lot of explanation did they see Shiva. I was exasperated, amused, bemused, confused and frustrated but consoled myself by reminding myself that art should not be explained. So, if people see Lord Jagannath in my rendition of Shiva, so be it.
I am happy to have finally finished it after working on and off for about two years.

Guilt or Love?

2011-11-11T20:59:00.001-08:00

(My short story which was published in Deccan Chronicle around 1994.)

Varun was filled with a sense of excitement as he waited in the lounge of the main office of Avalon Leather Industries Limited. He looked at the wall clock. 9:50 AM. Ten more minutes before he began working on the first real job of his life. Junior Accounts Assistant - the job title was modest but that was only to be expected of an entry level job for a commerce graduate. Trying to hide his nervousness, Varun sat in the sofa in the corner of the lounge.

And that was when she entered the lounge through the main door. She was wearing a red sari with a bold floral pattern. Varun’s gaze was captivated by the sensuous fluid motion of her body as she walked in through the door. As she approached the staircase, she looked towards him for a brief moment. The small shapely mouth with a hint of lipstick, the chiseled nose, the large expressive eyes behind the square wireframe glasses, the small red bindi dot in the middle of her forehead set in contrast to her fair complexion - this image was imprinted in Varun’s memory long after she had climbed up the stairs and vanished from his sight. It was a few minutes before Varun looked at his watch and jumped up to climb to the third floor.

* * *

His boss, Subhash turned out to be a very amiable fellow who put him at ease right from the first minute.

“Take you time to learn the ropes of this place and don’t hesitate to ask me if you need anything.”

The next two hours flew away in completing the joining formalities - finding his desk, introductions to other persons in his section and a briefing about this training. Since it was the head office of Avalon Leather, all the accounts of the thousand crore turnover company flowed through his section.

A fleeting and totally disconnected thought passed through his mind - “Wonder where will I find the beauty in red?”

“Varun, come along with me to the exports division and I will introduce you.”

He followed his boss down the stairs to the next floor and met Mr. Das, the top honcho of the exports division. Mr. Das took him around his section and after meeting about a dozen people, they entered a small office.

It was her! The woman in the red sari! The vision of beauty he had seen in the morning! Varun could barely hear the introduction.

“Meet Smita. Officially she is my assistant but it is she who really runs my whole show with me assisting her.”

As Das laughed at his own vintage joke, Varun smile politely and greeted her with a polite Namaste. Varun felt as if he were two people at the same time. One was uttering the usual banalities - “Nice meeting you”, “I need to learn from scratch about this business”, etc. The other Varun was silently assessing her beauty in fine detail. Up close, she was even more beautiful than he had thought. Her cheeks puckered into cute little dimples when she smiled. A naughty thought passed through his mind - “Wish I could kiss those dimples!”

Then he noticed the streak of vermilion powder in her hair and the shiny mangalasutra adorning her neck - the adornments of a married woman! Smita was married! In a strange way, Varun felt as if he had been cheated out of something that should belong to him.

“Why is it that every beautiful woman I meet is already married? Or is it the other way around - that I keep falling for married women?” he wondered. As he felt himself falling in love with this beautiful woman, he also despaired at the futility of falling in love with a married woman. He knew he was working his mind into an impossible position but there was nothing to be done against the hypnotic beauty of this woman.

Varun had to meet Smita almost daily as exports was a big part of his duties. At first, it was strictly business. But as time went by, they came closer as colleagues and he learnt more about her. Smita had been married for about one year. He husband Rajiv worked in a refrigerator company a few kilometers from their own and he religiously dropped her off and picked her back from office every day.

Six months went by. Varun expected some lessening of his initial passion. But with every passing day, his feelings of attraction towards her only grew stronger. He told himself a million times that it was wrong and immoral to have such feelings for a married woman and his thoughts should not cross the boundaries of office friendship. But the moment he saw her, there was a renewed desire in his heart to hold her in his arms. And, in those moments, all his rational thoughts could not overcome the lustful thoughts that set his heart afire. Each time he saw her, there was a wave of raw passion in his heart begging to be let free from bonds and boundaries for a few moments, free from social norms and taboos, free from the laws of civilized behavior, free to declare his love for Smita, free to run away with her into some unknown lovers’ idyll and live happily ever after...

“This is so wrong! This is so evil!” His inner voice cried. Perhaps staying away from her would help, he thought. But, then he realized that on the few days when he did not meet her, his longing only multiplied in intensity. Varun continued to suffer this mental turmoil day after day.

He discovered a common shared passion with Smita - books. She was one of the few people he had met in his life who read more books than he could imagine. Varun was only too happy to share his father’s collection of books with her. This also gave him the excuse to spend those few extra minutes with her every day.

But once he came back to his own cubicle, the ghosts of his doubts came back to assail him afresh. And his guilt multiplied. But the other voice in his mind kept repeating like a chant - “How can I help falling in love with her? I love the way she talks, I love the way she smiles, I love the way she laughs, I love her, I love her, I love her...”

Over time, he grew closer to Rajiv also and pretty soon, he was a regular guest at all parties and celebrations at Smita’s house. Varun watched the happy couple. Most of the times, he was happy seeing them together but sometimes he was disgusted to recognize the green monster of envy in his heart.

“I am losing my sanity. How can I be jealous of a happily married couple who seem to be made for each other? Am I sick or am I becoming a devil?”

Just like every day, Rajiv had come to pick up Smita and as he waved goodbye to them, Varun was amazed at how he could continue a perfectly mundane conversation in spite of the malignant jealousy growing in his mind. Just as Rajiv kick-started his motorbike, a thought passed through his mind.

“What if Rajiv were to die? Smita would be mine.”

Varun chastised himself for letting such a thought cross his mind and left for home. He recalled his father’s words - “Evil thoughts lead to evil actions.”

Next day at work.

“Did you hear about her husband’s accident?”

“What? Whose husband?”

“Smita from exports. Got hit by a truck last night.”

A blanket of numbness spread over Varun’s consciousness.

Was it possible that his thought had ...? No, that’s ridiculous! Thoughts do not kill people.

His father’s words kept echoing in his mind- “Evil thoughts lead to evil actions.”

Varun was in the grip of a primeval fear, the kind of fear that ghost stories evoke. He felt as if the unseen force of his evil thoughts had taken shape and come to haunt him.

Varun rushed to Smita’s house and then to the hospital where they had taken Rajiv. There she was, sobbing incessantly, her eyes swollen with tears. Her brother’s family had come in from the neighboring town and they were trying to console her. Varun could not muster the courage to talk to Smita or even make eye contact with her. Finding a corner chair, he too joined the silent vigil for the outcome of the surgery. Each time, he looked at Smita, he felt guilty of some unknown crime.

“You willed his accident. You willed his death,” his mind kept echoing painfully and relentlessly.

Two hours passed by.

Waiting.

Waiting in absolute silence but for the occasional sound of Smita’s sobbing.

Then came the bad news - the surgery had failed. Rajiv was dead!

To Varun, it seemed like a scene from a bad Bollywood movie where, in the very next scene, they have a miracle cure and the patient walks off alive. But all he could hear was the same silence broken by louder heart-wrenching sobs.

Rajiv was dead!

Varun could not handle the demons of his guilt any further and he rushed away from the hospital.

But what Varun did not know was that his personal hell would follow him to his home also.

After fighting his personal demons for ten days and telling himself a million times that he did not dare to see Smita ever again, Varun changed his mind and decided to attend the tenth day funeral ceremonies at Smita’s house.

Like a Goddess of Sorrow. Clad in a simple white sari. No bindi. No mangalasutra on her neck. No bangles on her hands. Eyes swollen with tears. Hair dishevelled - Varun could not bear to see Smita in this appearance. Smita sat staring into the distant infinity with no interest in the events and happenigs around her. Varun wished to talk to her for a few minutes but that was impossible as there were too many relatives hovering around her. It was as if they were trying to drown her sorrow in the mundane hubbub of the religious ceremonies.

Varun wanted to hug her and tell her he was sorry. Sorry for what - he could not formulate it in his mind. But he had to leave even without greeting her.

As days passed, Varun’s thoughts took a new turn. Smita was now single and there was no reason he could ask her to marry him.

“I should marry her.” A voice in his mind spoke.

“Why?” Another voice questioned.

“Because I love her.”

“Is it love you seek? Or is it your guilt at having killed her husband?”

“I didn’t kill him!”

“Or are you trying to marry her out of pity? Helping a poor widow!”

“I don’t pity her! I love her!”

“Love? Or is lust? May be you just want to get married to fulfill all your lustful fantasies about her!”

“My love is pure and true love.”

“Is it for this pure and true love that you killed her husband?”

His conscience tortured him relentlessly.

“I want to marry her because I love her. No other reason is required.”

“Think whether your old parents will agree. Smita is a widow. And no one wants their only son to marry a widow. And what will people say in your office?”

What had earlier been an abstract problem - his hopeless attraction towards Smita - had suddenly sprouted all the ugly tentacles of real world problems.

“Think again! It is love or is it pity or, even worse, is it guilt?”

New doubts tormented his mind. What was impossible had become possible but could he pay the price? Could he answer the questions?

His father’s words came back to his mind - “Whatever you decide, at whatever point of your life, you have to pay a price. Every decision comes with its own price. You only have a choice between decisions. You do not have a choice in paying the price, once you make a decision.” But Varun was paralyzed by his conflicting thoughts and emotions. He kept postponing his decision to choose.

Two weeks later, while at the bus stand to receive his mother, Varun ran into Smita and her family.

“Hi, Smita! Where to?”

“Going to my Dad’s place in Vijayawada. Took a month’s leave. I am trying for a transfer to our Vijayawada plant.”

Her bus was two hours late. Their conversation was a little stiff but Varun felt an increasing calm in his mind - a feeling he had not known from the day of her husband’s death. But this peace was short lived as it was interrupted by a loud voice.

“There you are! I have been looking for you all over the bus stand. You could have come and helped your poor old mother with her luggage.” It was his mother and her bus had arrived earlier than predicted.

Varun made the introductions and, after a few minutes, took leave of Smita and hailed an auto rickshaw.

“I see why you did not come for me! You were too busy talking to that shameless widow woman!” His mother’s rude outburst hurt him deeply but Varun kept his peace. He tightened his grip on the handle bar in anger.

A large pig shot across the road chased by two dogs. The auto braked and came to a sudden halt. A second later, a minivan slammed into the rear of the auto rickshaw. Varun braced himself with his hands but his mother fell out of her seat and hit her head against the steel bar in front.

Varun helped her get up and checked her head for injuries.

“The moment I saw that inauspicious widow’s face in the bus stand, I knew something like this would happen. Cursed be her evil looks....” As his mother ranted and raved, Varun felt a flood of anger rising inside him. His first impulse was to lash out and slap his mother. Then he stopped himself.

“Is this me? I was ready to hit my own mother! Why do I feel so angry at her words? Is it because I love Smita even now?”

He was surprised at this intensity of his feelings for Smita. The clouds of doubt and guilt flew away from his mind and were replaced with the gentle glow of love. He felt a deep peace in his heart which he had been missing for a long time. He was no longer angry at his mother. He thanked her mentally for pushing him. Varun had come to a decision and he was ready to pay any price for it!

“Mother! You make yourselves comfortable. I will be back in an hour. Have some urgent and important work.”

Varun took the same auto rickshaw back to the bus stand where his destiny awaited - a destiny he would carve out of his love, free of doubt and guilt. He would not let Smita leave town feeling alone. He would ask for her hand and her help in creating a new reality for himself and for Smita - a reality for which he was willing to pay any price!

Prayer from Paulo Coelho's "The Pilgrimage"

2011-11-05T13:22:00.000-07:00

Just read an old book of Paulo Coelho - The Pilgrimage. Compared to his latest “Aleph”, this has more raw emotions and more intense imagery. If “Aleph” is a soft pastel colored painting, “The Pilgrimage” is painted using only the basic dark primitive colors. Loved the prayer on “Personal Vices”. I have reproduced it here from an online e-book version of the novel. My comments are in blue.

`Pity us, O Lord, for we are pilgrims on the road to Compostela, and our being here may be a vice. In your infinite pity, help us never to turn our knowledge against ourselves.

Knowledge can be dangerous. Like a magical sword we carry which can turn against us at some inopportune moment. I think I have read many stories with this kind of a plot.

`Have pity on those who pity themselves and who see themselves as good people treated unfairly by life who feel that they do not deserve what has befallen them. Such people will never be able to fight the good fight. And pity those who are cruel to themselves and who see only the evil in their own actions, feeling that they are to blame for the injustice in the world. Because neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, "But the very hairs of your head are numbered."

You are neither the cause nor the effect. Your goal in life is to do your duty. Never think that you are a victim of the world. Never think that the world is your victim. Reminds me of some important message from the Bhagvad Gita where Lord Krishna tells Arjuna not to think too much of the results of this actions. Instead the message is to focus on righteous action - on Karma based on Dharma.

`Have pity on those who command and those who serve during long hours of work, and who sacrifice themselves in exchange merely for a Sunday off, only to find that there is nowhere to go, and everything is closed. But also have pity on those who sanctify their efforts, and who are able to go beyond the bounds of their own madness, winding up indebted, or nailed to the cross by their very brothers. Because neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, "Be ye therefore as wise as the serpents and as harmless as the doves."

Finding it difficult to interpet! Do not sacrifice your dreams for routine work. Is it a warning against becoming a martyr???

`Have pity on those who may conquer the world but never join the good fight within themselves. But pity also those who have won the good fight within themselves, and now find themselves in the streets and the bars of life because they were unable to conquer the world. Because neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, "He who heeds my words I will liken to a wise man who built his house on rock."

This is definitely in line with Hindu principles. It is important to conquer both the worlds - the internal spiritual world as well as the external physical world. And the essential conflict between the two is what makes the path so difficult. You cannot renounce the world to retire to the mountains as a recluse and you cannot immerse yourself so deeply in the external world that you lose your internal spiritual bearings. You cannot take up sanyaasa unless you have completed your duties as a grihastha.

`Have pity on those who are fearful of taking up a pen, or a paintbrush, or an instrument, or a tool because they are afraid that someone has already done so better than they could, and who feel themselves to be unworthy to enter the marvelous mansion of art. But have even more pity on those who, having taken up the pen, or the paintbrush, or the instrument, or the tool, have turned inspiration into a paltry thing, and yet feel themselves to be better than others. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, "For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed, nor hidden that will not be known."

Do not abandon your passions, however futile the results may seem to be. Because it might end up being one major regret on your death bed - of not having attempted to fulfill your dream. On the other hand, do not be too proud of your artistic achievements!! I am really inspired by these lines. Yes! I am going to do some more paintings even though I have no formal knowledge or training. Just for the sheer joy of creating my own artistic masterpieces!! Not for any ego trip!!

`Pity those who eat and drink and sate themselves, but are unhappy and alone in their satiety. But pity even more those who fast, and who censure and prohibit, and who thereby see themselves as saints, preaching your name in the streets. For neither of these types of people know thy law that says, "If I bear witness of myself, my witness is not true."

Aha! Don’t try to impose your visions or your rituals on the world! Let people march to their own internal drumbeats!

`Pity those who fear death, and are unaware of the many kingdoms through which they have already passed, and the many deaths they have already suffered, and who are unhappy because they think that one day their world will end. But have even more pity for those who already know their many deaths, and today think of themselves as immortal. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, "Except that one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God."

The true knowledge and acceptance of death is necessary for leading a good life. But this knowledge should not lead to intellectual arrogance.

`Have pity on those who bind themselves with the silken ties of love, and think of themselves as masters of others, and who feel envy, and poison themselves, and who torture themselves because they cannot see that love and all things change like the wind. But pity even more those who die of their fear of loving and who reject love in the name of a greater love that they know not. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, "Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst."

Accept the fleeting nature of love as an inherent nature of love. But that should not be an excuse for not loving. Love IS important and understanding what is true love is even more important. In this book, Paulo Coelho talks about three types of love - eros, philos, and agape.

“Agape is total love, the love that devours those that experience it. Whoever knows and experiences Agape sees that nothing else in this world is of any importance, only loving. This was the love that Jesus felt for humanity, and it was so great that it shook the stars and changed the course of man’s history.”

`Pity those who reduce the cosmos to an explanation, God to a magic potion, and humanity to beings with basic needs that must be satisfied, because they never hear the music of the spheres. But have even more pity on those who have blind faith, and who in their laboratories transform mercury into gold, and who are surrounded by their books about the secrets of the Tarot and the power of the pyramids. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, "Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it."

Accept the spiritual plane but do not reduce it to the mechanistic oversimplifications of Tarot cards and fortune telling tricks. Reject blind faith. Faith must be based on your own personal enquiry into the issues.

`Pity those who see no one but themselves, and for whom others are a blurred and distant scenario as they pass through the streets in their limousines and lock themselves in their air-conditioned penthouse offices, as they suffer in silence the solitude of power. But pity even more those who will do anything for anybody, and are charitable, and seek to win out over evil only through love. For neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, "Let he who has no sword sell his garment and buy one."

You cannot make the world a better place by isolating yourself. Neither can you make it a better place by allowing it to exploit you. You must remain strong, not allow yourself to be exploited and continue to work on the good things. Lots of love in your heart and a strong sword in your hand - that’s the only way to conquer evil.

`Have pity, Lord, on we who seek out and dare to take up the sword that you have promised, and who are a saintly and sinful lot scattered throughout the world. Because we do not recognize even ourselves, and often think that we are dressed, but we are nude; we believe that we have committed a crime, when in reality we have saved someone's life. And do not forget in your pity for all of us that we hold the sword with the hand of an angel and the hand of a devil, and that they are both the same hand. Because we are of the world, and we continue to be of the world, and we have need of thee. We will always be in need of thy law that says, "When I sent you without money bag, knapsack, and sandals, you lacked nothing."'

We have the power to be warriors of good or warriors of evil. The same sword that we carry is capable of both good deeds and evil ones. And many a time, we are not even sure as to which side of the battle we are engaged. Unless we have some kind of divine guidance.

The Goddess - A Painting

2011-10-30T21:21:00.000-07:00

We did this using acrylic colors on canvas. I have used blank CDs and some carrom coins for decorations. I did the basic structure and outline painting. All the embellishments are by Medha, my daughter, who claims that this was more than 80% of the job. So the credits for this painting are as follows: Medha - 80%, myself - 20%.

Line Drawings Using Glass Liners

2011-10-23T09:24:00.000-07:00

I made these line drawings on glass using glass liners. Used a white fabric as background. Trying to master the extremely difficult art of portraits using lines only. The noses are the toughest to draw. The outlines are from enlarged photographs of my kids.

BHEEMA

HARSHA

MEDHA

My Experiments in Painting

2011-10-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I made these paintings using metallic acrylic colors on canvas.

CONFLAGRATION

CONCENTRATION

CONFLUENCE

CONFRONTATION

CONJOINING

Thanks to my wife, Sujatha, for giving me the courage to try my hand at a new art form.

Of Signs and Omens

2011-10-16T18:46:00.000-07:00

Paulo Coelho keeps writing about forever looking for and heeding small signs and small omens as indications of our connection with the parallel spiritual worlds. I don’t know whether I am beginning to agree with him, or is it a part of my internal change as I spend more time and effort exploring my inner world, but I have started noticing some of them in my life.

Just a few days, made a blog entry about vanaprastha ashram of life and its connection with my increasing efforts at reading and writing about topics of the heart and soul. And today, I picked up an intriguing book - “The Difficulty of Being Good” by Gurcharan Das - to find the same thought echoed in this introduction.

When I announced my plan to spend the next few years reading the Mahabharata, ,ymother, who lived 400 km away at her guru’s ashram by the river Beas, reminded me that my restlessness was not inappropriate to the third stage of the Hindu life. Called vanaprastha, literally ‘one who goes to the forest’, such a person spends his time in reflection and searches for life’s meanign. She said that I was suffering from ‘vanaprastha melancholy’.

An amazing coincidence or a sign?? This book had been lying on my table for about four months now and I chose today evening to pick it up and start reading. And the concept of vanaprastha jumps out at me. Statistical coincidence?? Heavenly sign?? Don’t know and don’t want to think about that. But it made me feel good. May be I am on the right track!!

Just a few weeks back, I had finished reading this magical book “the five people you meet in heaven” by Mitch Albom on the flight from Bhubaneswar to Hyderabad. I was feeling warm and serene with that beautiful lightness of the heart and soul that comes when you have just had a glimpse into the deep miracles of life. I waited for my suitcase to arrive on the baggage delivery belt. Usually I am impatient but on that day, I was patient and lo and behold! My suitcase was the first to arrive on the baggage belt!! Amazing miracle?? Heavenly sign?? Statistical accident??? May be nothing! But it brought a smile to my lips and a glow to my heart.

Just a few days ago, a friend asked me for some money and the same day I came across this wonderful story at Paulo Coelho’s blog. Coincidence? Heavenly message for me?? Don’t know!

A man knocked at his Bedouin friend’s door to ask him a favor:“I want you to lend me four thousand dinars because I have a debt to pay. Can you do that for me?”The friend asked his wife to gather together everything they had of value, but even so it was not enough. They had to go out and borrow money from the neighbors until they managed to get the full amount.When the man left, the woman noticed that her husband was crying.“Why are you sad? Now that we’ve got ourselves in debt with our neighbors, are you afraid we won’t be able to repay them?”“Nothing of the sort! I’m crying because he is someone I love so much, but even so I had no idea he was in need. I only remembered him when he had to knock on my door to ask me for a loan.”

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2011/10/12/10-sec-read-why-are-you-crying-eng-espa-port/

For a nice pictorial representation of the four ashramas, see link below

http://whitepaintedwoman.wordpress.com/2010/07/18/the-four-ashramas/

About Judas, Peter, and Forgiving Yourself

2011-10-16T18:43:00.000-07:00

Another small gem from Paulo Coelho's "Aleph" on the importance of forgiving yourself-

There is a moment in the Bible, during the Last Supper, when Jesus predicts that one of his disciples will deny him and one will betray him. He considers both crimes to be equally grave. Judas betrays him and, eaten away by guilt, hangs himself. Peter denies him, not just once but three times. He had time to think about what he was doing, but persisted in error. However, instead of punishing himself for this, he makes a strength of his weakness and becomes the first great preacher of the message taught him by the man whom he had denied in his hour of need.

The message of love was greater than the sin. Judas failed to understand this, but Peter used it as a working tool.

Karma

2011-10-16T18:40:00.000-07:00

I loved this definition of Hinduism's fundamental concept of karma given by Paulo Coelho in "Aleph"-

“It isn’t what you did in the past that will affect the present. It’s what you do in the present that will redeem the past and thereby change the future.”

The Importance of being Yourself

2011-10-16T18:38:00.000-07:00

Another great quotation from Paulo Coelho's "Aleph". It connects seamlessly with Robin Sharma's Ten Great Regrets of Life.

We simply have to trust and follow the signs and live our Personal Legend; sooner or later, we will realise that we are all part of something, even if we can’t understand rationally what that something is. They say that in the second before our death, each of us understand the real reason for our existence and out of that moment Heaven or Hell is born.

Hell is when we look back during that fraction of a second and know that we wasted an opportunity to dignify the miracle of life. Paradise is being able to say at that moment: ‘I made some mistakes, but wasn’t a coward. I lived my life and did what I had to do.’

Another small story which I found on the net about the great Hassidic leader, Zusia who tells his followers that he had a vision about the most terrifying question that the angels have prepared for him to answer on arrival in heaven.

"Zusia, there was only one thing that no power of heaven or earth could have prevented you from becoming.' They will say, 'Zusia, why weren't you Zusia?'"

The complete story is at the following link:

http://hasidicstories.com/Stories/Other_Early_Rebbes/zusia.html

I Love You Like The River ...

2011-10-10T05:13:00.000-07:00

A magical and beautiful declaration of love from the wonderful book "ALEPH" by Paulo Coelho.

‘I love you because all the loves in the world are like different revers flowing into the same lake, where they meet and are transformed into a single love that becomes rain and blesses the earth.

I love you like the river that creates the right conditions for trees and bushes and flowers to flourish along its banks. I love like the river that gives water to the thirsty and takes people where they want to go.

I love you like the river which understands that it must learn to flow differently over waterfalls and to rest in the shallows. I love you because we are all born in the same place, at the same source, which keeps us provided with a constant supply of water. And so, when we feel weak, all we have to do is to wait a little. The spring returns, the winter snows melt and fill us with new energy.

I love you like the river that begins as a solitary trickle in the mountains and gradually grows and joins other rivers until, after a certain point, it can flow around any obstacle in order to get where it wants.

I receive your love and give you mine. Not the love of a man for a woman, not the love of a father for a child, not the love of God for his creatures, but a love with no name and no explanation, like a river that cannot explain why it follows a particular course, but simply flows onwards. A love that asks for nothing and gives nothing in return; it is simply there.

I will never be yours and you will never be mine; nevertheless, I can honestly say: I love you, I love, I love you.’

Honouring our Opponents

2011-10-09T01:55:00.000-07:00

Yet another gem from Paulo Coelho's "Aleph" which I wanted to share.

... anyone accustomed to danger knows that, at any moment of his life, he could be confronted by an opponent - not an enemy, an opponent. When an opponent is sure of his power, you have to confront them or be undermined by your failure to exercise your own power. Knowing how to appreciate and honour our opponents is a far cry from what flatterers, wimps and traitors do....It doesn’t matter what he was, what mattered was how he handled his energy. I liked his style of fighting, and he liked mine. That’s all.

Seems like a quaint idea - Honoring our Opponents! But underlying it are a whole lot of ideas ranging from fair play to a sense of detachment even in competition. The above quote is spoken by a character in the book named Yao who practices aikido - an art that practitioners use to defend themselves while also protecting their attacker from injury (from Wikipedia entry).

A Prayer of Forgiveness

2011-10-09T01:38:00.000-07:00

Another marvelous gem from Paulo Coelho's book "Aleph" is about the value of forgiveness which I wanted to share. I am finding out that the message of forgiveness seems to have a universal value across cultures and continents and this extract from Coelho's book says it beautifully.

I forgive the tears I was made to shed,I forgive the pain and the disappointments,I forgive the betrayals and the lies,I forgive the slanders and intrigues,I forgive the hatred and the persecution,I forgive the blows that hurt me,I forgive the wrecked dreams,I forgive the still-born hopes,I forgive the hostility and jealousy,I forgive the indifference and ill-will,I forgive the injustice carried out in the name of justice,I forgive the anger and the cruelty,I forgive the neglect and the contempt,I forgive the world and all its evils.

I also forgive myself.

May the misfortunes of the past no longer weigh on my heart.

Instead of pain and resentment, I choose understanding and compassion.

Instead of rebellion, I choose the music from my violin.

Instead of grief, I choose forgetting.

Instead of vengeance, I choose victory.

I will be capable of loving regardless of whether I am loved in return,Of giving even when I have nothing.Of working happily even in the midst of difficulties,Of holding out my hand even when utterly alone and abandoned,Of drying my tears even while I weep,Of believing even when no one believes in me. So it is. So it will be.

Found this lovely image at the following site on FORGIVENESS.
http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/dont-delay/201002/forgive-yourself-stop-procrastinating

The Ability to Receive

2011-10-09T01:27:00.000-07:00

I have always suspected that it takes a bigger heart to receive than to give. Let me explain! It takes a big heart to give - we all accept that. The ability to be generous has always been recognized as a sign of greatness. But I have always felt that the ability to receive something given - without developing resentment towards the giver, without hating the giver - needs a bigger heart and a more evolved human being. It was wonderful to see this thought echoed in Paulo Coelho's book, "Aleph", which I finished reading this morning.

I’ve known lots of people who care about others and are extremely generous when it comes to giving and who feel real pleasure when someone asks them for advice or help. And that’s fine; it’s a good thing to help you neighbour. On the other hand, I know very few people capable of receiving, even when the gift is given with love and generosity. It’s as if the act of receiving made them feel inferior, as if depending on someone else were undignified. They think: If someone is giving us something, that’s because we are incapable ot getting it for ourselves. Or else: The person giving me this now will one day ask for it back with interest. Or even worse: I don’t deserve to be treated well.

About the book itself, another great masterpiece from the Master, Paulo Coelho, himself. I am reading a lot of such books nowadays and they have begun to touch my heart in ways that I am unable to explain. My wonderful wife, Sujatha, keeps exhorting me to look into the spiritual aspect of my life and I have wondered what I should do. But, in the recent past, I seem to be doing a lot of reading on spiritual issues and have started enjoying them a little more.

Is this some kind of a passing phase in my life or am I really changing? Is this something like the "vaanaprastha" ashram of Hindu mythology - the third stage of life (after Brahmacharyaa and Gruhsthaa) when a person begins preparation for the final stage of "Sanyaasa"?

I retook an old MBTI Personality test and found that my profile has changed from an ENTJ - manager- doer to ENFJ - a mentor, giver.

I am happy to note that I am changing but into what?? I don't know as yet. My journeycontinues...

Searching for Infallible Heroes

2011-10-09T01:10:00.000-07:00

I was reading this wonderful book “Better under Pressure” by Justin Menkes (its subtitle is - How Great Leaders Bring Out the Best in Themselves and Others) and came to a wonderful passage

...these examples show that every accomplished individual is also very flawed—and we must understand this paradox if we are to recognize what enables leaders to win their hard-earned reputations. The human longing to believe in the infallible leader is very powerful. To be under the direction of infallibility eases our fears in an uncertain future. But there are no gods in business or any other field. It’s something we may know rationally, but we must truly debunk our tendencies to categorize people as heroes or losers, gods or charlatans, and we must especially eliminate our penchant for categorizing and oversimplifying great leaders. They do not get it right every time—just much more often than their competitors, and for a much longer period. All good leaders have times of weakness, when their less heroic selves emerge. These are the sides of them that we do not celebrate and choose to forget when we build them into heroic caricatures. Knowing this will help all of us on our own quest to realize our potential and bring forth our best selves.

Long ago, when I was studying at the University of Houston, my teacher and mentor, Professor John H. Lienhard used to caution us not to succumb to the “Great Man Syndrome” while writing or reading about famous persons. Some writers have a tendency to perform a comprehensive “whitewash” of great persons leading to one dimensional hagiographies. These may be fine for young children but not for grown-ups. All through his course on History of Technology, Professor Lienhard would enlighten us with interesting tidbits about the personal lives of the great scientists and technologists which achieved two purposes for me. First, it presented them as well rounded real human beings as opposed to one dimensional caricatures. Second, it brought them down to a human level telling us that they were no different from other ordinary persons and that every one of us could aspire to similar greatness.

May be everyone’s “Committee of Selves” is composed of many types of persons - some aspiring to greatness, some lazy procrastinators, some devils intent on harming others and causing pain, and may be a few angels trying to bring peace and love to this earth. Brings to my mind the Zoroastrian concept that everyone is a warrior of light and a prince of darkness - both at the same time. When we do a good deed we are a warrior of light. When we do an evil deed, we help the evil forces gain a small victory in the everlasting battle between good and evil. So, the challenge to us is - Can we remain steadily on the side of the forces of Good and servants of the Light?

Saving the Generous Impulse

2011-10-05T13:18:00.000-07:00

For the past few years, I have been observing a simple yet powerful struggle inside my head every time an impulse for generosity arises in it. The impulses are very simple in origin - I have something that is not of much use to me and when I find someone who would use it more than me, there is this impulse of generosity that arises - “Let me give this away.” Immediately, in the next few seconds, a massive debate ensues in my mind.

Why should I give it away? What will I get in return? What if tomorrow I need it and I do not have the means to get another of this item or thing? Will this person be thankful to me or will he prove to be ungrateful? Or will he end up hating me for my generosity? Am I doing this to help this person or to seek self-gratification in some way? If I give it away, do I deserve to pat myself on the back or maintain my humility one hundred percent? Am I trying to play God? Will I fall into a self-glorifying habit of giving and give away everything - not leaving anything for me and my own family? Should I really give a thousand rupees or should I give only five hundred - or only two hundred? Does he deserve a thousand rupees? Do I need the money more than this person?

It is as if there are a dozen persons in my head and each is trying to pull in a different direction. Then, I was reading a wonderful book “Better under Pressure” by Justin Menkes (its subtitle is - How Great Leaders Bring Out the Best in Themselves and Others) and came to a wonderful passage explaining the concept of “a committee of selves” and suddenly it was clear to me that the debate raging in my mind was this very committee of selves inside me arguing it out on whether to give or not to give.

Heroes and their Committee of Selves

To master the process of soliciting the best performance from their people, leaders must first understand one essential truth about human psychology: that every human being is capable of both mediocrity and greatness. We assume that there is one person in each body, but each of us is more like a committee whose members have been thrown together to do a job.

So, what happens at the end of the debate? I usually end of giving away whatever I wanted to give away. I repeat to myself and my entire committee of selves - Giving is good, giving is the only thing to do in this world, giving is the only karma for you!

This brings me to another great inspirational PowerPoint file which someone sent me a long time ago based on the text of Joseph Newton from “Principle of Emptiness”.

Give away what you don’t use any longer...

The attitude of keeping a heap of useless stuff ties your life down.

It’s not the objects you keep that stagnate your life...

but rather the attitude of keeping...

When we keep in store, we consider the possibility of wanting, of penury...

We believe that tomorrow it may lack, and that we won’t be able to fulfill those necessities...

With that idea, you are sending two messages to your brain and to your life:

That you don’t trust tomorrow... and you think that the new and the better are not for you.

For this reason you cheer yourself up by storing old and useless stuff.

Get rid of what’s lost its color and brightness...

Let the new enter your home... and yourself.

May prosperity and peace reach you soon.

AMEN

Give away whatever you can to make space for the new in your life. And if the message is still not clear, watch a great Disney Pixar movie “UP” about an old man who tries to preserve his old home by carrying it away on a bunch of gas filled balloons only to realize its futility in the end. Absolutely fantastic movie!

The complete excerpt of “Heroes and their Committee of Selves” is available at the following link:

http://blog.eonetwork.org/2011/06/heroes-and-their-committee-of-selves/

Thanks to SSM for gifting me the book "Better under Pressure".

The Five People You Meet in Heaven

2011-09-30T09:20:00.000-07:00

Read another great book by Mitch Albom - The Five People You Meet in Heaven. A beautiful story of an ordinary man named Eddie who dies while trying to save a young girl. Now according to the premise of the book, he has to meet five people in Heaven whom he has to meet before closing his life's story can come to an end. Absolutely amazing story which brought tears to my eyes with its sincere simplicity and strong message of love.

The brief story can be found at the following wikipedia link.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Five_People_You_Meet_in_Heaven

The God Memorandum

2011-09-30T09:09:00.000-07:00

Read another great book named “The Greatest Miracle in the World” by Og Mandino. It has a good mystical story following the lines of great “mythical realism”. But the highlight of the book is “The God Memorandum” written by God for you. It asks you to count your blessings in every possible way in order to realize that YOU are the Greatest Miracle in the World and why you have no excuse for not accepting this and acting upon it. God tells you the following lines:

I gave you the power to think.

I gave you the power to love.

I gave you the power to will.

I gave you the power to laugh.

I gave you the power to imagine.

I gave you the power to create.

I gave you the power to plan.

I gave you the power to speak.

I gave you the power to pray.

The entire book is also available as an attached audio book read by the author himself.

I will share a few more great lines from the book from God’s memo.

Choose to love... rather than hate.

Choose to laugh... rather than cry.

Choose to create... rather than destroy.

Choose to persevere... rather than quit.

Choose to praise... rather than gossip.

Choose to heal... rather than wound.

Choose to give... rather than steal.

Choose to act... rather than procrastinate.

Choose to grow... rather than rot.

Choose to pray... rather than curse.

Choose to live... rather than die.

If you are on time, consider yourself late

2011-09-30T09:06:00.000-07:00

Read an interesting book by Priya Kumar named “License to Live”. I guess the catchy title made sure that I bought it but I did not regret reading it. The story has a nice allegorical journey of the author as she completes a training course from a very unconventional trainer. At the end of the course, she is awarded a “License to Live.” Great story and I don’t want to spoil it for you but want to share a small excerpt from the book about the importance of being early. The fictional trainer has a slogan - “If you are on time, consider yourself late.”

“Being early is the mark of a creator. The only entity that came before creation was the creator himself. When you show up earlier than the expected time of arrival, you have more opportunities than you will ever know. As the norm would have it, the master is supposed to show up after the student has arrived. But a master is a master because he arrives before the student shows up. The student remains a student because the master has already shown up. You become the master when you show up earlier than expected, faster than expected, and stick around longer after the others have gone.”

On Being Versus Becoming - LILA

2011-09-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

For the old fans of “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle” of Robert Pirsig, he has come out with a sequel after seventeen years. And just like the first book, this one is also unashamedly deeply philosophical and makes no attempt at becoming a light-reading book. It demands and gets your full attention and gets your brain chugging at top gear in order to keep up with the intricate and abstruse arguments of the author. Don’t read it if you are looking for a Sunday afternoon lazy reading session. This demands serious study like a textbook!

Of course, all this is embedded in a story about an enigmatic woman named Lila and the author connects her to the concept of Lila in Hinduism - the cosmic drama of the world. The story is bitter sweet in its poignancy but does justice to the underlying theme.

What Pirsig achieves in this book is an extremely self-conscious (or should I call it self-aware for its extreme degree of premeditated author intrusiveness!!) extrapolation of his old concept of Quality. He now divides Quality into “static Quality” and “dynamic Quality”. Static quality brings stability to the universe but is constantly being disturbed by dynamic Quality which brings change. And everything in this world is an outcome of the continual battle between the two. Something that is accepted as good is continually being challenged by something that aims to change it and in turn this leads to a new concept of what is good.

In my mind, I framed it into a simpler concept of the struggle between “being” and “becoming”. “Being” is static and “becoming” is dynamic. And the competition between these two leads to creation and change and a new stable order.

The Gain of Losing an Argument

2011-09-30T08:59:00.000-07:00

Read “Six Frames” by Edward De Bono, the man of the Six Thinking Hats fame. The complete title is “Six Frames for Thinking About Information”. I guess I cannot resist buying a De Bono book as my old Guru, Prof. Farrokh Mistree, had told us so many things about De Bono and his greatness that it buying a De Bono is more like a conditioned response rather than a buy decision.

The does a great job of showing 6 different ways of looking at information. In the present Googlified world where every piece of information is just a search engine away, we still have to learn the art and science of information processing including collection, validation, and organization.

But my greatest take away from this book has been the following idea on page 99 of the book.

If you win an argument you do not gain much, but if you lose an argument you gain a lot.

What a magical message for a stubborn “Argumentative Indian” like me! Wow! It hit me real hard and deep. Yes! When you win an argument, nothing has changed in you. But when you lose an argument, it is replaced by a new idea, a new concept or a new viewpoint. You change! I guess it is an important part of the process of “becoming”. Fits in beautifully with the idea that the whole world is a constant battle between “static Quality” and “dynamic Quality” as argued by Robert Pirsig in his new book “Lila”. Winning an argument is just “being” what you are. Losing an argument is a part of “becoming” - transforming the YOU of yesterday into the YOU of today.

ROBO - The Movie

2010-12-03T17:13:00.000-08:00

Just this week, on December 1st and 2nd I attended FICCI-FRAMES2010 (South) - the Media and Entertainment Business Conclave. The major take-home point from all the deliberations was that having a great story is still the best bet for making a hit movie or TV serial. The movie ROBO proves the point.
I saw it many weeks ago and this blog is long delayed. After seeing the movie, one can see the craftsmanship and diligent attention to the details that has been put into the story by its writer-director Sankar. A superb story that blends the “robot” genre of sci-fi into a seamlessly crafted story of human passion and every element “Indianized” to suit the requirements of an Indian audience. The basic plotline is based on the age-old fear of machines taking over the human world but the detailing of the elements shows the long hours put in by the film makers. I keep telling people that this movie would have been a hit even without Rajnikant. But I think when you have put in astronomical amounts of money into the production (around 300 crores INR), I guess you need the starpower of Rajni to play it safe. The computer graphics were absolutely superb and of the highest quality. The last half an hour of VFX is nothing short of the best in the industry. The entire climax sequence had pace and surprise to keep you on the edge of the seat for a long time.

And Aishwarya?? You take a triple scoop ice cream with vanilla, chocolate and strawberry flavors, top it up with rich hot melting chocolate syrup - that was how deliciously sexy Aishwarya Rai was in the movie. I was never a big fan of Aishwarya but she simply took my breath away with her screen presence. May be there is some truth in the myth about beautiful women getting better with age like the best wines...

The Art of Extreme Self-Care

2010-10-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

Picked up a book named “The Art of Extreme Self-Care” during a visit to Crossword in City Center, Hyderabad. It was a wonderful stolen afternoon for both Sujatha and me - going out without kids, without anyone else, just the two of us - a rare but delightful luxury in our lives. Went with discount vouchers of Rs. 1500 and ended up buying books for about a few thousand more!

I was intrigued by the title of this book and picked it up even though the hardcover was a little expensive. The author, Cheryl Richardson, recommends placing yourself at Number 1 and taking “extreme self-care.” She says that placing yourself at the top may be hard, but ask yourself, "How am I going to take care of others if I am burnt out?"

She recommends - Put your self-care above anything else. Choose to spend your time and energy on things that bring you joy and make decisions based on what you want instead of what others want. If you don't set boundaries and take care of yourself, your health and well-being are at stake. And, if you are neglecting yourself, you aren't helping your family and others around you.

Reading this book reminded of the standard safety drill for placing oxygen masks taught during every airlines flight - “Fasten your own oxygen mask before trying to assist someone else.” This seemingly selfish safety routine has an extremely simple and rational explanation - if you fail to put on your own mask properly and in good time, you yourself may be incapacitated by the lack of oxygen and, finally, you are in no position to help others. I think we all should recognize this essential difference between “selfishness” and “enlightened self-centricity.” I think that die-hard fans of Ayn Rand (like me) will immediately see a connection here to Randian philosophy!!

To help you set your personal boundaries and determine your true priorities, she recommends creating two lists -an “Absolute Yes List” and an “Absolute No List.” The “Absolute Yes List” is a short list of 3 to 5 things that need your immediate attention at this time in your life (in the next 3 months). They are the things that needs your urgent attention like your marriage, financial, health, your physical and emotional heath. Things like spiritual well-being, time with friends, school, work, volunteering, finances, household chores, home repair. The “Absolute No List” is a list of the top 10 things that drain your energy. You can succeed professionally by eliminating these things from your life.

Cheryl (in another website article) gives an example of a study of 200 CEOs from top businesses. When asked - “Where were you when you got the ideas that moved the company forward?” Their responses were: the shower, while driving, and on vacation. Relaxation and taking time for yourself are important.

Her key take-home messages - Invest in your health and spirituality. Know yourself again. Self care begins with you. Don't wait for a health issue to arise. Create a “sacred work place” designed to your needs for inner and outer peace.

Tuesdays with Morrie - 2

2010-10-19T11:20:00.000-07:00

I just can't write enough about this wonderful book by Mitch Albom. In this post, I want to share some of the extremely insightful messages that I found in this magical book.

Developing Your Own Culture - The culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn’t work, don’t buy it.”

Bringing Meaning to Life - The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.”

Love is the only Rational Act - The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in.

Learn how to die, and you learn how to live.

The Important Questions have to do with love, responsibility, spirituality, awareness.

Money and Power - Money is not a substitute for tenderness, and power is not a substitute for tenderness.

A Meaningful Life - Devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.

“You notice,” he added, grinning, “There’s nothing in there about a salary.”

Giving to Others - Do the kinds of things that come from the heart. When you do, you won’t be longing for somebody else's things. On the contrary, you’ll be overwhelmed with what comes back.”

Building Your Community - Invest in the human family. Invest in people. Build a little community of those you love and who love you.

Forgiving Ourselves - We also need to forgive ourselves. Forgive yourself. Forgive others.

Death ends a life, not a relationship.”

Tuesdays with Morrie - 1

2010-10-19T11:15:00.000-07:00

Read another great book by Mitch Albom - Tuesdays with Morrie. There are just so many great passages in this book that, if I put them all here, I will definitely end with some serious rights violations. When I read the following lines, I was moved to tears by the depth of the commitment and the emotional clarity.
“I decided what I wanted on my tombstone,” he said.

A Teacher to the Last.

Wow! I have been thinking seriously if that is what I would like to have on mine too (tough in reality as we do not have tombstones but just a thought!!). Want to share two great passages from the book in this post.

Aging is Growth

As you grow, you learn more. If you stayed at twenty-two, you’d always be as ignorant as you were at twenty-two. Aging is not just decay, know. It’s growth. It’s more than the negative that you’re going to die, It’s also the positive that you understand you're going to die, and that you live a better life because of it.”

Yes, I said, but if aging were so valuable, why do people always say, “Oh, if I were young again.” You never hear people say, “I wish I were sixty-five.” He smiled. “You know what that reflects? Unsatisfied lives. Unfulfilled lives. Lives that haven’t found meaning. Because if you’ve found meaning in your life, you don't want to go back. You want to go forward. You want to see more, do more. You can’t wait until sixty-five.

The Little Wave

“Okay. The story is about a little wave, bobbing along in the ocean, having a grand old time. He’s enjoying the wind and the fresh air-until he notices the other waves in front of him, crashing against the shore.

“My God, this is terrible, ‘the wave says. ‘Look what’s going to happen to me!’

“Then along comes another wave. It sees the first wave, looking grim, and it says to him, ‘Why do you look so sad?’

“The first wave says, ‘You don’t understand! We’re all going to crash! All of us waves are going to be nothing! Isn’t it terrible?’

“The second wave says, ‘No, you don’t understand. You’re not a wave; you’re part of the ocean.’”

I smile. Morrie closes his eyes again.

“Part of the ocean, “he says, “part of the ocean.” I watch him breathe, in and out, in and out.

The Knowledge that I've got Enough

2010-10-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

Read an interesting book (thanks to Bibhuti for lending and recommending this book) with an unusual and offbeat title - "The No Asshole Rule: Building a Civilized Workplace and Surviving One That Isn't" by Robert I. Sutton. The book describes how to guard yourself from emotional injuries caused by workplace bullies or assholes. Great read and very helpful in developing some important workplace skills for the modern day employee!!

Do read the book but if you do not have the time for that - at least read the "17 Things I Believe" list on the author's website at the following link.

http://bobsutton.typepad.com/my_weblog/2007/02/kurt_vonnegut_a.html

Another gem that I picked up from the book was a anecdotal poem written by Kurt Vonnegut recalling an incident in the company of the author Joseph Heller. The poem moved me to the core of my heart and I want to share it here.

Joe Heller

a poem by Kurt Vonnegut

True story, Word of Honor:
Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer
now dead,
and I were at a party given by a billionaire
on Shelter Island.

I said, "Joe, how does it make you feel
to know that our host only yesterday
may have made more money
than your novel 'Catch-22'
has earned in its entire history?"
And Joe said, "I've got something he can never have."
And I said, "What on earth could that be, Joe?"
And Joe said, "The knowledge that I've got enough."
Not bad! Rest in peace!"

“Have a Little Faith” by Mitch Albom

2010-06-11T05:15:00.000-07:00

Going to Bangalore for a one day trip with Subbareddy, my cousin, and Charan, my colleague.

“What was your fare for this trip?” asks Subbareddy.

I show him my ticket and after some comparison, he remarks - “Oh! I opted for insurance – flight insurance – and that's the extra fare on mine!”

“Do you always buy insurance?” I ask him.

“Yes! Just in case.” He replies.

On the Indigo flight, I start reading an amazing book named “Have a Little Faith” by Mitch Albom. It is an amazing journey of self-discovery by a Jewish man who ends up working for a Christian church. It is an amazing story of a Jewish Rabbi who embodies everything that faith should stand for. Please do understand – it is more a story of faith than of religion. A story of a Jewish rabbi building a congregation – one soul at a time – in the middle of pressures from the Christian world. No review of mine can do justice to this fantastic tour-de-force of a single man's journey. I finished the book on the return journey with my eyes welling with tears of happiness. I felt as if I was floating on some kind of a cloud of peace. My heart was at peace. I was happy.

I felt like getting down on my knees and thanking every human being who has loved me even for a single moment of my life.

I felt like shouting loud THANK YOU notes to every one of my teachers who have taught me.

I felt like writing a journal or a book based on my own wanderings around this central issue of faith.

On my profile in Orkut, I wrote that I am searching for my heroic mission in life as Joseph Campbell mentions in his works. This book is Mitch Albom's search and he comes close to finding his mission. I felt rejuvenated and reinvigorated – as if my heart and soul had gotten charged with some energy.

As I read the book, the essence of Bhagvad Gita about true goalless duty flowed out of the words of the Jewish Rabbi. If there is a faith, if there is a central secular idea of a supreme force – this book helps you get a glimpse of a simple man's search for that force.

As I came to the end of the book on the return flight and landed safely in Hyderabad – my mind was full of thoughts of life, death, meaning, faith, simplicity, humility, grace... and then I heard Subbareddy comment - “We have landed safely. There goes my wasted insurance money!!” I burst into laughter and laughed so deeply until tears came out of my eyes. That was just what I needed to roundoff my ethereal experience of reading Mitch Albom's great book.

Before I end my review – I implore you to get the book and read it and gift it and go to buy another copy.

The following story was my best take-away amongst all the gems of the story. It is the epilogue of the book.

Extract from Epilogue of “Have a Little Faith”

All right. In that final minute, I would say, 'Look, Lord, I've done X amount of good stuff of earth. I hagve tried to follow your teachings and to pass them on. I have loved my family. I've been part of a community. And I have been, I think, fairly good to people.

“'So, heavenly father, for all this, what is my reward?'”

And what do you think God will say?

He smiled.

“He'll say, 'Reward? What reward? That's what you were supposed to do!'”

I laughed and he laughed, and he bounced the palms on his thighs and our noise filled the hosue. And I tink, at that moment, we could have been anywhere, anybody, any culture, any faith-a teacher and a student exploring what life is all about and delighting in the discovery.

Can you feel the essence of duty as mentioned in the Bhagvad Gita?

Ten Human Regrets by Robin Sharma

2010-06-11T03:44:00.000-07:00

Just finished reading another great book by Robin Sharma - author of the masterpiece "The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari." This book falls a little short of my expectations in terms of fictional quality but the tale hangs well. He does get his message through in a nice easy to read format without taxing the reader but I ended up with the feeling that I have been cheated of some great stories just because the author wanted to keep it brief. I really would have liked the stories of the four masters to be more fleshed out and more personal. But I guess a self-help book cannot be judged on the parameters on good fiction. On the whole,a good read and some great take-homes from the book. The best of book is Robin Sharma's 10 Human Regrets of life. This is something I am printing and keeping in front of me.


The 10 Human Regrets



From “The Leader Who Had No Title” by Robin Sharma

Human Regret #1.

You reach your last day 

with the brilliant song that your life was meant to sing still silent within you.

Human Regret #2.

You reach your last day

without ever having experienced the natural power that inhabits you to do great work and achieve great things.

Human Regret #3.

You reach your last day

realizing that you never inspired anyone else by the example that you set.

Human Regret #4.

You reach your last day

full of pain at the realization that you never took any bold risks and so you never received any bright rewards.

Human Regret #5.

You reach your last day

understanding that you missed the opportunity to catch a glimpse of mastery because you bought into the lie that you had to be resigned to mediocrity.

Human Regret #6.

You reach your last day

and feel heartbroken that you never learned skill of transforming adversity into victory and lead into gold.

Human Regret #7.

You reach your last day

regretting that you forgot that work is about being radically helpful to others rather than being helpful only to yourself.

Human Regret #8.

You reach your last day

with the awareness that you ended up living the life that society trained you to want versus leading the life you truly wanted to have.

Human Regret #9.

You reach your last day

and awaken to the fact that you never realized your absolute best nor touched the special genius that you were built to become.

Human Regret #10.

You reach your last day

and discover you could have been a leader and left his world so much better than you found it. But you refused to accept that mission because you were just too scared. 
And so you failed. 
And wasted a life.

Walking on the Beach

2010-05-19T10:10:00.001-07:00

Lazy Sunday morning walk on the beach. Watching a large dragnet being pulled out of the sea. Two groups of people playing tug-of-war against some unknown adversary in the sea. Four fishermen swimming in the waves, guiding the last stage of the drag, keeping it low on the sea bad, preventing fish from escaping. Slowly, the two groups of people converge and the net is pulled out. I join the sweaty fishermen and the nosy tourists to see what the net holds. The entire net shivers like a mysterious sea animal, driven by the death throes of the fish inside. Slowly the shivering subsides. The animal has died. The net is opened. A fisherman puts in his hand and pulls out a couple of brownish gooey objects from amongst the fish and throws them away. Jellyfish. Later, these will "melt" down and "flow", leaving behind a small amount of shiny brownish residue on the sand. There are all kinds if fish in the net. They pull out a starfish and give it to a tourist who holds it with awe in his palm and walks away with a happy smile. A couple of eels are killed and thrown away. A small slimy brown ray is given away to a beggar. The fish is dumped in to a small heap and the auction begins. "Fifty" "Fifty-five" "Fifty-nine". A pause. "Sold for fifty-nine rupees".

* * *

A motor boat or, rather, a wooden boat equipped with an outboard motor has just landed. They haul out a huge shark. Must be about twelve feet long from nose to tail. I wonder how much would it weight. Two to three hundred kilograms, if not more. I watch as a fisherman sets about cutting it open. First, he cuts the fins, fins fetch a princely price of about eight rupees a kilogram. Exported out of India for use in shark fin soup. Next, he retrieved the hook stuck in the shark’s jaw. Surprisingly, the hook is only about three inches in size. Somehow, I had expected a much larger hook. Then, he carefully began to hack near the gills of the shark and separated the head. (Heads are considered waste and are simply let to rot in the beach. For a few rupees you can get somebody to separate out the jaws of shark form these discarded heads for you. I have three sets of jaw at home. Intended to give them out as presents.). Next, he carefully makes a long cut along the back of the shark’s dorsal side using a sawing motion of his knife. The shark opens out like a sheet. The entrails are pulled out. A kid is poking into a large sack like organ. He pulls out nine small sharks from this sack. The shark had been pregnant. The unborn sharks are lighter in color and have zebra like bands of gray and white. The man cuts up the shark into small chunks. Several small girls appear with large baskets on their head. They load these chunks into their baskets and take them away to the "fish factory". I overhear that the shark had been auctioned off for twenty two thousand rupees. Impressive!

* * *

Lots of dead sea animals on the beach. Once I saw the rotting carcass of a big turtle. Its shell was about two feet in diameter. Wonder if it is one of the Ridley turtles that are being bred by conservationists. More than half the flesh is gone.

Dead puffer fish with it swollen body and a comical open mouthed expression. Read somewhere they were poisonous. Must have been discarded from some fisherman’s catch.

Dead eels are common sights. Wonder why even the dogs do not eat them.

Once, we were playing in the water when we found a brown spotted ray floundered on the beach. We took it back into the waters. Dropped it into the water wrong side up. Without bothering to correct its position, it swam away with a few wiggles of its tail - all the while in its upside down position.

* * *

Walking along the beach in the evening. About ten yards away, I see many crabs. Red crabs and gray crabs. Cautiously watching me with their antenna-shaped eyes. Half their bodies inside their holes. They rush into their holes as I approach them. I look back and the crabs have reappeared.

A crow is chasing a crab. Far from its hole, the crab runs towards the water. Fatal mistake - as it is impossible to dig a hole in the watery sand. The crow swoops down, pecks at the crab, catches it in its beak and flies away.

I watch a large red crab disappear into a hole. I sit down near the hole and cover the opening with wet sand. After about ten minutes, the crab batters its way through the opening. Unable to stop its own momentum, it topples over. Rights itself after a few seconds of frantic comical motion. Sensing my presence, it dashes back into the hole. Once again, I cover the opening to the hole. This time, the crab waits for a longer time before retrying. This time around, it is more careful. First, it gives the sand a small push creating a small sand dome. Then, it waits. Finally, it appears from the hole, slowly pushing the sand away.

* * *

Walking along the beach towards the port, I see an unusual patch of gravel. As I step closer, the gravel vanishes. Poking it with my foot, I find that it is not gravel but a colony of small crabs and other crustaceans, each a few millimeters in size. They quickly burrow themselves into the wet sand. Some of them are overturned as I sweep the sand with my foot. They helplessly wave their legs in the air.

I find a large shell shaped like an ice cream cone. I am very happy.

(First draft : 24 July 1997)

A Night with the Turtles

2010-05-19T10:09:00.000-07:00

9 PM on Tuesday night. A little while after we crossed Ganjam town, we saw the board with a large painting of a turtle entitled "Operation Kachhapa" - Operation Turtle! After taking a sharp right turn, we crossed a couple of villages. Villagers watching movies on rented video sets. At some places they were partially blocking the road but they obliged by shifting their chairs. Reached a small white house at the edge of a village and parked our car. Met by two villagers who offered to take us to the turtle nesting grounds.

First we walked about half a kilometer along a narrow path. Smell of shit all along the path - as usual, the pathways always double up as the village latrines! Then a steep descent of six feet along a rocky embankment and we boarded a boat. Or something like a boat - if a rickety contraption with boards of wood standing just a couple of inches out of the water qualifies to be called a boat. As we pulled off, I was hanging on to the two sides of the boat for dear life, afraid that even if I breathe too deeply, the boat might capsize!

"How deep is the water?" Sangram popped the question.

"Not much! Only three to four feet but, as the tide rises, the level will be much higher by the time you return." Nice info!!!

After negotiating a precarious passage through the posts of a broken wooden bridge, we reached the opposite shore after about ten minutes of high tension.

Next, we trudged along on sand until we came to a small creek. We waded through about a feet of water in the moonlight and reached the beach.

At the beach we were greeted by Mr. Rabindranath Sahu, the local coordinator of Operation Kachhapa and his colleagues - all wearing prominent T-shirts with "Operation Kachhapa" emblazoned across them. He was the one who had invited SNM to come for this trip.

A few minutes later, we were led to watch a turtle laying its eggs. The female Olive Ridley was about three feet long. My first impression was that it looked like an overgrown bedbug with a bird's beak!! The strong birdlike beak looked strangely out of place as if someone had incorrectly assembled the organs. The flippers were strong and the shell was unbelievably hard and tough.

As it lay in an inclined position, serenely laying its eggs, accompanying the act with a rhythmic flapping of its rear flippers, unperturbed by the noisy and wonderstruck homo sapiens, with the ping pong ball sized eggs popping out in ones and twos - it was a magical moment for me. A deep sense of a mystical communion with this strange and peaceful beast of the sea filled my heart. Watching the eggs popping out, I also felt as if we humans were violating some unwritten rules of nature's privacy, as if we were watching something we were not supposed to. And then, sacrilege! One of the guides picked up an egg and offered it to us to hold and touch. I could not bring myself to touch it! I was happy when the guide put the egg back with the others.

"Have you eaten a turtle egg?" Someone asked the guide.

"I have tasted one long back. It has a very strong smell. What villagers do is that they break the contents into a bowl of hot water and this forms white thread like strands. These strands are then cooked and eaten."

"Do these eggs remain safe?"

"No! There are foxes, lynxes, dogs, and many other animals that love to make a feast of turtle eggs. We try to stand guard in the nights but it is a long twelve kilometer stretch of beach and we can't stop them all."

"How many eggs do they lay at a time?"

"Between fifty to a hundred."

The turtle had finished laying its eggs and began to cover up the hole by pushing forward the sand with its back flippers while its front flippers pushed sand back. Along with this, it slowly rotated its body and moved to and fro. The net effect was to smoothen the sand pit. By the time, it had finished the sand was absolutely flat and it was impossible to tell that it had ever dug a pit here.

"What happens next?"

"They usually wander here and there for a little while before heading back to the sea. They never go back directly to the sea. As if they want to hide their tracks."

"How big do they get?"

"They get to about three feet. The Olive Ridleys are among the smaller species of turtles. They only get weigh about fifty kilograms to about a hundred. For sheer size, you should see a Leatherback, which can be anywhere from six hundred to tonne in weight! But they come quite rarely to these shores."

These guys could reel off quite a lot of facts about these turtles. Obviously well trained for their job.

Only about one in a thousand eggs will survive to become an adult.
The males never come to shore.
The eggs hatch in about 45 days. The hatchlings are tiny and crawl out to the sea. Shore lights confuse them and they might wander off away from the sea. Then they fall prey to dogs, cats, foxes, etc.
Shorelights also discourage the turtles from coming to shore for nesting. They were seeking the help of the government to make sure that the neighboring organizations and towns keep their lights dimmed or off at night.
A guard might walk as much as forty to fifty kilometers in a night to keep watch.
The large turtles are tagged. Turtles tagged here have been recaptured in places as far off as Sri Lanka, Costa Rica, Australia, etc.
Operation Kachhapa was one of the major projects of Mr. Biswajit Mohanty who is also coordinating projects to save tigers, crocodiles and dolphins in Orissa.

Our turtle was wandering off parallel to the coast. One of the guides pulled it by its left flipper to make it point to the sea. But after a few steps (or should I say "waddles" of the flippers!), it once again turned away from the sea. I walked with it as it moved towards the sea in a meandering fashion like a low black shadow on the sand. When the first wave hit it, it accelerated. Another wave came and it was fully submerged. When the wave receded, it was gone!

We went on to watch three more turtles.

"They are incredibly strong. Watch!" The guide stood on the shell of one turtle as it moved towards the sea. At first, it stopped for a few moments. Then it resumed its waddle as if the man was a mere weightless fly on its back!

"This year, there have been very few turtles. You should come and see a mass nesting when there are literally thousands and thousands of turtles lying on this beach in a nesting frenzy. On those nights, there is no place to even pout a foot down anywhere. We have to hop over them. They will dig, lay eggs and cover up the sand, then another will come and do the same at the same spot. Total confused chaos reigns on those nights."

I flashed my torch on a shell. Dead decaying turtle with its shell peeling off in orange colored layers.

"Its all those trawlers which come from Andhra. They kill the turtles."

As we walk along the beach, we see many more carcasses of dead turtles - silent reminders of the most powerful, most mindless and most silent killer of them all - MAN!

I feel a sense of shame for this mindless killing.

I pay silent tribute to these small dedicated band of men who are fighting to save the turtles.

(visit dated April 16, 2002)

On Snakes

2010-05-19T10:06:00.000-07:00

As I was driving home today, I saw a little snake about a foot long crossing the road. Because the road was slick after a rain shower, the snake meandered in large loops, making slow progress. I swerved slightly to avoid crushing the snake, wondering how many people would choose instead to gleefully crush this little animal!! How did humanity come to hate these legless wonders of nature? I wonder. Is it because they have the strangest method of locomotion? No legs, no flippers, no fins – moving by the unbelievably complex coordinated motions of its underbelly.

First, according to the Holy Book, there was the serpent that tempted Eve to try out the apple of knowledge. Eve prodded Adam to eat the apple and for that they were thrown out of the heavenly garden. The Bible says that they became aware of their own nakedness. I feel that this was when they became self-aware, aware of their existence – the greatest accomplishment of the human race. Is it better to be a self-aware creature on this imperfect earth or is it preferable to live like a contented zoo animal in the gardens of heaven? – I leave you to draw your own conclusions!

Then there are the serpents in the hair of the Gorgons. I always find pictures of Gorgons fascinatingly macabre. There has always been a link between serpents and women – Eve, Gorgons, and the asp chosen by the great Cleopatra to take her into the oblivion of death.

Of course, Indian mythology abounds in snakes. The world is believed to be supported on the hood of a large serpent (our version of Atlas?!). Then there are the numerous snakes that garland the blue throat of the Supreme Destroyer, Shiva. His friend, Vishnu, uses another large multiheaded serpent, Sesha, as his bed as he relaxes on the Sea of Milk (does the milk never spoil or ferment?). Sesha plays an important role in many of Vishnu’s exploits and often takes human form along with Vishnu. Then there is the large serpent used for the churning of the oceans by the gods and demons. It was coiled around Mount Meru, the gods held the tail and the demons held the head and they churned the mighty oceans. Out came the ravishingly beautiful Goddess Lakshmi who was promptly appropriated by Vishnu to be his wife. Next, when the churning produced dangerous poisons, it was Shiva who swallowed in into his throat, turning his throat blue. Then there was Krishna who tamed the serpent Kaliya in the river Yamuna and spared its life on the plea of Kaliya’s wives.

The epic poem Mahabharata is actually narrated in a flashback fashion after the great snake sacrifice of Janmejaya, Arjun’s grandson. When Abhimanyu’s son, Parikshit was born, it was foretold that he will die of snakebite. Parikshit built himself a tall marble tower designed to keep away all snakes. Finally, Takshak, the king of snakes hid himself in the form of an insect inside a fruit. When the hapless king bit the fruit, out came Takshak and killed Parikshit. Such was the rage of Janmejaya, his son and heir, that he organized a sacrifice to destroy every snake in the world. As the sacrifice commenced, snakes found themselves compelled to throw themselves into the sacrificial fires. Fearing the end of his race, Takshak sought the intervention of Indra, the kind of gods to appease Janmejaya. Some priests returning from this great sacrifice narrate the entire story of Mahabharata as a flashback.

My own experiences with snakes goes back to when I was seven and we were living in Jamnagar Air Force base. Whenever a snake was sighted, there was a big hubbub and a sense of excitement filled the air. All the neighbors would gather with the weapons of their choice – sticks, crowbars, and iron mosquito-net rods (Air Force issue!) and a few spades to dig. The bushes would be cleared up and the earth dug up until the snake was exposed. Then, with lots of shouting and screaming, the poor snake would be killed. This was followed by a ceremonial cremation of the snake. A small hole would be dug up in the ground. Sticks, rags and grass would be laid down and the dead snake put on top. Everything would be doused in kerosene and set on fire. This was considered supremely important because if you did not burn it, the dead snake would carry the images of its hunters, captured "photographically" in its eyes, right into its next incarnation and then, based on those images, it will hunt down its erstwhile killers!! The very thought gave me goose pimples at the time.

This "photographic" memory idea is also certified by our very own Bollywood in many of its movies. How can one ever forget the sensuous Sridevi turning into a female manidhari cobra in "Nagina"? (Once again, women and snakes – see the connection?). Manidhari cobras are supposed to have a magical diamond inside their hoods which gives them the miraculous power to transform themselves into any animal form which they choose to! I once met a snake charmer who tried desperately to sell me one of these gems "freshly extracted from a cobra". He even showed me the cut on the cobra’s hood to prove his point but I didn’t buy the gem! Hollywood’s fascination with snakes is no less. Whether it is the terror striking "Anaconda" or the image of Indian Jones dropping down into a room full of snakes – they have always succeeded in adding a dimension of memorableness to movies.

When we moved to Lucknow, the walk back home from school took us through the main road of Sadar Bazaar which was a veritable theatre in the evenings. Dancing bears, performing monkeys, tightrope walkers, contortionists, street singers, magicians, and of course, snake charmers – made our trip home a very leisurely and fun filled affair. Watching the snake charmer, bands of hair tied to his wrists, swaying rhythmically and the playing the "been" added charm to many an evening. I always thought of them as some kind of courageous superheroes- being able to handle snakes so effortlessly. This was around the time that Dad visited Rangoon, Burma, and told me stories of restaurants where you could walk in, select the snake of your choice, and they would cook it for you. In my mind, this macabre gastronomic fantasy rates second only to the other one about eating the brains of a living monkey with its skull removed! (Shades of Hannibal the Cannibal!)

Later, when I was in eighth grade we moved to Kalaikunda Air Force base in West Begal and this was a snake haven. The roads had waist high reed grass growing on both sides which was full of foxes and snakes. On any night, if you went out for a walk, you would meet a couple of snakes lazily crossing the road. Then there was the time when a thin green snake, apparently lying dead, came to life and got entwined in the front wheel of my bicycle. My feet spread wide in the air, watching the snake go round and round in the wheel, screaming at the top of my voice – I must have been a real sight! Every time there was a large downpour, the snakes would come out in large numbers and could be seen everywhere in the waters flowing across the roads.

On our summer visits to our ancestral villages, you were bound to come across a few of these legless reptiles. I used to watch the annual fish catching in the village lakes when they would drag a net across the lake. When the net was finally pulled out, there would be a dozen or more watersnakes, nonpoisonous ones, I was told, biting the nets. I watched in fascination as the men would grab each one by its head, release its hold on the net, give it a few quick whirls in the air and throw them to die on the shores, unable to move with broken spines. While in my village, I would be terrified to put my feet down from the cot after dark for fear of snakes and scorpions. My Uncle’s favorite story was about the time when he was pulling hay from the haystack, and out came a cobra along with the hay. He whirled it around quickly and hit it against the wall. My Grandma would tell us about the numerous rattlesnakes that she had discovered in the house and this would be followed by detailed stories about how each of them was killed. The all time family favorite story is the one about the time my Grandfather and his friends killed and ate a python. They used to visit the Araku valley near Vizag every year to collect timber and that’s where they dined on a python. I always recollect this story when I see pythons wound up in lazy bundles on tree trunks in zoos. In our villages, snakebites were usually fatal due to the absence of medicines – the only "remedy" being some quacks who could put mantras, magic spells to cure snakebites. I recollect hearing about some who practiced this fine art through the telephone. If you could not get the victim to the quack, no problem! He would recite the mantras on a telephone held to the victim's ear (early form of telemedicine!).

When I joined IIT, Kharagpur, I stayed in the ground floor for two years and snakes were frequent visitors to our rooms and toilets. As I once came out of the toilet where I had gone after an afternoon siesta, another guy entered and screamed that there was a snake on the ventilating window. It must have been right in front of my eyes but I had not seen it! Then followed a mad rush for bricks, and rods to kill the snake. On another occasion, one of my neighbors saw a snake slither into a room. The occupant had gone home and no one knew when he was returning. You can imagine the long vigil we kept for that guy to return. But by the time he opened the room and we searched for it, the snake had given us the slip!

I often dream that I am alone in a large field full of large slow moving lethargic snakes crawling slowly towards me. As I try to run, I either find my feet stuck to the ground or find myself running in slow motion. Is there some significance to this recurring dream – I have often wondered!

A snake eating itself – the ultimate paradox – the sublime symbol. Just imagine – the snake continues to swallow its tail, shrinking itself into an ever tightening loop that gets smaller and smaller and finally vanishes! Somewhere I read an argument against this – how can the stomach digest itself? How can the mouth bite itself?

Think!!

On Relationships

2010-05-19T10:02:00.000-07:00

"Treasure your relationships, not your possessions." -- Anthony J D'Angelo

Do I understand "relationships"? I sat down to define my understanding of these precious links that bind us to other human beings. As I let my brain take flight in all directions, what emerged were a lot of questions and very few answers. When you don't have the right answers, maybe you have to be satisfied with having the right questions!!

They say that joys multiply when shared and sorrows divide. What happens to hatred when shared? Is it multiplied or divided?

If joys multiply when shared, why do we find them so difficult to share? Are we selfish? How can we become more generous in sharing our joys?

A friend of a friend is a friend! Transitivity of mathematics! Is an enemy of your friend your enemy? Does hatred also follow this transitivity? I think not! What do you think?

When does a healthy "relationship" transform into an unhealthy "possession"? Should we give the other person space for his or her own individuality? Should we submerge ourselves into relationships or should we maintain our own identity? What do we do with our ego when it clashes with the relationship?

Can we have a relation from which we do not expect anything or want anything? A perfectly pure platonic precept! I suspect even a relationship like parental love has a selfish angle. Are we simply gratifying our quest for immortality by creating sons and daughters in our own image? Or do we love them without any selfish motive? If it is selfless, why can't we love the children of others like we love our own?

Is a relationship more about giving than taking? If so, what motivates the giving? Is there a hidden form of taking even in the giving? Which needs of ours – physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual – are being met by the relationship? If needs are being fulfilled, then isn't there something selfish behind every relationship?

Whatever may be the strength of a relationship, how deeply can we "know" another person? I believe that inside every human being, there is a nebulously defined but substantial core which is hidden from any other human being and which can never be exposed fully. If we accept this, then how open is "open" in relationships?

If we arrive alone and naked into this world and depart this world alone, naked, and dead, why all this fuss about relationships during our life?

Can we define a relationship with our own self? Or is that the only "real" relationship that is possible in this world? Do we have to nurture this special kind of relationship or does it take care of itself? Can we find the human being at the core of our being and communicate with that deep innate self of ours?

On the other end of the spectrum, can we define a relationship with God? Should it be one of a supplicant to a master? Or is it a kind of friendship? Or is it some kind of sublime and ethereal love affair like Meera had defined for Krishna? Or is it a teacher student relationship?

I search for the answers as I stagger along on a meandering path with its unknown destination on this journey called "my life". Will you walk with me? Will you join me in creating yet another magical relationship to fill the limitless voids of my life? Will you join the search?

Visiting the Sea

2010-05-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

Visiting the sea on a calm summer morning.
Small frisky waves dancing on the surface,
reflecting the cool morning sunlight in a thousand spots,
as if mother earth was wearing a giant chunni
studded with a thousand mirrors,
dancing a slow dance of joy.

Visiting the sea on a clear windy evening.
Low tide and a strong southerly wind
whips up the shallow water into tiny waves.
Like a giant cheese cotton sheet spread on the sea.

Visiting the sea another windy day.
the sea is covered by frothy bubbly waves.
Like a giant sea of milk being churned.
I wait for Vishnu to emerge resplendent on his serpent bed.

Visiting the sea on a calm Sunday morn.
Gentle waves wash my feet
as if welcoming a lover long lost.
I offer my silent thanks to these friends.

Visiting the sea on a clear summer morning.
From end to end, the sea's on orange fire.
Magical fishing boats in the distance,
Dancing slowly on the dazzling sheets of fire.

Visiting the sea on a rising full moon.
The moonbeams trace a path of silver
From me to the lambent moon
Inviting me to walk on the waves.

Visiting the sea on a dark moonless night.
The waves rise and rush towards me
hissing like giant hooded king cobras
striking fear into my heart.

Visiting the sea on a stormy monsoon evening.
The waves push me away like an angry lover.
I stand in defiance.
I shall force my will on you.
A giant wave towers above me,
threatens to submerge me.
But I don't move.

I shall force my will upon you.
The wave knocks my legs from under me.
I fall flat on my face.
The next wave whips me up like a straw doll
throws me on my back,
knocking the wind and my arrogance out of me.

Lying there in the cool bosom of the sea,
I hear the waves whisper to me
We are happiness,
We are sorrow,
We are your lovers,
We are your destroyers,
We are everything.
You are nothing.

Trust

2010-05-19T09:45:00.001-07:00

Trust given - a precious gift.
Treasure it for a lifetime.

Trust lost - a paradise lost.
Seek it for a lifetime.

Trust betrayed - a mortal sin.
Repent it for a lifetime.

Ode to a Tigress

2010-05-19T09:43:00.000-07:00

With the grace of a dancer,
the serenity of a priestess,
the majesty of a queen,
the pride of a mother,
prowling the jungle on velvet paws,
a watchful eye on your playful cubs.
I gaze at you,
And fall in love.

Focus

2010-05-19T09:38:00.001-07:00

Focus on the Music.
Ignore the Noise.

Focus on the Notes of Love.
Ignore the shouts of Hatred.

Focus on the Beauty inside You.
Ignore the Ugliness of the World.

Focus on the Peace Within.
Ignore the Noise Outside.

Battling the Darkness

2010-05-19T09:37:00.000-07:00

The wan smile lighting up your face,
like warm sunshine
breaking through the morning clouds
after a damp dark night.
An omen of beautiful things to follow.
A symbol of your inner peace.

Having traveled to the edge of sanity
and witnessed the mad whirling dance of insanity.

Having opened the secret forbidden doors of life
and stared into the dark abyss of nothingness beyond it.

Having asked the primal, quintessential and eternal question
"Why am I?"
and glimpsed the answer that has frightened saints and philosophers
from the beginning of time.

Having fought battle after battle against the dark shadows
and harbored suspicions about their invincibility.

To stand and say
"I will win!"
No medals of valor will do.
No empty words of help for you.

For I know this war is yours to fight alone.
A lone gladiator fighting a hundred lions.
A mere spectator! I can only watch.
Cheering and hoping for your victory.

But remember,
like the many battles you have won
by your strength and your prayers,
the war will be yours too.

And between the battles,
if you ever need to share a smile,
or a friendly hand to hold.
I shall be waiting for you!

(Thanks to Srinivas Rao for the lovely illustration)

The Morality of Pain

2010-05-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

Preface: A Joke :-)
Railway Manager: Mr. Security Chief! Most train robberies take place in the last compartment of our trains. What should we do?
Security Chief: Simple, just remove the last compartment from all the trains!

The Buddha explained the world in his three point model:
        1. There is pain in the world.
        2. Desire is the cause of all pain.
        3. The removal of desire will lead to the removal of pain.
I have come to firmly believe in the first point and take it almost axiomatic in all my thoughts. The reality of pain is the first and most important reality of this world. If someone says that this entire world is an illusion, maya or mitthya, whatever they call it, I disagree strongly and my usual reply is - "Well, let's see. I am going to kick you in the shins and it will only be an illusion. Right?"
Wrong! Because pain is real and may yet be the best proof of the world not being an illusion but a concrete reality - "I feel pain, therefore I am." If we accept the first point, that brings us to the second point about desire. Is desire really the cause of all pain?
In some ways, yes! When we desire for more material things and fail to get it, we feel pain. When we covet something that belongs to someone else and fail to get it, it causes pain. We know we are wrong in doing so, yet we feel pain. No wonder the Bible list covetousness as one of the seven deadly sins.
Another cause of pain and also in the Bible's dirty seven is envy - the green monster - that makes us desire for the downfall of the thing envied and the intense negative energy and the anger of these thoughts eats away into our brains.
But is it always desire that causes pain? I think not! The pain of the oppressed man with no way out of his misery exemplified by Uncle Tom in Stowe's classic "Uncle Tom's Cabin". The pain of a slave living and dying in the Roman empire. The pain of the millions gassed to death in the Nazi death camps. The pain of the millions of women who are harassed, tortured and killed everyday in our Indian households. Where is the desire? Or is the desire to live itself which must be blamed for the pain? There is a lot of meaningless pain, a lot of illogical pain where the victim has no answer to the question - "Why am I being subjected to this pain?" The cliched answer that "God is testing you!" - is no answer but only an obfuscation of our ignorance. Hence let us disagree with the second point as the hungry man does desire for food but then, he cannot help desiring for food, being trapped in a human body that cannot survive without food and water. Someone might retort - Aha! Being trapped in the human body - that is your sin or the fruit of your past sins! But I refuse to believe that the act of living is a sin in spite of what the Bible and all my Hindu scriptures might say. But then we are meandering away from our main topic. (We shall revisit this We-are-all-sinners paradox of the Bible later). So, you can say that pain can be categorized in two ways - the first being "desire driven" and the second being "natural-accidental" pain.
If the world is real and the pain is real, then what is the solution? I reject Buddha's solution outright as it sounds similar to the joke given at the start of this essay. You may not agree with the syllogism with the joke but I hope you see the humor in the advice. To tell the hungry man to forget his desire for food simply will not work. Here we are focussing only on the "natural-accidental" pain. We must seek ways to reduce the pain itself and that's where we humans have developed a wonderful mechanism called "society".
I think "society" or whatever other name you may give it - relationships, kinship, friendship, love, altruism, etc.-has been our primary invention for mitigating pain. It does it have its baser functions - division of labor, specialization, etc.- but its power to reduce pain is probably the greatest contribution of society to the individual.
I believe that in this social structure that we have developed, the morality of pain - "Thou shalt reduce your neighbor's pain" -should become the ultimate commandment with all else coming later.

We must strive to reduce the pain of our co-passengers in the journey of life.
And we must do everything to increase their happiness.
There is no greater morality than this.

The Old Man's Dying

2010-05-19T09:32:00.001-07:00

"The old man is going to die."
"Why?"
"The old man is shitting blood. The old man will surely die."
She smiled.
Her angelic smile would have put Mona Lisa to shame.
"Why don't you take him to the hospital?"
"It's no use. They say it is going to be a bad summer. Many old men will die."
The old man was her father-in-law. I used to see him pottering among the chickens and ducks and taking care of the woman's children.
"The old man has stopped eating food."
"The old man has stopped drinking liquor."
Was that a good thing or bad? I waited for further details.
"He took ten rupees every day for his liquor.
And five more for his tiffins.
And twenty more every week for his opium.
Even when my children go hungry, he takes the money."

"You could take him to a doctor at least!"
"It's no use. The old man will die."
Was there a ring of finality in her voice.
Or was it resignation? To fate, to karma.
"No point in wasting money. The old man will surely die."
I heard something else hidden in the silence between her words.
The old man should die.
The cruelty of poverty cut up my civilized talk.
I agreed with her silence.

"The old man is dead."
There was no smile on her face.
"We will be giving a feast for the entire village. I need a thousand rupees. Who will give us a thousand rupees?"
The poor cannot afford even death.
I opened my purse...

A Night of Loneliness

2010-05-19T09:31:00.000-07:00

The beautiful spring evening brought no peace to Bheema’s troubled heart. He could not overcome his loneliness. Although, this was not his first battle with loneliness, he found each battle increasingly difficult to win. His was a deep gut wrenching loneliness, slowly gnawing away into the core of his soul and creating a vacuous void that threatened to suck his soul into its abyssal darkness.

At these occasions, Bheema would often think of Hidambi – the beautiful jungle princess- whom he had left behind with her tribe. He recalled her large expressive eyes set in the mysterious dark-skinned face. He remembered every detail of the one year that they had spent together – the long walks in the forest, frolicking in the jungle streams, the total abandon of lovemaking in the open forest. At that time, it had seemed like the best decision to leave her behind but now he was having second thoughts. But if he had brought the dark skinned princess of the jungle here, what treatment would she have received at the palace full of white Aryan people? He often wondered, sitting alone in the palace garden as he was doing this evening.

At such times, Bheema envied the good fortune of Arjuna. When not with Yagnaseni, Arjuna could always go back to his other consort, Subhadra. Though, what Arjuna did in the year when he had two wives, Bheema could only wonder. How did he keep both of them, Subhadra and Yagnaseni, happy?

This year it was Yudhistir’s turn to be with Yagnaseni. What would Yagnaseni be doing right now? Yudhistir had gone to attend the wedding of prince Dharampal of Anga, so she was alone in the palace. As thoughts of Yagnaseni filled his mind, a thought crossed his mind – he could sneak into her palace tonight. But that would be breaking the pact! The agreement that Yagnaseni would live with only of the five brothers at any time for a whole year. The pact had only been made to prevent jealousy. Should he break it? Could he break it? How important was the pact? Surely it was no great sin as he would only be breaking the word of the pact but not the spirit. As long as nobody came to know, there should be no problem and he was never going to be jealous of Yudhistir.

The pain of his loneliness soon drowned any objections of his conscience.

Having come to a decision, he awoke from his reverie and looked around. The darkness of the new moon night seemed to be in conspiracy with his own dark thoughts. He slowly made his way towards Yudhistir’s palace with mild trepidation in his heart. What would Yagnaseni say? Would she understand his loneliness? Or would she rebuke him for being weak?

* * *

Yagnaseni was looking out of the window with her back towards him as he walked into the palace. She seemed to be gazing at the stars. Hearing an unexpected footfall behind her, she whirled around. Bheema froze in his place. As he observed the kaleidoscopic whirl of emotions on her face, he found himself at a total loss for words. He thought he could read her emotions – the surprise and joy at his unexpected appearance mixed with her apprehension towards this unlawful tryst. He was her husband and yet it was unlawful tryst - how ironical! Yagnaseni didn’t say anything. It was as if she was waiting for him to take the first step. Awkwardly, he muttered, "Just wanted to see you." There was still no response from Yagnaseni.

Maunam ardhasweekaram, silence is a half yes – encouraged by her silence, Bheema approached her and tentatively embraced her. Yagnaseni did not push him away but a certain stiffness in her body belied her tension.

"I miss you so much!" Bheema whispered as the moments passed by. They had momentarily escaped in to a dream. It was Yagnaseni who broke the long silence as she broke away from his embrace.

"My lord! You must go away!" she was looking firmly at his feet as she spoke these words.

"But I am so lonely!"

"Please! Don’t make it so difficult for me." She still would not meet his eyes.

"Look into my eyes and tell me. Is that what you really want?" Yagnaseni did not reply. She kept staring steadfastly at his feet.

"Just for tonight, can’t we just forget everything else?" Bheema whispered.

"We can! But I am afraid that it may come back to haunt us later." Silence hung heavy for the next few moments.

"I wouldn't want you to face any disgrace because of me, my lord!" Yagnaseni's voice quivered a little before settling down to a steely monotone.

Bheema’s face slowly lost its pain and regained its serenity.

"How we become prisoners of our own promises. How I wish we had never made that pact. How I wish…" there was a bitter edge to his voice as he turned to leave.

* * *

After Bheema had left, the dam of self control that Yagnaseni had built so precariously broke down and she collapsed to the floor sobbing. She wept for Bheema’s loneliness and she wept for her own loneliness and helplessness. Somewhere in her heart’s corner, she fantasized that even now, Bheema was returning to hold her again to hold her in the warm embrace of his mighty arms. But she knew that that was not to be. Bheema was too much of a gentleman to do so. That was why she loved him the most of all the five Pandavas. That was why she struggled hard to keep his name unsullied. Yagnaseni wept at the thought of the enormous burden placed on her by Kunti – to be a wife to all five Pandavas. As their wife, she was expected to love each of them equally but how was that possible? How could she forget the graceful poise of Arjuna that had won her heart at the swayamvara? How could she forget the callous way in which Arjuna got himself another wife? How could she not reciprocate the affections of Bheema? How could she forget all that Bheema had done for her?

No! She could not be found guilty of having favorites among the five brothers. That was what society expected from her in the name of dharma and as a queen of the mighty house of Kuru, she could do no less. But wasn’t it too much to ask from a mere mortal! As her tears flowed onto the marble floor, Yagnaseni prayed to the gods to give Bheema respite from his loneliness.

Inspired by Iravati Karve's brilliant masterpiece "YUGANTA".

[First drafted on Fri, Jul 19, 1991]

A Lover's Gift

2010-05-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

"Did you hear what happened to Revathi?"

At the mention of his love’s name, Shyam focused his full attention on the conversation going on behind his in the canteen. It was at the beginning of his second year at the Chittoor Medical College, when he had first seen Revathi and fallen in love with her large playful eyes, with her dimpled smiles and with every aspect of her being. Shyam know that with his short and skinny body added to his tow front teeth which insisted on protruding out at an awkward angle, he was no match for her beauty. His later inquiries proved, he was no match for her wealth either - with her Dad being a tobacco trader worth crores of rupees. Yet, in his heart, Shyam knew that true love would triumph one day in spite of all differences. Shyam was convinced that his was the purest and deepest kind of love, which could never fail.

"What happened?" a second voice asked.

"She had gone out with Rajesh day before yesterday evening…"

Rajesh! The name reminded Shyam of the pretentious rascal who had swept Revathi off her feet and with whom she had being going steady for the last three years. Undoubtedly, Rajesh was more handsome and had a family even richer than Revathi's but Shyam was convinced that once Revathi got to know about his own love, she would definitely give up Rajesh and become his own. But the right time for making his own declaration of love had not yet come.

"… Standing in a deserted place. Some men came in a van and attacked them. Rajesh ran away…"

The coward! The shameless coward! Shyam thought. He had always known that Rajesh was a wimp.

"…Abducted Revathi in the van. God knows what they did to her but they dumped her bear the hospital yesterday morning around 5 o’clock."

"Was she raped?" the second voice inquired.

"That’s what they say."

Shyam froze as his mind tried to sort out the chaotic kaleidoscope of emotions flooding his mind. How dare they do this to his love? Shyam imagined Revathi caught in the arms of her rapist. He tried to imagine the violence of the act – her shame, her helplessness, and her pain. But the limits of his imagination failed him. Should he try and console her? But what could he say and what would he say to her? Out of this boiling turmoil of emotions emerged a sense of pure unadulterated anger. He was angry enough to kill. If only someone would only tell him whom to kill?

"Who were they?"

"No one knows for sure but people who recognized the van say it must have been Bhujanga, Vaikuntha’s brother."

"You mean Vaikuntha, the MLA? Someone should do something about this Bhujanga."

This poured cold water on Shyam’s anger. No one indeed could touch these powerloads. At least, no ordinary citizens like himself. The impotency of his owns anger left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Is she still in the hospital?"

"No! Her Dad came yesterday afternoon and took her away."

Well! There goes my last chance of consoling her, thought Shyam. Now, he would have to wait a lot longer to declare to Revathi his true love for her. This was merely fate testing the strength of his love. But Shyam knew that, if needed, he could wait till the end of time for Revathi.

* * *

Two months had passed and Shyam had completed his internship posting at the Urology department. Now Shyam was looking forward to his next posting at the Intensive Care Unit because that was where the real game of life and death was played everyday. That was the place where doctors could play God for a few hours everyday.

As he walked away from the hospital with a jaunty step towards his room, he saw Revathi walking towards the hospital. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Revathi had changed so much. She walked with a heavy step and kept her eyes to the ground. Shyam decided to follow his love into the hospital. One of the good things about being an intern was that one had the free run of the hospital and no one asked any questions if one showed up in a ward without any particular reason. He watched as some of her friends greeted her in strained manner. He missed her dimpled smiles as she went about her activities with a grave demeanor.

But Shyam admired her courage in coming back to the college. Unlike that wimp, Rajesh, who had gotten himself a transfer to Osmania University in Hyderabad. His watch showed 8 PM. Shyam ran towards the ICU.

At the ICU, he was surprised by the hubbub in the normally sedate department. It was some minutes before he could pierce the small crowd of people at the door and a few more minutes before know the reason for the commotion.

Bhujanga, in his van, had been in a bad collision with a lorry carrying some heavy steel angles just two miles from the hospital. He was now in the Operation Theater undergoing emergency surgery.

Shyam’s mind was full with thoughts. Just this morning he had seen Revathi and now his paths had crossed those of Bhujanga, her violator. Surely, this was some kind of an omen, some kind of a divine intervention. Bhujanga was here in a helpless state and perhaps he would die during the operation. If not, Shyam knew that he had to kill him. Then he could go and claim his love.

* * *

Bhujanga had survived the operation and was now in the ICU. His brother Vaikuntha came to visit and insisted on moving Bhujanga to some posh nursing home in Madras. For a moment Shyam saw his purpose being thwarted but the chief of surgery, Professor Rao, saved the day for him. The chief insisted that the patient had not yet stabilized and that moving him in the next twenty-four hours might be dangerous.

For the next two hours, Shyam kept vigil on Bhujanga. There was a saline drip attached to his arm and numerous bandages covered about half of his body. His face was the only part that was completely visible. Lying there swathed in bandages, Bhujanga looked so harmless and helpless and yet in Shyam’s mind there was no mercy for him. Just a train of cold calculations as he weighed the various options available to him. How should he kill this monster? All his training in medicine had taught him only the art of healing and saving lives but not how to kill. Yet tonight he had to kill. Kill without raising any suspicion.

The nurse came to give Bhujanga an injection.

"Let me do that." Shyam took the syringe and the vial from the nurse and walked towards the sink. He carefully filled syringe in full sight of the nurse and went back to Bhujanga’s bed. Shyam did not give the injection and simply pocketed the syringe. The killing of Bhujanga had begun.

As the first rays of dawn began to filter into the silent gloom of the ICU, Shyam saw that his shift would end in another two hours. He decided to take a breather and went for a walk around the hospital. He found his friend Vipul working alone in the pathology lab. Vipul was a postgrad and really loved his work. So, Shyam was not surprised to see him at work so early in the morning. After some desultory conversation, Vipul veered off to his favourite subject pathology.

"You see that culture there. It is one of the rarest fungal diseases you meet, yet we have had three cases in the last one month."

"What’s the casualty rate?"

"Pretty small unless the patient has other complications."

An idea took form in Shyam’s mind as he surveyed the different cultures set up around the lab. Fingering the syringe in his coat pocket, he wished Vipul would leave for just a few minutes.

That opportunity came sooner than expected as the phone rang and Vipul had to rush out with a report on an emergency patient. Shyam first emptied the syringe and filled it up with the six of the virulent cultures being grown in the lab. Then, walking back to the ICU, he calmly moved to Bhujanga’s bedside and injected the tiny agents of death into the lifeblood of Bhujanga.

* * *

Shyam went back to the ICU ward in the afternoon. Once again there was a major commotion but his time it was around Bhujanga’s bed. He could see that it was an assembly of the best brains of the hospital.

"He seemed to be stable till this morning," the nurse was explaining," when his temperature suddenly shot up. Then he started convulsing around noon."

"Perhaps some kind of delayed shock," opined one doctor.

"We have to inform Mr.Vaikuntham," this was the chief of surgery.

The body covered with a white bedsheet was a silent symbol of success for Shyam. Taking care not to show any signs of jubilation, Shyam slowly walked out of the ward and then rushed to the nearest telephone booth. He waited impatiently for Revathi to come on the line.

"Hello," Shyam absorbed the sad sweetness in her voice as he stood silently wondering how to begin his very first conversation with her.

"Hello, hello, hello," he could hear her voice getting more urgent.

"Hello! Come to the ICU," Shyam blurted out. The very next instant he realized how ridiculous it would sound to her.

"What? Who are you?"

"A friend. Please come to the ICU. I want you to see something there. Er…not see something. I mean meet someone. Come quickly," Shyam did not know why he felt so confused.

"Who are you?" she sounded a little scared.

"Please come!" With that Shyam put down the phone. Then, he wondered if she would come. What if she did not come? He decided to wait in the ICU itself. If Revathi did come, all he had to do was to tell her that he was the one who had taken revenge on her behalf. And then she would realize the depth of his love for her. Revathi would be his and then no force in the world could separate them Shyam waited eagerly for this grand finale - this grand climax of his silent love story. He was taut with anticipation when she came.

She came after about twenty minutes, just five minutes after Vaikuntham arrived. Shyam watched from the far corner of the room. No one really seemed to notice Revathi but she kept looking around as if she expected someone to be watching her. Then she walked towards Bhujanga’s bed where they had pulled back the sheets revealing his face. Revathi stopped as if she had seen a ghost. Her face showed the fear of a hunted animal as she slowly edged her way towards the door.

Shyam intercepted her on the way to the hostel. She seemed scared and puzzled on seeing him block her way.

"I killed him. I killed him for you." Shyam’s statement didn’t seem to register on Revathi. She continued to give him a bewildered look.

"Don’t you understand what I am saying? I killed him because I love you." Shyam savored the way in which the three words – I love you – had rolled off his tongue. Had he not waited three years to utter these very words?!

But his pleasure was shortlived as he observed the growing fear on Revathi’s face. She gagged herself with the handkerchief in her hand as if to stop a growing scream. Why was she watching him as if he were some fearful monster? As Shyam watched in stunned silence, tears slowly welled in her eyes and rolled on unchecked down her cheeks. She started whimpering and then sobbing. Keeping her eyes on him and sobbing incessantly, Revathi slowly edged past him and finally ran away.

Shyam stood rooted on the spot, watching her receding figure until it was swallowed up by the gates of the hostel.

First Impressions- US of A

2010-05-19T09:26:00.001-07:00

I and my friend, Nirmal, arrived in the US a few days ago. An old friend of mine from college picked us up from the airport and offered to host us until we found our own lodgings. The first few days have been really hectic as we try to unlock the "mysteries"of life in America.

Yesterday, we went to the University Center. As we approached the center, we observed a huge man wearing shorts and a T-shirt steering towards our path. Finding no way around his huge frame, we froze in our path and waited. He said something that sounded like "…house call?" to my untrained ear. I was really puzzled. Damn! I did forget to call home. He made me feel so guilty! I should call today. But what’s his connection with that? A covert glance at Nirmal told me that he was equally baffled. Finally, I broke the awkward silence.

"Excuse me but what house call are you talking about?"

"Do you want to get Houston Chronicle?"

Hmm! So that was not about my calling home. The next question was what or who was a "Houston Chronicle"? The same words were emblazoned across his red shirt.

"What?" I asked in a confused-and-lost-tourist tone.

"Sir! It is a newspaper. Would you like to subscribe to it?"

"No, thank you." We made our escape. and proceeded inside the University Center. I realized, ruefully, that it would be many more weeks before I got used to these strange new accents of English.

After roaming the corridors for sometime, I felt thirsty. After some keen observation, I "discovered" a water fountain (Let me tell that the feeling was akin to what Columbus might have felt at sighting America!!). Being from India, I expect water to flow in a vertically downward direction from a tap (a.k.a. faucet). Instead of water was being sent up in a graceful parabolic arc. There was something poetical about this magnificent sight. Having enjoyed the harmony and esthetics of the water fountain for a few minutes, I bravely ventured to drink some water. Step one, press the knob on the right, just like I had seen the other man do. Splaaash! A powerful jet hit me flat in the face and I jumped back in shock. There was water in my nose and my face was all wet (and also a little red with embarrassment). I looked around and saw that no one except Nirmal had witnessed this debacle. Let’s try again. Press the knob slowly, maintain control, slurp, slurp (remember control's the key), slurp. I had taken another giant step in my education!

Next, I learnt the important role of slots in life. After some observation, I have formulated a simple rule of thumb – "If you see any slot, drop a quarter into it and something is bound to happen." I think this first law of "slot-mechanics" should be taught to every new entrant to the US. The trick seems to lie in the guessing of what happens after you have inserted the quarter. Some machines make a phone call and some give you candy while others might just blink a light and not do anything! These mysterious slots are so all pervasive in this country that I have come to believe that they might even have a god of their own. Lesson number two- carry lots of quarters to pay homage to the god of slots.

The time came for us to get out of the UC. Not wishing another encounter with the Houston Chronicle man, we chose to use the other exit. But this didn’t go according to plan. As we approached the other exit, we spotted another of HC’s minions – a large muscular man-guarding the exit, and pouncing on passerby. Trouble! Think fast!

"Nirmal! I think we should get away through the side exit." We slipped past the HC man and emerged into the daylight. But even before we had time to congratulate ourselves on our daring escape, I heard the dreaded words breathed down my neck, "Chronicle?" This time it was a lean mean looking man whose face had "Gotcha!" written all over it. Of course, he also wore the now familiar red T-shirt. Lesson number three- you can run but you cannot hide from the Houston Chronicle man!

Shaken by this enervating experience, we decided that it was time to head back to our department. But we were lost. So we stopped a man walking along the road and asked him.

"Excuse me. Could you tell me where is the Engineering building?"

"Sure. It is very close to the fountains."

"Thanks."

"You are welcome."

Even as we completed this minor verbal transaction, it dawned on me that I had no idea about the location of the said fountains. But we cannot ask this same guy a second question without looking foolish. So we wandered around for another five minutes before stopping another man and asking him.

"Excuse me. Could you tell me where are the fountains?"

"Let me think. Oh yes! They are very close to the Engineering building."

By this time I was close to tears…

(Thanks to Michael and Nikhil for sharing their hilarious experiences of their first days at the University of Houston.)

First Draft : 16 August, 1991

Your Eyes

2010-05-19T09:24:00.000-07:00

Your eyes are lovely, bright and deep.

But I have promises to keep

and miles to go before I sleep,

and miles to go before I sleep.

:-) With due apologies to Robert Frost and with great respect for his classic poems.

The Conspirators

2010-05-19T09:18:00.001-07:00

Ranga circled the house and walked around to the rear boundary wall. May be he should have checked the front door but the maid servant, Anji, had been positive that the owners were out of the town till tomorrow afternoon and, therefore, Ranga felt no need to doublecheck the front door. The highly talkative Anji had had no suspicion that she was aiding a thief when she talked to, Ranga, the owner of the small but respectable grocery shop. Ever since she joined work in the Bangat household six months ago, Ranga had managed to get a wealth of information from her leading to tonight’s operation.

Even though it was two in the morning and no one was on the roads, Ranga took a careful look around before effortlessly jumping over the rear wall of the house. A rose bush scratched his bare back as he landed. He wished he had worn a shirt but ever since that night when his shirt got caught in the fence of the Ramji residence, he had found it wiser to go without one. Ranga had also found that his dark complexion blended well with the night.

There was small light glowing inside the house. Since no one was home, Anji must have left the light on yesterday. Ranga took out a pen torch and examined the lock on the rear door of the house. For the house of the town’s largest jeweler, it was surprisingly ordinary lock. Ever since older Bangat had died years ago, his son had come back from Bombay and had taken over the business. The son was married to a stylish lady from Bombay, they said, but Ranga had never had a glimpse of her as the couple whizzed around in their luxury car.

The lock opened with a click. As he slowly opened the door, he found it secured with a thin metal chain. As he cut the chain with a pair of wire cutters, the snap sounded like thunder in the stillness of the night. Or perhaps, it was his own tension that made it sound so.

After waiting for a few seconds to allow the sound to dissolve in the night, Ranga turned off his torch and stepped gingerly into the house. He went over his mental map of the house. Go to the end of the alley, turn left second door on the right side. That was the master bedroom with the wall safe in it.

As Ranga stepped into the room, he thought he saw a shadow move and then there was a little clicking sound. The next moment, the room was awash in light. Ranga froze as the flood of light blinded him for a few moments. As his vision cleared, he could see a beautiful woman clothed in the sheerest of negligees. She sat frozen on the bed with her hand on the light switch like a goddess hewn in marble. Ranga’s eyes took in her disheveled hair, her large expressive eyes, her pert nose, and her full sensuous lips. He could see the dark outlines of her aureoles as the proud thrust of her breasts pushed at the thin white fabric and he could see the lovely plumpness of her bare arms. Ranga could feel a stirring in his loins even as he cursed himself. "Should have checked the front door. So stupid of me. This time it is going to be the jail for me if I don’t escape from here."

But he felt as if his body was no longer controlled by his mind. The dissociated body was busy savoring the sight of the beauty and the softly feminine perfume that filled the room. Ranga’s mind told him to run but his body stayed rooted, immobile, staring shamelessly at the woman. The woman’s thoughts were difficult to read but she too sat frozen. It must have been only a few seconds that they spent like this but to Ranga it looked an eternity of suspended action. Then surprise! She smiled and beckoned him towards her.

Ranga’s mind watched his body move of its accord towards the woman as if in a slow motion dream. All the urgent warnings of danger emanating from his mind were obviously not reaching his body. Then his mind stopped working as the woman lay back on the bed and raised her negligee above her breasts. The exposed breasts bounced around for a little while – celebrating their newfound freedom and casting a hypnotic trance on Ranga.

As Ranga surrendered himself to the sweet bliss of her embrace, he was lost in the cozy softness of her body, the sweetness of her perfume, the heat of her lips and the warm moistness at the center of their union. In this dreamlike trance, Ranga found himself flying over myriad plateaus of passion before reaching a pinnacle of supreme ecstasy. Ranga had no idea if it had been only a few minutes or a few hours when his mind started swimming back to reality after the wonderfully satisfying dream. He wished this dream to continue forever.

Thud! He heard and felt the blow simultaneously. His blissful state was rudely and painfully interrupted by a sharp pain in his right temple. The next thing he saw was the heavy brass flower vase making a repeat approach to his head followed by another thudding sound. Then, Ranga sank into the oblivion of a growing pool of darkness.

* * *

Ranga woke up to a relentless throbbing pain on the right side of his head. As he slowly opened his eyes and got up to sitting position, he felt as if his brain had come loose and was floating free inside his skull. It was a few minutes before he realized that he was in a police station behind bars and a few more minutes before he recalled how he had gotten here. The woman (he didn’t even know her name!) had done this to him. He heard voices in the next room.

"Sir, your wife showed extraordinary courage. How many women would have the courage to ambush a burglar like that? Let me tell you, not even one in a thousand." This must be one of the policemen, he thought. His head was slowly beginning to clear up.

"I want to see this insolent s.o.b! That bastard, how dare he?" An angry high pitched voice. This must be the husband. Poor chap! Trying to make up for his absence at the scene of action. Asserting his manliness, which was obviously threatened by his wife’s courage. Ranga smiled but that proved to be a bad mistake as the movement shot a sliver of pain across his head. Holding his head in both hands, Ranga grimaced in pain.

The cell door opened and the police officer walked in. On his heels came the husband, livid with rage, and letting loose a barrage of gutter invectives. Ranga kept looking down at his own feet and simply ignored the husbands ranting and raving. He had ears only for the soft rustling of a brocaded sari, which told him that SHE too had come into the room.

Ranga was having a difficult time sorting out his emotions towards her. Ranga know he should be angry with her for getting him to jail. He knew that one word about the happenings of the night was enough to make her life miserable. The husband may not believe it completely but the seeds of doubt would be enough to ruin their married life. But, curiously, he felt absolutely no malice towards her. Instead he felt a vaguely undefined sense of comradeship with her. It was the two of them against the cuckolded husband and the police and the whole world. How could he ever betray her trust?!

Having exhausted his ire, the husband turned and vanished through the door. The policeman followed him. Only then did Ranga look up. She too turned around to go, hesitated and then turned back to look at him. For a few moments their eyes met.

Ranga smiled, ignoring the pain. The wan smile contained in it the surrender of a sweet defeat, the warmth of friendship, the gratitude of a lover, and above all, the impish wickedness of a shared conspiracy.

SHE smiled in silent acknowledgement. Ranga felt her smile thanking him and wondered if a richer smile had ever graced the bleak jailhouse.

"Swapna! Lets go," the husband shouted from outside.

Swapna, a dream! What a befitting name! The goddess of dreams had left him a dream to savor for the rest of his lifetime.