The gardener and the garden!

When the cherished garden of the gardener starts to decay, he , taking solemn cognisance of the matter, starts applying ways to save it.

It begins with spraying pesticides, of several kinds that to his knowledge, would help garden regain its glory . But none of them could help stem the rot. He imagines the decay , the peril to which the land would be subjected , and it shudders him. His heart rends with pain at the mere thought of this destruction , which his garden would be going through in future . He would be devastated , he thought . Oh how much did he love them, just as if all those plants were his children , and the land his own extension , his own body, his own self. 

Oh! This curse of life!

He looked at the expanse, soon to be barren, wistful , sad and devastated. "Ruined!", he murmured, as his lips quivered and two drop of tears hung precariously to it .

As the time seemed to drag away, night and darkness zoomed  on the land. He rose and walked away. A perturbed soul.

After the gardener had left, a stem rose,  and was moved with such pity for itself, that it rend a huge cry.  "What fate has befallen us, this doom, this sudden decadence, this perishing of the soul before its time!", it wailed. 

 And then, the pain of the gardener, the frustration of his attempts to rehabilitate it, stung its heart. "What has been this decayed built of my body, that could not accept the benevolence of my Master ! What has been the nature of this sudden perversion , that it could not respond to the care of the Master! Oh this hell! How could one bear this pain of ones decay, and the  greater pain of alienation from ones Master".

Days passed, the garden continued to slip into decadence , the plants continued to shrivel and wither. The gardener , however , preserved with his hope for its renewal , for its resurgence to life.

More days passed, and it finally became inevitable , the passing of garden into barrenness . The gardener had continued with his efforts to revive the land and the garden, but only to be dashed all the time. This took a toll on his health too  and he began to keep sick every now and then. His family members requested him to stop visiting the garden, and  decided among themselves , that it was perhaps in the best interest to sell off the land. However , gardener was a difficult man to be convinced to part with his land.  As his health continued to deteriorate further, it became certain that he would not survive for long. Seeing this, his children stopped pestering him to sell off the land. "It was only a matter of time", they thought.

One fine day, his health grew worse. It became clear that his end was near. He looked up to his family, and surprisingly none of them seemed familiar to him. He asked his sons, to carry him to the garden, and leave him there , alone , for the night. At first they demurred, but finding the gardener obstinate to his demand, they obliged .

The gardener lay in the centre of the garden.  All around him, lay the sight of a destroyed heaven. He began to sob convulsively, hiding his face in his palms. Suddenly, he discerned an almost indecipherable sob from somewhere in the near distance . There was not a soul around on this dark night. The noise seemed to come from nowhere, when suddenly he saw a half decayed stem, sobbing and shuddering violently .

"Don't be surprised Master! I am your child. Your plant ! As I heard you sobbing there I could not help sobbing myself , too. We all have failed you collectively . All of us, the whole bunch of plants and this land ."

Gardener lay watching the stem speak,  bemused , yet not afraid.

It began again, "All of us here have been discussing it day and night . What is this calamity that has suddenly befallen us! This disease that has turned us into a decaying hell hole ! This disease that has ruined our soul itself,  Master. However , Master, that pain isn't as big as the pain of embarrassment that we have all gone through , of not having been cured by your numerous benign attempts. You, who gave all your life, to nurture and protect us, have been failed by this disease within us . Heaven knows!, I and like me, everyone here is perplexed by this calamity, yet that stands nowhere close to the pain that we go through, as we decay to our ends, despite the efforts of a benign gardener. Master, we have failed you !". And as it drawled these final words , it got transfixed as a stem again.

The gardener rose. A sudden thought welled up inside him. He went up to the stem, held it with care and warmth. Sobbing lightly now, he began , " I see now , what I could never see all this time ! I see the truth! All of you, my children, forgive me, for having ridden you with this guilt. Forgive me for having projected my care for you , as care for your personal good. All this time, I kept thinking , "how is it that these plants have suddenly taken to rotting, despite of my love and care for them!" , while I forgot that it was my fantasy  of the "beautiful" garden, that had decayed. Not you, however ! Go on , live your "diseased" self with élan! I can only be forgiven then."

And there, with those words , his soul left his body .

I stand nude!

I stand nude. I laugh. 

I am standing nude at the city square, and I am laughing. No, I stood nude and then I started laughing, or was it other way round?  Anyways, now, I am watching the laughter around me. There is a joke doing rounds, not of words, but of sight, of mind, of thought, of the realization that a man, stands nude, in the center of the city, and people look at it.  Many haven’t laughed since ages, some develop wrinkles on their eye corners, laughing. Some tripped over the pavement, with bouts of laughter. It was the greatest celebration of all times. Never before had the city realized that it can all laugh together. Never before, has this moment dawned on all of its inhabitants. Yet, of all the laughs, there was one, which differed from others. It was mine. I laughed too.

My laugh was different. Not in the way different is different, but in the way that it was different from all other differences in laugh. Most present were laughing at their own sense of compulsion being overturned in folly by me. But, I wasn’t laughing at the same. Could I have done that? Laughing at oneself? Laughing at the laughter that has originated from my own source of revolt. It doesn’t seem to be even grammatically correct. Recursions are not allowed in languages, and when they appear, know that that’s end of rational thought. Irrational laughter follows. Thus was it. The laughter, all in itself, for no rational reason, for no reasonable purpose. For no aim of mocking a villain’s laugh or an intellect’s  scorn, or that of a hero’s benevolence. 

I stand nude and I laugh.

I know, I cannot proceed without deconstructing the event now, but I am not taking that course. Rationalists can leave, here, to continue with their laughter. 

I will move ahead with this laughing, nude, irrational me. I remember having done this on numerous occasions. I go, I stand nude and I laugh.  Every shopkeeper in the locality know it ; I have been denuded already and many times. Even the traffic policeman, knows that, and that is why his laughter is mostly on visual aspect, and that is the reason, he  grudges , "Oh! again comes the devil", but doesn’t stop me.

So much on nudity, nevertheless. As if, that is the most shocking thing to say or write about. What does this nudity entail? Lack of something? Clothes you say? Hah! I do not ever shed them. Nor have I now. Even when I bathe, I do it in clothes, I am scared of peeling  my second skin, but despite of all and everything  that I wear, I remain nude. I remain exposed. But too much on nudity for now. I am feeling cold, without clothes. Oh, did I just say, I always wear clothes? Well, I might have mistaken clothes with my ego. It’s not easy to be rational and deterministic about one’s writing in such a condition. The cold is growing.  City too begins to inch towards calm and peace of sleep. I move too, my standing here no longer serves my purpose. Yes, I too have a purpose. Just like all the sick minded people have.  There is this unique thing about purpose; it starts making you rational, the longer and dearer you sick to it. So, I shed them, as soon as they start becoming dear to me. Still, I take on new purpose every time, I have to; all sick minded people have to take a purpose. 

So, at present my purpose happens to be, ah! wait, I can hold on to it. Perhaps you will see for yourself!

The Descent !

I take steps, into vacuous repetitiveness, and the next step follows the previous one , as the former followed the one before it . Ting-tong, the elevator bell sounds , I was about to be 'lifted' below. An emptiness , enclosed in steel cage, opened up, and swallowed my presence. It was brightly golden inside , dying sun had poured all its rays in this enclosed cage, winking through its glassy window... 

The lower floor arrived . It didn't stop. It went lower, and lower , at once victorious of having not stopped at intermediate lowliness , and wistful of its quick decay into deeper recesses. Ah! The dialectical joy! 

And then the moment arrived , golden rays had poured out of this enclosure that wasn't able to hold it back as it descended into deeper and deeper lowliness. But, it held my soul, holding fast on to it, as the slimy darkness drenched me, when the descent came to a halt . It was a halt , I knew that . I could continue the descent , go deeper into the layers of dark and slimy ego, and yet for the moment , I had hit the limits of self. I could go no further. The doors slid open in front of me.

I had to choose . I looked over my head , nothing but infinite darkness flowed there, just as it did in almost all directions . The bell ting- tonged, and I saw myself almost jumping out of those two faintly shining metallic doors , when all of a sudden something took me aback . "Endure your descent, for it shall be your ascent", and I jerked myself back , shaking , almost shivering with turmoil. And as those faint metallic doors drew close in a kiss, I closed my eyes .

....Hunched down , I picked my mask , as I saw the the lift slide down into deeper recesses  and having fit the mask , so as to be indistinguishable , my steps followed each other again into the world of people. There was no going deeper beyond your will and then your will was your depth. I , cowering behind the mask, faintly chuckled at the defeat, and let my feet follow each other on the road that led to people

Chronicles of pain!

Suffering! End of it! Beyond!

This is what pain entails, suffering beyond, and then the end. The depth of this lake makes water calm. Oh! How much or how little do I remember what I saw!

Pain had been chronicled . In the lonely man, but of course, for what else is human! A speck in the dust, in the drizzling sky, in the turbulent ocean, in the gusty wind.

Yet he is seen by himself! As if he bribed his body to jump out of his sentient mind.Ah! What does he see?

A chronicle of pain! Page after page dedicated to the eulogy of pain, the suffering of the tiny speck, the invisible, lonely speck.

How deep does he become then? Deeper than peace! What could move him now? The burning of the chronicle of pain?

Up in flames! There is the spectacle, it burns and burns, as flames go higher and higher. No , the chronicle is still on, page after page, ink after ink,end after end. It is I who burns.

Wait!

I like drama, but this isn't.

Ever since the chronicles of pain began, it had only been harried entries, wrought out of a despairing mind, through quivering hand. Hands are firm now. They churn sheets after sheets, pain after pain, end after end.

Make another entry that the book has been sighted, that the category has been identified, that the depth has been reached, that there is no frantic activity beyond this stage, that there is no relation to justify, that in this depth of self everything finds its proper position.

Oh! How did I reach this? How can I see this , which could not be seen, sense those which could not be sensed and chronicle those which are ineffable ?

Chronicles of pain, surprisingly, serves not much useful purpose. It's as useless as the pain itself, but the idea is just that; identification and chronicling of the necessary but perennial 'useless' ,  in the sequence of pain, followed by interminable  pain.

The call!!

I was quavering with fever, shaking, almost crying from the fear of unwanted . I wanted to escape , run away from what was to follow, to hide from the consequences. But what?

No, it was a mere phantom, with no shape , just like  those smoke apparitions , that draw up in clouds , and vanish with the first drought of wind. What was unmistakable , however , was the presence of the unmistakable 'other' that scared my soul .

And then it started ringing , like a telephone call; the refrain of my ringtone blared against my ears. And my heart began palpitating harder, sweat seemed to drench me; I was cold. Every passing minute the ring got louder, more certain and absolute, as if it were telling me that it would grow on me perpetually until I answered. I knew it was the death call,and  it didn't matter whether I was right about it, for even if I was mistaken , my fear of annihilation was not mistaken in its nature. I would be annihilated all the same . I was merely delaying the minutes, hoping that by delaying call would go unanswered, but it didn't seem to end.

I gave up on the raucousness of the ring, it was deafening; I chose death .

.....

Dusk was drawing in the window, and it had begun to get dark, with sunlight waning in its intensity. I woke up . It was still ringing . I looked at the number , it was my friend . I sighed, felt the heart that continued to race on , and picked up the call.

Hello ...

How I wish!

How I wish, just like Gregor, the central character of Kafka's metamorphoses, to start afresh,  to consider that world is still the  same, to imagine that I  am still the same . How I wish, I could get rid of my madness, of my yearning and thirst, and still imagine myself   a child who can  look up to his elders to make amends. How I wish, I could be the same individual, as I see around me, and then most of all , become a man of action. How I wish, I was not troubled by  pangs of loneliness, and be freed of the curse of freedom . How I wish, I could be that which normal people around me already are, be that which has been so firmly established; be that which has been so well institutionalized . 

How I wish, I could be a writer , whose books would embellish the shelves of intellectuals and laymen alike. How I wish, I could own a house, with sofa , and a balcony with an untrammeled view from there . How I wish, I could then sit atop a reclining chair; looking obliquely at my library behind , muse upon the world running by, and then shape a theory , an idea, that would move me and my readers from the deepest recesses of heart. 

How I wish, I could harbor a wife, to embellish my staid disposition, and sink into the deepest mysteries of bodies, through her submission . How I wish , I could fornicate in grandest and weirdest of ways, and then bear a child , and relish its innocuous ways. How I wish, this child of mine , to be a greater being than what I could ever be. How I wish , it then opens up the world and decorates my name beyond his own self.

How I wish, I could see my hairs graying  as my children  grow old in front of my eyes. How I wish, I could celebrate their successes , and relish their joys as time grows further by. How I wish, I could then renounce my life , and part with all that I would have gathered . How I wish, then , one fine uneventful summer day , I would find myself sitting in a rocking chair on the balcony of my hard earned house ; look at the books I have read and written in my library through the corner of my eyes , take the final sip of piping hot tea , and draw the final breath. 

How I wish, I could belong to all the follies of trite, conservative life I just now wished for, the established perfection to my parents and other conservative eyes.

And then , I know , this devil within me, has no wish to be anything , but only to sink in deeper and deeper and be more and more of myself alone.

Mooning in my room.

Moon above , in the star spangled sky, pours its calm radiance through the meshed window, shining over my head, bending at the edge of the floor where it meets the wall,climbing over, and as my hand rises to obstruct this flow of purity, a dark shadow appears on the wall, remonstrating against my mischief.

The quibble lingers over who would claim this beauty, and as the fight progresses to its bitter end, moon gradually fades and disappears from my window, leaving after it, a faded trace of the wrinkled smile that had shone with the pouring moonlight a moment ago.

On Boredom!

Ah! Writing  on boredom, while one is getting bored is something of a catch-22 situation. One cannot write on boredom and remain bored, while, one could be so bored that he may wish to write about boredom, while one engenders it. Nevertheless, I am bored now. This is not to say, that I wasn't bored anytime before, or that this is the epochal moment in the history of humanity, when boredom has dawned upon me. No. On the contrary , I have been bored so many times, that it is helplessly boring to even recall traces of them. I am bored now. This is exactly, what I mean.
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One discovers, amazing ( or rather queer ) aspects about himself and of his surroundings , when one is bored. Like, just now, I reclined my head on the back of the chair ,and found that the roof was a repeated block of perforated white tiles. I repeat the act several times again, and yet could not decipher what part of the tile did I miss in previous gazes. I look at them again, now, they are still the same, and still repeating. As I stare at them, my eyes draw to close, but just then, I realize that I am bored and I get back to writing.
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I have been looking at my fingers for quite some time now, a small part of finger-skin has erupted from the corner of thumb, and I wonder why does it happen all the time. I stare at it for some time, and then play with my other finger , and then abruptly chew off the protruding skin and spit it off. I see it land on the mat there in some distance. Perhaps cleaners will clear it tomorrow, or even if they won't , it could get stuck in someone's shoes or slippers, while he crosses that spot. I half-chuckle at the thought,  and then back again, to the same posture.
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I am bored.
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I have listened to the sound of breath earlier too, but now I do it again. It moves at first in slow spurts but in quick succession, along with  the bulge of shirt (or rather the bulge of tummy), and then almost after ten quick shots, it bursts into a large sweeping deep breath, drawing in a whole balloon of air. A sharp swishing noise erupts as the wind billows through my nostrils. And now back again , to the slow rhythm.  I sometimes find this final, yawning, deep breath as a signal to the end of boredom, saying , as if , "Enough of tomfoolery! Get off your ass!". Not now, I am back, again.
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I am bored.
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I have tried all that one could, brushing my nose with my index finger, rubbing my eyes  deep enough to squash away any element of drowsiness  in them, rubbing my palm against my face, and stretching the facial-skin with my palms. Not enough, perhaps! I take in the next gulp of spit , and bend my head backwards. The perforated tiles, again, lying at the same spot, seem as droopy as the whole office. I look at my bag, there are books nestled in them, but my mind shrugs at the thought of letters playing before my eyes. I turn away from them. Internet has had its fair share of the day. I have stalked enough on Facebook today, deleted enough mails on gmail, and tiredly closed the numerous pages of Wikipedia.  Marx ? Kant ? Sartre ? Psychology? India?  Rape? Oh! Mere mention of the names , seem to drag me to another bout of boredom.
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Boredom!
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I draw another deep breath, and now something seems to pop up somewhere. Isn't boredom eternal? Isn't boredom truth? In no stage of human evolution has boredom been absent, and I am sure animals get bored too. I am not sure about plants  but considering that they have been restricted to be rooted, they must get bored too. I recall Sartre, and his line, "Boredom is (reveals) existence." Perhaps, it is so, for I know, in this bored state, I have been conscious of my existence, of an existing self, and that I have exist(ed). Ah! And I see another thing, as well, the meaninglessness of it all , even of the self, that is so ponderously laboring though the "time" construct, and yet all it does is to just exist.I draw another deep breath and this time a good-chunk of boredom blows away too, something stimulates my mind back into action and I slowly return to "nothingness" or "acting-ness", to stamp a meaning on this "existence".


I was bored ...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

But...

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.