Monday, 28 November 2011

That night, by the wooden gate!

I was looking into the darkness spread in-front. The glitter of drops slithering intermittently from nowhere, plopping in to numerous puddles in the sandy earth below. The drops shone in the fading light coming from a distant lonely bulb, hanging on a forlorn electric pole,that was shrouded with enmeshed wires, and darkened by the years of neglect and loneliness. Some drop fell on the thatch on the roof too, through which they moved on to the edge of the straw, held itself at its edge and then ran free to the moist earth below. The night was dark, darker than usual, for the moon had been hiding behind the clouds that spread out  over the horizon. A faint music blared in the background, that of tabla, jhun - jhnuna , and together with it flowed an equally faint hum. Yet, I could listen to it clearly, almost as if they were being played by my side.

Reclining  on my left shoulder, on the left pane of the dilapidated door of the rickety passage of the village temple, I could see people hurrying themselves in and out of the main gate. Struggling with their umbrellas they could barely avoid themselves from getting wet, but I guess they did not mind rain actually, and acted to protect themselves only out of formality of being civilized.

Intermittently, some speeding car or state transport buses would pass by, honking menacingly and blinding with their glaring headlights. There was enough commotion around me, yet everything appeared to move drawly , as if the purpose of movement has been lost on all of them.

I was still looking at the forlorn light bulb, hanging  there on the electric pole in near distance, braving  against the mild rain that had spattered the village whole evening. And then everything around me stopped, it was just me and the bulb. Glowing, and fading, drawing close and then blinding and just before I could get away drawing away from me, I couldn't remember when it was that the power went off, for the glow perhaps persisted in my eyes.

I sensed being touched by someone, but gently enough so as to not break my trance, and then it began growing on me. The touch, the care , the warmth. I could feel the caress, with someone holding me in her arms and taking me to some unknown place, when, a sharp glitter of gold broke the spell, flowing from her ear- rings, that dangled gently, as she fiddled with her eyes, that were lost too , to avoid meeting mine. Drawing her arms together, she let out a  deep sigh. Then, she wrinkled her brows at me, drawing her eyes above together, and smiled feebly, as if asking me, some question whose purpose was in not being answered.

I looked back, and she dropped her eyes, with her smile still spilled all over her cheeks. Drawing herself back together, she raised her head back  and looked outside. I turned away my eyes too, sighed and drew my hands out to collect the  little tear drops that poured from the heaven above, as they did from her eyes, while she stood there reclining on the other pane of the rickety wooden gate.

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Passing by!

I look at the women there, dressed in cloths so tight that her breasts are popping out, with her eyes  marked with eyeliners that appear like a sword-cut of black blood. She walks gallantly, with her sharply pointed boots making piercing noise in that silence.

Her smile is benevolent and coquettish, playing around with her beauty and charm. Her radiant face, emanates a look that could snare a frivolous heart, and her petal rose lips, sit together , oozing a nectar out of them, only to be captured.

She is gone now,however, her turn at the counter has been over and her wait too. Us few , still waiting, wished it never ended, but the queue gave in , in no time. Walking out thus of the queue, at the DMV office, I wondered and imagined how different those few moments were to this, how important was beauty to fill this dull and dreary world of order. I turn around the corner, ruminating over my thoughts over the time gone .

I turn around the corner and start walking to my home.

On the other side of the curb lay another beautiful lady, with sun falling gently on her white body. After placing her hairs to one side of her glistening neck, she looks at a brochure in one hand and smokes with another. Her glasses placed by her side sine in the smoke wafting past it. I dote on her for few moments, watching her frivolous activities. Suddenly, she rises to go and moves away in no time, vanishing, as if, in the blistering afternoon sun.

I stand still at the curb, look over the long shade plying over the road from the tall building on the other side. Some shade falls on me too, as I swing on my heels and turn around to go.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

The Piano

Listen to it, for it doesn't make much noise, it has been lying this way for years. Some people could find it possible to reflect their own emotions , but others consider it a dumb piece of junk. Yet, you have got to listen to it, roll your fingers over its checkered body, press it gently as you swerve from one end to another, and there it goes, blaring out tunes for you, gentle melody, lilting and moving to and fro as the undulating plains. Then it takes your heart, caresses it and lifts it up in the air, taking its leap it throws away those swaying , scudding clouds that would appear to have forgotten their own ways. Do you wish to to be forgotten too? You can never say, when it was that you went out of the emotion, or feeling. The swing of your heart has moved you from one corner of human darkness to another, and you begin wavering in it. Darkness!

And then you come out of it, look around, the piece had been as junk, and as clunky as it were possible. The place has worn down all of its beauty and it reflects nothing. It rebounds, retracts and pushes back. The end-game becomes the start -game.

Quietude has been overtaken now. Servitude rules the roost. You lament at being human and the piano's lament reflects through you.

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

The Parting

"Same need binds us together, although evident only when looked at from different sides. For you, it's the fervent desire to wallow in insanity, in surrealness, in being more than merely a decadent body of existence and bridling customs, that  bounds us to perish .In me the same need presents  itself in a different way. To be human, of flesh and blood, of emotions, of hypocrisy , joy and sadness , good and bad. To visit life in it's simplicity, after being wearied of this life that presents itself to myself in codes that are beyond existence and beyond good and evil , as Nietzsche would say.

Yet as we both feel, we do not complete each other . You are too steeped in what I believe to be the inanities and whims of human life, and it's supposedly rational stricture, while I , as is evident from the categorically critical remark, have disabused myself of those simplicities. If they are to be in life, they have to be in sparse amounts, sporadically evident.

He looked at her moist eyes, fidgeting to avoid manifestation of pain, perhaps the moment has come when we close our eyes, and let the storm pass, destroy us in-turn  and create our phantoms .And it rained, thundered ponderously , while some drops rushed to ground below to wash off the marks of steps , etched in history, and to wipe off two humans , in turn.

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

The old man with walking stick!

He sat there, on that cemented plinth by the side of the road.One could see the frayed skin, wrapped and wrinkled by the ages it had seen. A white, starched shirt fluttering in the mild breeze , hung over the frail skelton that his body depicted. A plastic bag full of flowers was held firmly by his left hand, with  a long red and yellow mark on his forehead , drawing upto the center of eyes, alluding blatantly to his religious sect. I had to answer him, but I couldn't. There was a limit to my understanding of his languege, both because it came from the tongue that I didn't understand to great extent, and  because it  was warped with  frailty in his voice.

Clutching tightly,  his walking support in one hand, he look at me ,with a wondering non-chalance and then, spoke in gentle english. "I am just waiting over here. I had come for a walk and I will go back alone. My daughter works over there, in that building, but do not disturb her with this , I can manage my own walk."

I was relieved at that ,more so because the man happened to be talking English and sense, and thus he couldn't be lost , or sick or mad. I smiled back at him and bade him good bye,relieved, with a calm in my soul. He will manage.

Hardly had I walked, some distance, I felt a strong urge to turn around and look at him once again. He was walking away, bent body, waddling on his two frail legs, with his shirt dangling on that scaffolding of his skeleton, and hands trembling as he pressed that walking stick on ground to take the next step. With those precarious steps, he moved away, and I kept looking at him ,as the silhouette of his body, determined to exist, painted itself againt thet bright afternoon light. He had managed his walk!

Friday, 19 August 2011

The life and times of a Propaganda.

In one of his articles M J Akbar, the famous newspaper columnist, quipped, "Most dangerous lies are the ones that have elements of truth in them". Propaganda is one such lie.

Propaganda, however,has several definitions to different listeners and out of this possibility of its varied understanding emanates its pernicious nature. Nevertheless, a liberal , modernist understanding of the word happens to be , " a propagation of dis-information".  This propagation of disinformation , nevertheless, appears to be a central to  the concept of all nations. Talking in terms of India, the propagandist theories of last three to four decades show that they are perennial and have a definite travail of their lifetime.

Stages of a propagandist movement goes as follows:

i) Genesis with synthesis of theories,  together presenting a doomed and depressing nature of present state of affairs. The end result is a picture filled with horror of a doomed future, imminent on the nation.

ii) Formulisation of a clear-cut ,well chalked out strategy course , backed by historical facts and fictions,  debated out for wider appeal. The strategy gets refined with more partisan intellectual opinions and by the course of popular appeal.

iii) The immediate effect is  of establishment of the euphoria, the hope of a better world, a better place to be in, pandering to the basic human instinct of quick  and tangible change . The prized possession, the big flame of light  is  shown lying  at the end of the dark tunnel of struggle and revolt, thereby ensuing chaos.

iv) A period of immense chaos and unbridled change in scheme of things.  Popular support and a huge swell in the favor of  the theories justified by the plucking of low hanging fruits.

v) The decay at its own hand. Relegation of the idea to an undercurrent, yet not out of the public psyche, thereby establishing itself as a perennial thought which the  nation , however, has overgrown and no more propagandisation remains possible. An important consequence is the establishment of the refined thought in national psyche, sans its false elements.

Patterns, however, are always at the mercy of its concrete examples, some ascertaining it, and others forcing it to reconsider itself. Nevertheless, this pattern , presented above , fits itself beautifully into the examples drawn from Indian nation.

India saw a massive wave of Socialist propaganda in its 70s. Popular sentiments , whipped up by J P Narayan, follower of another  prominent socialist Ram Manohar Lohia, created a mirage of socialist solution to Indian problems . Corruption and tyranny of central government was attacked severely and a dream was seen through the prism of socialist ideas. People of that time, talk of that as the single most important event in the history of India, post Independence. The propaganda had its casualties, and victory too, but  soon , approximately in a decade, it was realized that this ideal was dying its own death. The idea served no panacea for the ills of Indian economy and rather stagnated it further. In quick time, it died its own death. Yet , it left a legacy behind, and an "undercurrent" , where it was established firmly into the consciousness of nation that  the state cannot separate itself from the well being of poorest and its interference was always necessary to deliver justice , both social and economic.

Another vicious propaganda of out times has been the Hindutva. Riding on the discontent of the middle class with the pseudo -secularism practiced by the  several governments of India, it established itself into the consciousness of nation. The idea of a historical Hindustan, struck chords even with the moderates who had been disillusioned by the surreptitious partisan politics of congress. The casualties have been enormous for the nation  and yet despite of all its great tidings in 90s and early 2000, it went into the background of its own. People overgrew the fanatic tirade and only the truths of it remained.  Its proponents would argue that it is still an active force, yet the same attempt to establish so, shows how much the flame has cooled down. Nevertheless, this too had the affect of establishing some truths about nation into its consciousness.  A perennial undercurent. And perhaps , it's that undercurrent that  happens to be the only threat to Congress government at center.

An another propaganda of last three to four years has been the "Green" propaganda. Doom stories floated around us about the end of earth and all  civilisation at destined date. Numerous movies based on the "green" idea presented itself on screen, Avatar being one of them. Carbon credits appeared in newspaper more than the monetary credits. The Climate summits became more important than trade summits . Media did its part in whipping up the facts and fictions and a mass hysteria took over. Pachauri and Al Gore became the most talked about people in media. But, it very soon died its own death. False and over hyped projections, by scientists especially, dented this whole movement. In India the mass let down was by Mr. Pachuri's acceptance of wrong  and far fetched estimate of melting of Himalayan glaciers. And thus, the hysteria , very soon, collapsed. No longer you see articles in paper , talking green, when consider a few years ago the major dailies of world had published a common  message on their front  page before the Copenhagen summit. Yet, it has no doubt left a consciousness into people's mind. Energy saving has become both fashionable and intelligent idea, and very certainly we need this undercurrent to remain firmly strong over time.

And last but most certainly not least is our Citizen against corruption campaign, led by the Gandhian Anna Hazare,Ramdev et al.Its seeds had been sowed by the exposure of high voltage scams in quick successions and the passionate outpouring  of the pent up anger against corruption, of this nation over the years. Another strong foundation of this movement has been the youth factor, the generation that wants  to overthrow its legacy of corruption and inefficiency and  has the confidence to take the nation to great heights. Yet, means employed are pernicious, and would have been abominable on a certain other time line. The intelligentsia has severely censured its tactics, but the promise it holds is amazing. India , freed of corruption  However , this propaganda too will die, but certainly not without its casualties. The existing order wil certainly change, but would resist itself before the breakage point, and that is important too. Rather, what a reasonably sceptic mind would see as its future, is the petering out of the movement with marked decline in  blockbuster corruption cases. But corruption , the cancer, will taker far longer to go. And that will be ensured by the undercurrent of intolerance towards corruption . Also, the large mass mobilisation of people and consequent bending of government infront of such protest has at least addressed the criticism against the sloth, undemocratic middle class.

Thus, in all of the circumstances we see that despite of the obvious fallacies of the propagandist theories and its means, they serve an important purpose of shaking the polity out of its slumber, yet at all times ensuring that the force applied isn't too strong to lead to anarchy ( it could lead to anarchy in some cases ). And, certainly when they are over , besides the benefit or loss of its casualties, what remains behind is a renewed understanding of the nation, of world and of ourselves, and establishes an undercurrent which ensures we never really forget it.

PS: Yet, talking of the lifetime of propaganda's, I wonder, when and how will the propaganda of materialism and its offshoots be dethroned.

Monday, 15 August 2011

India or Hindu-sthaan?

Hindustan is for Hindus, or at least for those who are ready and willing to realize that they are all hindus primordially. Those are not the exact words of Subramanian Swamy, but I am sure , he would not refute them. interview on Devil's Advocate.

Thus, I as a Hindu, since I know my parents have been Hindu and so have been my grandparents, have the complete right to stay in this nation, build it, relish its glory and can gleefully force those who do not conform to that idea, or leave my land. My land, India, with its borders on a tumultuous Kashmir, barren Kutch, peninsular south and west, cultural east and little known hill ranges of far east. This is my home. Here the Aryans , purportedly my forefathers, had come from  european midst and settled. Here, they setup a system and organization, of caste and creeds, of orders , wrote books that pre-dates any such thoughtful books from other parts of world, and set up a path for us and generations to follow. 

There were some irritants here back then too, Dravidians and native Indians, but they were moved to the lower rungs of society, the present day Dalits, and other backward classes. Some Buddha and Mahavir's created their own religion and took separate ways, even the mighty king Ashok, whose empire was bigger than present day India, and who happened to be a Hindu basically, adopted Buddhism and facilitated its spread. Nevertheless, there the Hindu way of life persisted and moved through all of it.

Sadly, history has no clear account of the demise of this order , but very certainly this society degraded over time and paved way for foreign conquerors . The Genghis khan, the Taimur ,the Mahmud Ghazni. They were all  ruthless and with the greed of money and zeal of spreading islam settled on my land and sowed the seed of Islam in india. The order of country changed and remained so for several years then. Along came then Mughals in avatars of Aurangzeb, Shahjahan, and Akbar . Some like Akbar, got moulded  to the Hindu value system while others stayed true to their "aggressive" propulsion of Islam. Again , with the wave, some "Hindus" transformed their religion to Islam. An another attempt at propagating the religion that was not of the land, but of the rulers, yet, Hindu way of life was not ready to give in and yet and persisted along side this aggression too.

Yet with time , they degraded too, and gave way to modern industrial power of Britain, and along came the wave of Christianity, thus mounting another serious attack on my culture and religion. The repression increased day after day, and all of that led to the increased idea of a foreign power ruling the Indian land, people from all spheres of religion and creed came together to overthrow the repressive foreign power, and yet at the same time, the original dwellers like us, the Hindus, realized how different were we from the muslims. the muslims had been the forceful converts  of Islam, who had refused to adapt themselves with the changing time and led themselves to the more conservative ways of life.  

My forefathers, took note of the situation, and helped , to push the divide further ahead and carved out a separate land for them. Not sure how that land was separate from mine, but there was no other way to buy peace. The other side too thought,  they had won the world for themselves. They moved to the other land, carved out of my own land. The problem was to have been resolved back then, with a separate land but , the situation did not get better, for more than who had left stayed back in my country, they did not leave my country. It was sad,  considering that we had already given a part of my land to them.  

My dream to have my own land had  not ben fulfilled by my fathers. They could not pull out the people who had been destroying the ethic of this country, planting bombs, increasing its population. The problem persists till today, and none have been able to solve it. However, with this forceful rise of Hindutva brigade, which I am sure is to the advantage of my community, I can hope to get my land back, purified, and distilled of all the impurities that have poured into it. 

Actually, I had a dream last night, where this dream had  been realized. This land had been combed out of all non-believers , especially muslims, especially those not conforming to Hindu value system. Yeah there were other groups too that have been ousted. The parsis, the christians et al. And now, all that remains is the Hind , the land of Hindus.  There had been a televised relay of the adress to this nation. Never before has such homogenization been achieved. India had agreed to accept Hindi as the national language, the southern dissenters had been obliterated. Even the variants of the national language, the different dialects had been scheduled to be phased out. English education had been done away with and the reading of Gita in schools had been mandated.  There had been an attempt by some spiritualists to treat Gita as the doctrine of human struggle, but those dissenters have again been suppressed, and the Krishna of Gita has been established as the universal god . Again, revolting shaivaites have been obliterated. A clear policy of obliteration has  been framed. Either the individual agrees to the laid out Hindutva policy or leaves the country. This has been the most important process and step towards cleansing the country.Also, now there is no more confusion of gods . Ranging from tribals to all groups have been mandated to worship a uniform god, with Rama being the pioneer among all. India becomes  Hindu-sthan!


I am no longer allowed to write in english. Hindi has been made compulsory. All its dialects have been absorbed in it, for the sake of a uniform Hindu-sthan! I could not write anymore, there wasn't much time left. There were dissents, at such dissolution of language, but there was only one answer to such protest. Exile! And now, there is no land ..., no nation , no Hindustan!!

And then my eyes opened. Wide open!!! Once could have been this imaginary person  ...


What is the trouble of India, then?  I belong to erstwhile Zamindar family and people who worked for us have been the Dalits, chamars and et al. They still live in that same ghetto. I asked one of them  on the eve of a Republic day, what do you think is the event  tomorrow . He didn't know, besides the fact that there would be flag hoisting and free distribution of sweets. I asked him , what was his nation? He said shyly, Kumhar of raiyaam , Madhubani zilla. I asked him next, what does he think India is? He said, New Delhi, without waiting. One of my cooks over here too had something similar to answer, "I am from Balasore , Orissa. Upper caste farmer and 26th  January is celebrated for hoisting flag. " There is a very easy way to shun these statements, the speakers are all illiterate. Well, that is my point too,  albeit there is an another step too.

Nation is a tyranny of majority over minorities. And Hindutva - the fundamentalist brigade ( a mimic of fundamentalist structure of Christianity and Islam) , although noble in its view ,  seeks to attain homogenization which is in turn going to trample and traduce all the minorities. Nation is a modern concept. People , civilisation and cultures are way older than that. It is the  people who are to form nation and it is for that reason, if India is any nation it is made of people who are all minorities, at some level of distinction. The educated and literate Indians  with fundamentalist bent have tyrannically denied this right to minorities. But the groups have revolted. The Dalits do not  agree to  the"Hindu"  bandwagon anymore now. The tribals , are eager to maintain their separate identity. So is every such small group from north to south of the country. The Dravidians want to remain uniquely different from the north, the Marathis,Tamils revolt against the language tyranny of Hindi belt. And it has to be understood deep down, that India is a conglomerate of all such minorities, all at different levels. 

But why is this considered a problem for the country when actually this is its strength. Aren't we overlooking the real problems and creating a facade of parochialism. The country has severe real issues to grapple with. Poverty, malnutrition, liberal capitalism destroying the ethnic value system and pushing the helpless further to the brinks of society. Why shouldn't we instead talk of that? I do not have figures , but I am sure the deaths and devastation caused by such factors would be way more than by the sum total of the casualties of  terror attacks . True there has ben terrorism , and on indian soil majorly in the name of Islam, but that does not explain the other problems that India is grappling with. The maoist problem is no less dangerous.  The amount of destruction and  havoc that they have caused isn't any less either. But they are not discussed by Subramanian Swamy ( He would say, he has written about it in another book!), because  it is  terrorist who are hitting at middle class, the hotbed for Hindu fundamentalism. The class that is in look out of an ideology to live by, the consumerist class that has forgotten the ideals of Gandhi and Nehru and seeks to establish itself globally with a distinctively unique identity and for that it needs a distinctive label on its cover. The Hindu! 

But this could not be further from truth. Who is a Hindu after all? And what is Hindustan? So far as I  understand,  and as far as the history understands, it is a conglomerate of minorities, at different levels.
The coorgis, the tamils, the kannadigas, the keralites, the mangaloreans, the gujarati, punjabi, muslims, vaishnava, shaivaties, spiritualist , atheists, marathi, bihari, maithils, telangana, parsi., mallu christians, mallu muslims.This diversity, the Hinduism brigade is trying to dissolve into one "melting pot" of  "Hindu philosophy", but this model cannot work for a country as diverse as India. The melting pot would only tyrannize the minorities, The melting pot of US had consumerism as the common idea, but  India  with its diversity and philosophy and population cannot and does not fit the framework. It is a multicultural reality . It is only one as a combination of whole .

So today when I see the Hinduism brigade getting stronger among the middle class , I lament the doom of this multicultural nation. Yet, this survey, also provided a heartening report that the people who harbor such views are a minority , just as the other minorities of country. BJP is in decline in all states ( except Gujarat  and Bihar)  for different reasons of course, and for sure the Hindutva Rhetoric doesn't work in Bihar. Also, BJP as a political party, refrains from expressing its hardline views, which it clearly understands will only alienate further its vote base.  

For, Subramanian Swamy, with all due respect for his knowledge and grit, for I know his aims are noble, I feel the following line of Neitzsche  is most apt.

"If you look for too long into abyss, the abyss looks back into you".

In the fight of good against bad, good has to remember that it is not bad!
Hence, although the easy way out ( not politically, of course)  to homogenize the country, to tyrannize, after all nations are the same and do the same, our greatness lies in holding together all the minorities and worshiping this idea of  unified India. Something , for which our forefathers laid their lives and all that came with it.

Yet, I know it's difficult to persuade people back to this all encompassing view.Perhaps ,we all need our own moments of realization. My moment had been as a school kid, when on one of the 14th of August, out of brazenness of school kid I went to my friend, who was a muslim ( and might be reading this article now)  and wished him Happy Independence day , with a smirk on my face. He didn't reply, but there was a look on his face that I have found difficult to efface from my memory. The look was  not only of anger , but of dejection, of denial, of a helplessness, and I see the same face around me , whenever I see people talking of a nation as theirs and not of others, and that was the  day I realized, the maxim,that if there has to be a discussion on  nation among Indians, it belongs as much to him as to me. So, Mr. Swamy, if there are problems, use your knowledge and skill to solve them  for all Indians instead of deepening the divide and destroying the very fabric of nation. On this Independence day let's together recognize this ideal freedom fighters and martyrs fought with, that of unifying and seeing the nation as a sum of its parts. We can of course do that! 

Jai Hind!

PS: Subramnian Swamy also said in his interview that 98% of Hindus think as he does, well, I for sure belong to the 2% then, and you?

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

The hour before sleep!

Silence! No, Dead Silence! No, Deafening Silence! I don't know, how can I explain the quietude around me. It's dark and it's silent, both sound and light are too conspicuous by their absence. Buzz of evil mosquitoes, fill my ears, as does the gentle flow of breath in and out of me.

Monday, 11 July 2011

Individual Idealism - means to human end.

Thesis and anti- thesis, dualism, unity, all have been talked a lot about. Something of a kind of  distant invincible dream that could never be achieved, yet always imploring the seekers of truth towards itself.  None live it, and any wish to be the beholder of such “ideals”, if they may be called so, is nothing more than an ocean’s wish in mid-desert, forgetting, apparently, that all that we need is a water body, and something of an oasis would do well enough ( if not just a gallon of water).

What would we do with ideals, considering that they have been realized in a hypothetical world? What would you do with happiness alone, or honesty, or for that matter that single joy, that harbinger of all?  By any standards of betterment, neither monists nor dualists would welcome that. Therein lies the error, of  our times. However, a deeper look brings out the actual truth. In absence of a system that could talk about such subtle things, such subtle virtues or vices that lie between (or across, or beyond, or just behind) those ideals, that  actuality, that subtlety, and that intangible ideal, elusive to the constructs of language, that such idealisms have been resorted to. 

Truth or rather its realization within self, was and is something that has always been the idea of human achievement, and  was never supposed to be written or taught, for it can never be transmitted from one to other, by way of language, or by human instruction. It can never seek itself in idealism established by someone that has never been the being whose truth is in question. It can never be imparted. If there is something, some idealism waiting for us to be discovered, it’s lying patently “within” us, if we can talk in that jargon. 

The perfection has so many grounds, not necessarily on the scale which moves from lower depths to higher summits. Linearity is not the prerogative of perfection or idealism.  Euclid’s geometry’s parallel with human condition, and explanation of it has been a patently mistaken idea.  

Why write of it then? If there is no purpose to be served, within the bounds of language, why invoke it? Perhaps because this is my medium of expression, perhaps because this kind of manifestation of self will evoke from within me that what have been my experiences of truth!

Considering this chain of thought, I understand, that I have been that perfection, that product of multitude of events that has shaped me. Idealism, like unity, dualism, and honesty etc. is that common phrase, shared so that we may communicate those subtle truths in some parlance, in some frame of understanding.

Achieve worst, achieve worthless, achieve sub human, and achieve futility. When we have all been through this myriad of emotion, and this realization of human aim to be utterly futile will we all realize that we have been living our beauty, our perfection all along.  My form of beauty will inspire you perhaps presently, it may inspire the confidence that perhaps we have all been brilliant as “mediocres”, but take note. This is that confluence of word that made you think, and forced in you the realization that has been achieved in you. It is not yours.

Sadly, contrary has been the fate of human thought, it seeks understanding in what it learns, it seeks understanding in what it can communicate, while at all times, its attempt has always been the idea of communication. A lot is lost in that. Apparently, reader may agree that at times, too much of the central essence could be lost.  That is why we have poetry, music and silence as the medium of better communication (note that it’s still not that what is being expressed), for in them lays an open wide horizon, leaving it upon “the end” the onus of meaning, of understanding, of idealism. 

Then, why exist? Why see the next moment flit by us, when the onerous present is unceasingly dreary and wearied. Why seek “existence’ to another day? 

I don’t find answer in written words.  A glimpse of that elusive answer lies in suffering, in growth, in reaching a higher plain of thought, but it’s all too meek in front of that purpose that does make me go by the next moment, that makes me keep within myself the framework where one second follows another. This 
“Purpose” alone is the existence’s aim. All thoughts are mere subversions of this central idea, and sadly it may not be “central” at all in its own paradigm, but vital enough, to have our existence by it, for it, forever, and ever.

As an aside, perhaps this would be the aim of thought, to render beauty within a shape and yet understand its shapelessness. All truths understood would be mere interpretations, but not necessarily of a single, unquestionable truth or anything like that. The thought, the idea would all be means to that single end, human. And may it dawn on us all, in our own uniquely distinct ways, such that we have the greatest difficulty in establishing that version of truth, and yet experience it unceasingly in our consciousness.

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

What is and what could be!

Unbeknownst to me, in the tiny little specks of flitting moments, that what is being expended is my self, unlike that ficticious ghost which assumes place in that distant world, in that distant time, bearing my face, and yet is far from realization.

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Wisdom of generation!

Every generation rediscovers its own beauty and wisdom, and which is why, neither becomes trite ever. The past is but merely a gateman, smiling benevolently on the wayfarers of truth.

Sunday, 19 June 2011

A joy a day!

Driving through the snarling road to his house, a gust of wind smote his face. The cold chill of a December evening, made him shrivel, even inside his thick colt wear. Yet, something else smote him more than the chill in the air. The chill in thought.
Lost in his daily chores of a full time job, he had been wandering around, in search of something that had been lost in all these years of life that had gone by. The weariness of self grated him and the gloom of the day reflected in his heart. The monotone of parading moments, made him gloomier.
“There is no thing as Happiness in this world!”, he muttered to himself, as he passed the mosque, enroute his home. “And it need not be. It’s as much a delusion as God itself is. And if there is any manifestation of it, it’s in the tiny little moments that reciprocate the call of our heart. There could but be no chasing of it, for its not reachable by chase, but only by letting it go”.

Amused by the chain of thoughts his mind had contrived, he chuckled through the gloomy drape of winter evening. But the next moment, he was jolted by the bumper , which he had overlooked and thus had jerked his bike over it. Recovering from the shakeup, he turned his head straight , only to find being discerned by a pair of watery eyes, looking through the drape of her shawl. Her face, partly hidden, partly visible was perhaps amused at the sight, but her eyes bore more than mere amusement. It had the mischief of a lass, together with the compassion of a lady. At the same time, the eyes bore the anxiety and caution of a timid girl, and that rattled his heart. Something floated from him, to her and thence to HIM.
Soon his bike crossed her, leaving behind an image to muse. It was difficult to name her, unnamed and unsought, yet stored in those attics of mind, where the flints of joy are preserved. He turned around, to get an another glance of her, just when her probing eyes locked on his, but as it happened she bent her head, dropped her eyes and gave him another smile to cherish. Then she covered her face with her shawl, with only her obtrusive nose and eyes peeping through it . That was the moment, post which , even the semblance of a rendezvous of such import had been effaced from the scene.

“But if happiness is not important, why scamper around for it?”, He didn’t wish to answer that to himself presently and moved ahead.

The tide turned, the sea rose up in anger and the rain lashed in fury , the deluge of arrows of drops, on the sea bed, making the sound of wheat grains being chaffed out. The blinding flash of thunder storm, added shine to the bed of water intermittently. The sea bore all of it, all the fury, all the noise, as was its wont to do.

The day took a new turn in its next stride. The Sun rose to a new hope , to a new desire. Happiness? No! Just a piece of joy. “Happiness is seductive, it maddens me, but I need a dose of it, just as the food needs a minor dose of salt to add taste to it, to keep my illusion alive. A Joy a day ,lets the illusion stay”, and he drove to work.

Shades of time !!

When Time will start rushing past me, I will crave for this immobility, stasis. The wheel must roll, but what of its pace and direction, they are to be orchestrated, yet be left on its own to take its own due course.

The stuffing of the constituent moments are vapid, empty and unimportant. When the objects of import start filling in, when the store will be overwhelmed by the amount it has, I will yearn for this emptiness, this vapidity and this facile recesses in order of time.

There are flashes of such moments, granting the faith that I might be pretty close to the state. The state which is its own understanding, yet too fragile to store. Too effervescent to muse upon. It’s both present and absent, yet never out of reckoning.

The faint view of this promised state entices me, and I keep looking around for wisdom of men or at times wisdom of silence. Yet, when the state itself is the wisdom, wherefrom could the wisdom of it be fathomed, but within it. This belongingness would be to my supreme.

I know I am close, yet far enough, looking for ways to approach it, to get nearer and nearer to it. To God, to delusion to the truth. The feeling begins to faint with my aggressive pursuance of it now and thus I draw back to my shell.

Thursday, 19 May 2011

This and the other

There exists a world, beside the continuum of days and nights, and we never tend to lose  sense of it. At every time, this parallel world, walks together , like a shadow, growing and fading , as our thoughts dilly-dally between an exclusively  sensual world and an another world that is wider,deeper,and beyond this  banality of existence.

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

O Lonely Roads

O! Lonely roads! Take me Away!

    O! Barren winds hold me in your sway!

Far too long, have I been in the throes.
        Far too long, have I stretched my stay.
In your arms, let your lullaby put me to dreams,
    From your bosoms, let me quaff the streams.

Let my face, beat against the wind,
    In whose embrace, there is a lovely song to sing.
The song,
           That has been around all the while,
    While the writer,
                     Hath always run away to hide.

In that far away land, there is a home to my soul,
    In those unknown people, lies an end to my withal.
And that is all I ask of you,
    Since as we tread along I know I will bask in you.

Here come the plains wide open,
    And there far behind, lies the silhouette of hills sloping.
Parched leaves rustle, in joy of my visit,
    And I, parched as much, wish to waft through it.

And soon, there is nothing to be seen,
    Plains are gone, and winds are unforeseen.
And soon I depart too, oblivious of myself,   
    What remains only, is the pristine self.
The self, that's one with you all through,
    And in that consummation, all of them fall through.

Then suddenly, a jolt shakes me up, and my eyes open,
    The bond has been broken and the world is again forsaken.
A cry rises from my heart, to the winds that are bidding me adieu,
    And tears roll down, as I turn away from the roads, and get back to where I am due.

                                                               - Siddharth Shankaran

Thursday, 17 March 2011

ख़ुशी और ग़म

क्या सच कहा  था उसने?  उसकी बातों के तथ्य तो उसके सामने ही मौजूद थे, पर क्या उसने कभी टटोला था उन्हें ? " ख़ुशी एक पागलपन है | ख़ुशी में एक अशालीनता है| पर उदाशी और दुःख , शालीनता एवं गंभीरता का परिचायक हैं| शायद, वही एक ज्ञानी और और बड़े आदमी का सूत्र है| क्या तमने स्वयं भी यही महसूस  नहीं किया है?"

रात की पहर

इतने सारे पलों में से, बिस्तर के कोने वाले पल ही उसके ख़ास थे| दूर से आती रेल की सीटी उसे एहसास दिलाती , की वो अभी भी दूर नहीं है दुनिया से, लोगों से, जैसे की बस इक दिन वो रेल गाडी आके उसे उठा के चली जाएगी, और फिर वो आज़ाद होगा, इस डर से, इस जेल से | रात की बत्ती बंद होने पे वो खिड़की की पास जाके खड़ा हो जाता, उसकी जाली से छन के आती हुई उम्मीद की रौशनी में खुद को देखता, और जैसे ही किसी के आने की आहट होती, वापस अपने बिस्तर के कोंव में छुप जाता | आंसू से भीगे गालों को पोछता हुआ सोचता, "बस कल में चला जाऊँगा, आज मेरी आखरी रात है इस अँधेरे कुँए में|

Dream Seller

Under the leafy canopy of banyan tree, dwelt a seller of dreams. Sprawled all around him were dreams.Wet dreams, dry dreams,hot dreams, inexorable dreams,luxurious dreams,heavenly dreams. All synonymous with hope, of a better future ,of a better tomorrow. People passed by his open shop of dreams, wallowed in them, and left. Rarely did one stop to buy them. "These are just lies", they said. "If it were to have any meaning, why would the dream seller be so wretched himself, so as to lie in here, every evening, waiting for a prospective buyer."

Yet he, the seller, lay there in wait , every evening ,for a buyer. His dreams weren't costly, it didn't cost more than a wilful thought, yet it seemed to cost enough to find a buyer.

TO Continue ...

Saturday, 26 February 2011

What's a human being?

What is human? An ill-conceived idea of a god?  A mistaken thought of a cultural necessity, necessitated in-turn for the existence of civilization? An individual is at the root of this creation, yet he is the one who has been given the least credit for it.  All that human is, a mere representation of mass, the real symbol of existence, of life.  Yet mass itself is the lowest a human idea can get to. A mass is mad, unthoughtful, bestial, uncivilized bulk, where the worst of every human being comes together, and creates the worst of all en masse.And this world is a crowd.  Mad, bestial uncivilized bulk. Where does human come into picture then? This transition from being a part of an uncivilized bulk to a complete, self fulfilled individual is something remarkable which a human being, keeps making innumerable times in its life time.

Thursday, 17 February 2011

A killer on the street!

To kill the time, a killer was devised. It walked on the sheets, a jagged course mostly, billowing, at times. Surprisingly, the path took by the killer, took shapes, unexplained and unclear, yet a definite shape. Some of it seemed to resemble a pawn’s first half, while other part would be the depiction of a ragged hill or perhaps, a broken wall.  The killer kept moving on and on and on, and the marks of his steps checkered the entire landscape, but he never arrived anywhere, just in transit, from one infinity to another one, and yet not finishing . It took long, before it was realized that while he walked he killed something in turn, destroyed something in turn and let two forces of world unite., The man and his soul. When the two united, the letters stopped, so did his course over the sheet and he raised his head with a jolt of an abruptly terminating dream, and that, which had been one, was found now in splinters around his body, while his pen and the sheet lay intact!

As we cross it

Every movement across the road conjures in me the images of a mutilated self of mine, crushed by the speeding vehicle, on its free ride. Whose fault, had it been? It wouldn’t matter enough, when such a situation arrives, all that would remain is a torn mass of flesh and bones, bearing the semblance of having remained attached together  some time. Despite the rush, I save myself, every day from those speeding motors wagons, and stay together, and yet witness myself being torn in pieces, by the speeding vehicles of unknown rash drivers, they are difficult to be pictured, yet in a bent and unique shape they do come, ripping me apart, and yet leaving my flesh intact. Something gets torn on every such occasion, yet not visible to me. Perhaps, the accident kills in bits and pieces, and perhaps the day when the kill is final, will I realize it in this practical world. What else would I do till then, other than keep crossing the road with same union of saving myself, lest some vehicle, of a cavalier driver rips me or something called me, apart!


Dreams are made of stuffs  sold on streets. Days when desolation has afflicted one, dream's world  would be as clear as a story woven craftily, by the greatest of raconteurs, pleating the vicissitudes of life in proper places.

The run of the dream leaves one exhausted, eaten up by something. With open eyes, there is no reason to budge, no motivation to live.

But, the days that have been happy, dreams are confused, lacking any particular course. As if, multiples strands of dream are chasing each other in different directions and none of it becomes clear. This chase, however, doesn’t eat one up, but rather gives one a sense of purpose, to chase randomness, to chase the world. The dreams, are made of the stuffs sold in markets, and they get exhausted, get old or plain irrelevant. What remains then is nothing but the days of different dreams, made of surreptitious desires lying hidden in the dark corners during the day, playing havoc at night!

Sunny Days

All Sundays are sunny; perhaps that is why they are called so. The deception however, lies in the exception that pops one or other winter day, when clouds cover thickly the landscape below, and the Sun languishes behind it. Yet, the “pheriwala” doesn’t make exceptions. He is there every Sunday with the same shout of, " Paper! Paper!" As If Sundays are  the paper days.

The kitchen after dinner

When the food is over, what gets left behind is the faint idea of hunger, soiled plates and utensils, and a tip tap of the kitchen sink. The drip continues whole night, and when you visit it, it mocks you on your face, at the sight of animal in the man, which devoured the hunger of self and ate everything up. The kitchen, stares at you, for having exploited it for ones petty want of hunger. You get scared, a bit apologetic too, but as this sense of sorriness starts sinking in and reaches  enough depth,the  man rises back. It condescends at them, turns around and switches off the light. The hunger had been defeated and so has been the self-apologetic human.

Pain of Ego

And the noise of celebrations around the corner broke his dreams. Just as his own , theirs had been a restricted, compromised pathway to life, and now they have left him behind. Everyday, someone or other leaves someone else behind, and yet that didn't budge him enough, but today, his neighbors, the people who drew same breath as his, shared same soil and fate as his had left him behind. Till this day , they  were together in their fate, and that perhaps made them all feel safe, but as now one has moved ahead, all others are backwards, and this has stolen his content.
He will have to renew his fight now, and bring  people on to his boat. People , who he could look at and say, "why am I with them?" Amidst the chaos of chasing peace he forgot one essential thing. That thing was his ego. His self that had been hurt, and he felt the pain too, yet renamed it with something else. The ego is still  hurt, and it still seeks solace from the depravity of expedient choices, yet he doesn't have enough of something to listen to the blaring echoes of its pain.

In suffering

In suffering lies  understanding of the object. Only when  the night has suffered with darkness, does it love the morning dear, and when the day has suffered  the heat of the blistering sun, it knows the love of night. Frustration is the seed of love that grows into a plant of such kind that one can never find created in happiness. Pausing at every step, if you could realize the suffering of the moment, you will love life. When you will find that the life is the suffering of the self, you will love life. This unites the soul to the supreme, through several channels, yet never different in its end. Looking at the means, with a mild nonchalance, an attaching oneself to it you would find, what you have been in search of.


Amidst different pathways on offer , he chose the brightest one. The dazzle of the road ahead left him in awe of it. The rush was spontaneous, lacking  thought, yet not as blinded as an animal’s chase of fodder.  On the way he found a well lying by the side of the glittering road, dark, desolate and rickety. He was thirsty, yet not enough to bring himself to drink out of that well, and with the pace he was moving the well was soon past him.  After having run another ten miles he found an inn by the side of the road. The inn was rather a hut, inhabited by a harridan lady, shouting out orders to the workers around her. All of them were busy cleaning the land. With the sun having come over his head now, the sweat beads glittered on their swarthy bodies.  He felt thirsty now, more so after looking at them. Yet again, he couldn’t allow himself to get to them. He sped past them as well. And so on , along the way he found similar things, but couldn’t get himself to drink anywhere. By the time, he had been almost exhausted; he couldn’t find any more sources of water by the side of road.

He had almost reached a different place, where perhaps water was not a concern. In search he started digressing from Main Street to the villages by the side, but he could nowhere find water.  A sudden change happened to him later, thirst of water was killed by the same extremity of thirst. He sat down by the side of the road, and began to think. The thirst has been killed, and yet I am still alive. I ought to be killed too, but death didn’t approach him. A faint fear loomed over his head and he collapsed, when he woke, he no longer felt the fear of things around. No thirst found way to his throat, and he turned to the villages around, becoming one with them, perhaps waiting for another human to come some day and see him transform.

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Into my death.

It is when I am mad with feverish energy, I realize that I am to be something different than what I am. Fever rushes through the head, and mind overthrows all the bindings on it. Wide expanse of free earth beckons me in her arms, and the sky above comes down to my level and consecrates me as the king of the heavens.And then, I walk through the space, the sky and the earth, with the madness playing itself on my head. I lose all the sense of people buzzing around me, busy with their chores, their slavery of spirit. I pull the curtains over my head, and pull down my eyes, yet I cannot stop seeing. Images, in varying shapes, floating around me, as if playing truly around me. I do not know, if this is the consequence of being feverish, but the vividness with which the images float around me, I sink in myself. What plays around me , however soon gets muffled with the images of love. The lady, the love, the infinity, the end. A sound erupts her name blasphemously and the vow is broken. Tears well up in eyes and all the images start floating in it. I begin losing myself, to sleep some may say, but I prefer the Otherland, the Neverland. From deep into the corner of my heart, a fairy plays its symphony in front of my fastened eyes, and I descend into her land, into her joy , into her peace. Into my death.

Monday, 24 January 2011


There are two kinds of death, one of it is called life!

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

इंतज़ार में चाँद

रोज़ मैं देखूं , चाँद खड़ा है,रस्ता मेरा देख रहा है|
फैलाए तारों की चादर, इकटक मुझको घूर रहा है|

मैं पूछूं, क्यों री चंदा, मुझमें क्या तेरा धरा है?
आते जाते , पीछे पड़े, क्या लाज शर्म को त्याग चुका है?
बरसाके  चांदनी का क्षीर , तारों के बीच राजा बना है!

चंदा बोला: