tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6138988535373671572024-03-05T14:31:24.110-05:00Forking paths of the ImaginationShilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.comBlogger162125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-71276688491171655302020-06-06T03:58:00.002-04:002020-06-08T02:14:25.784-04:00About "Is there still no place like home?"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The following is a revised essay from 2019, January. Why did I write it? that is a separate matter. I shall mention that some other day. But for now, there is a question and an essay for the same. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Is there <i>still</i>
no place like home?</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The eponymous
character E.T. – that oddly shaped and completely loveable character – from
Steven Spielberg’s film said – as far as I remember – two comprehensible words.
One was “Elly-Ott.” The second was “Home”. Every time E.T. said “Home” in that
rumbly voice – his index finger would glow red. He missed home so badly that he
fell in a state of malaise, which did not seem purely physical to my long-gone 10
year old self. He perked up as soon as he saw – well, what did he see? His home
was surely not his spaceship that had descended to Earth. Yet he waddles up
happily and gleefully – all bodily, emotional and spiritual malaise forgotten. His
mum and dad were there. In a sense, he was home. Florentino Ariza and Fermina
Daza make a houseboat their home in the concluding pages of Marquez’s classic. Then
there is The Little Prince from St. Antoine Exupery’s timeless tale, who after
his earthly adventures takes the help of the snake to go back home, back to his
planet, and to especially his fragile and hoity-toity rose that loved him and
whom he adored. He dies. He returns home. And why stop with the world of "higher" sentient life form – whether terrestrial or extra-terrestrial when approaching
the idea of home? I am reminded of the tall and lanky Palm Tree – whom I
encountered when I was 8 years of age – from Rabindranath Tagore’s poem – who daydreams
fondly of sailing off to far-off places like the skimming black clouds that
traverse the skies, and yet as dusk drops and the tree pauses in his dreaming
spree – he realises that the Earth is his mother – he feels an ineffable contentment
in his earthly corner, his home. To move from the mundane to the magical and
into the mystical (might some find it morbid?) – the sea is not the home of the
sailor and the hill is not the home of the hunter for Robert Louis Stevenson in
his “Requiem”. Death is home or else it is the grand and ultimate way back
home. Then there was Jim Reeves who sang “This world is not my home, I’m just
a-passing through...” </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Emily Dickinson must have felt something similar and yet deeply connected to that "Species" that "stands beyond; Invisible as music but positive as sound..." and felt connected to a surreal sense of "home" and "oneness", when she penned the lines, “This world is not conclusion...” </span><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bod’s
home? In Neil Gaiman’s magical <i>The
Graveyard Book</i>, Bod's home had been for many years, yes – a graveyard with ghosts and a magical being. And yes, who can forget Dumbledore's line, regarding "the next great adventure"?. A</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">nd in the grand Bengali novel, </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Debjaan</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> (The Way of the Gods) by Bibhutibhushan Bandhopadhyay – home
might be here – somewhere in this world, on this “pale blue dot” to quote Carl
Sagan – or else it could be macrocosms away, temporally and spatially unreachable and
inaccessible until and unless we lift and pass through the veil and embark on fantastical journeys. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Human beings lose their homes, leave homes, make homes, move homes, find homes, feel at home, return home, discover a home, break homes, create homes, wonder of an ideal home, yearn for home, search for home, set up a home. Home – even in this rather mundane, chaotic, brutal, beautiful, beastly, serene, technologically-advanced, digitally overwhelming, conflict-ridden, and oft-times-incomprehensible world where travel, and even global travel, has become a fairly easy affair for the well-off from many in the developed and developing nations or for those who are not viewed suspiciously at Visa offices – holds a place of significance, which cannot be dislodged or displaced.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Can there even be a uniform answer to the question – is there <i>still</i> no place like home? – The questions and the corresponding responses set off ways of looking at and of coming to an understanding of how wide and deep and divergent the imagined, mental construct of “home” and the actual home can be as compared to that which is not perceived as home. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While engaging
with the question – I have found myself saying a quiet “no” over and over again.
For one thing, if any place were “like” home – it would be home. And no matter
how I approach the question – and true, there are very many thousands of
conceptions, understandings and interpretations of what home means and implies,
which change politically, socially, culturally, contextually and at the macro,
meso and micro levels while similarities are carried from age to age and place
to place and across people – it would seem to me that for human beings, home
remains <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a place that is unique,
incomparable (or only set up as reference point to make favourable or
unfavourable comparisons) and desired or is a place – if even imagined – one, which is intrinsically, inherently and even perhaps, ineffably, desirable. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The matter can be approached from different schools and disciplines of thought that encompass economics, sociology, political science, geography, psychology and religion and across levels and ways of seeing, whether individualist or collectivist, universal or cultural, and there could be many combinations and permutations born of varied understandings and alternative perspectives. To borrow from Stephen Covey, the lenses one uses to examine the idea and the meaning of home, and its place within the world and beyond, shapes one’s responses, shroud and even reveal one’s personal biases and prejudices, and also takes us a little closer – one hopes – to the journey’s end of why there is still no place like home. One would like to present as inclusive, diverse and holistic a view as possible, and yet given one’s experience, training, background and understanding one also knows that it never is quite possible to include all views without generalising and no matter if one believes or imagines one is expounding upon the views and often overlooked perspectives of marginalized groups – one has realised that even among marginalized groups or those that are almost invisible, perspectives and viewpoints vary widely and even wildly, which social scientists often have to gloss over for too much attention to the aberrant outliers within outlying groups gives rise to confusion and complexity and the picture becomes a picture constantly in motion. Being aware of such limitations is an advantage – not a disadvantage. One does not become incapacitated by such limitations but acknowledges that despite such limitations, there is much that can be approached and sensibly answered without becoming convinced that one is some soothsayer or all-knowing being who has got the ultimate handle on the question: is there still no place like home?</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As one cogitates
upon the question, and one’s mind glances over illustrations from various
branches of thought, formal disciplines and one’s own understanding gathered
through a lifetime of quiet wondering, a bit of study, a lot of madness, travel, observation,
experience, conversation and reflection – one cannot let the idea of
home remain swathed in the comforting whirl of emotions or conflicting sentiment
that the word carries or allow it to remain somewhat inscrutable by dint of the
fact that home is not merely tied to the physical construct of four walls or a
geographical tract of land or an official “permanent” address. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The four walls
could be replaced by a half sphere or a cone-line structure or a tent – but one
understands. </span><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The l</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ack of a permanent address while a pain (as anyone trying to fill out a form at government offices will know) cannot quite be equated to the absence of a home. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That is why historically, and subject to economic and
socio-political requirements, the corresponding definitions and descriptions of
the house and home have sometimes been viewed as separate entities or have been
merged.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Home is - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and is more than – the physical space contained within the confines of four walls, more than a physical rootedness that a human being or groups of human beings experience in relation to a geographical tract of land or possibly – depending upon the manner in which one frames, defines and understands the idea of what “home” implies – the very idea of home includes the tangible, the intangible, the physical, the emotional, the economic, the geo-political, the socio-cultural, the individual, the universal, the pragmatic, the idealistic, the spiritual and the imaginative. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Depending upon which viewpoint one wishes to adopt, home relates to the matter of identity and Self, it intertwines intimately with the idea of finding oneself, of connecting to something deeper, something psychical just as much, at least – if not more – as it relates to the political and physical. Home connects and resonates for many as a place of belonging, as a place of contentment, human fulfillment – even bliss. It is felt to be a space where one can be one’s self; a place where one experiences the deepest and most meaningful of human bonding and relationships. Yet what of the political prisoner under house arrest? – I find myself asking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what of the politically exiled and ex-communicated ex-hero who is now perceived to be a traitor by those in positions of political power or authority? And somewhat contrarily, what happens when home itself becomes a place of unrest or abuse or misery or just plain and simple boredom? Does a person – whether a man, woman or child then desire a place other than home? Or does one discard the concept of home as being a piece born from one’s own or someone else’s fevered and delirious imagination? Or does a person still feel that there is a home for him or her, if only such a place could be found or discovered?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As long as the
concept of nation-states exists and as long as political boundaries separate my
land from yours – the idea of home, at one level, cannot be approached without
taking into consideration the geo-political, the socio-psychological and the
economic. For what about the refugee who must flee the night, with his family
or alone, while bullets whizz over a land gone mad? And what about the tribal
who must keep moving further and further back on the land that her ancestors
occupied for generations until there is nowhere to go but fall into the sea or
disappear up a tree, perhaps, because the non-tribals want the land to drill
for oil or mine for metals or open a golf course or perhaps, with more noble
intentions, construct a dam? What about races who yearn for their “homeland” or
people who must cross borders overnight because there are two nations created
out of one? And how was that nation drawn up anyway? But drawn it was, and this created a political idea, which gave rise to the "Imagined Community" of Benedict Anderson, which then became real in its consequences ("Thomas Theorem"), as in being "home" to over 300 million when the nation was divided on the basis of a social identity marker. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And what of the people who have all but their lives wiped out by
some natural calamity or disaster? Did they lose their homes? Yes. But they
lost something else or something more than a physical space with their
possessions or are those very ideas contained within the construct of “home”?
And what about the traditional nomads, the Dom and the Romani who wandered from
the deserts of Rajasthan in India, The Punjab, Haryana and further north all
the way to Eastern Europe and beyond, and down South to Greece? Where was and where
is home for them? </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Do their descendants feel at home in whichever
nations they reside or do they feel an inexplicable, irrational wanderlust coursing their
blood?</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What of the wandering minstrels in Eastern India, who used to
travel from village to village and occasionally through city spots in India?
Did they travel and wander about, settling nowhere in particular for long
stretches merely for matters economic? Or is it that they have made the world,
which they can traverse on foot, their home? Or is it that they feel no
overwhelming urge to connect to any single place as home? One can muse about
the still-ubiquitous but perhaps less rarely visible matted hair, saffron clad
wandering mendicants of varied dispositions, and I am sure, at differing levels
of self-actualization with their traditional food bowls, cloth sacks and
sometimes even travelling monkeys for company. Where really is home for such
people, and do they care overmuch about the idea of home?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To take another
detour – what about the nameless, faceless bands of the homeless across lands, ages
and political boundaries? Do they dream of having a space to call home? Do they
see any space as being home? What of the aged who find themselves in Old-age
“homes” and orphans who find themselves in shelters variously dubbed “Homes”
and “foster homes”? What about those whom we label the insane and who sometimes
(conveniently forgotten by their families) spend the best part of a lifetime in
facilities, which are sometimes followed or preceded by the rather sanitized
and apparently warm nomenclature of “home”? Do they – some, many, a few – feel
that they are in a place that resembles home or did some go mad in the first
place trying to find home?</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Each individual
would have a different tale to tell. Numbers and statistics would provide us
with gigantic patterns where individual stories – like it or not – would not
matter (paraphrased from Zygmunt Baumann). Yet can meaning ever be seen without the stories and first identifying the stories?</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My mind returns to the pictures and images that fluttered about at the beginning of this essay. None of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those</i> views have become obsolete. That’s
what I see. And it is precisely because the idea of home is so incredibly
expansive and diverse, and contains so much more than just the physical or just
the psychical or just this or just that that even today home remains
unparalleled in comparison to any other space or place in what it signifies.
And maybe, for some, which would be for many millions - if not billions - on this very planet, home is
about discovering for oneself what Jesus meant when he stated, “The kingdom of
heaven is within you”, and from there going on a journey where the destination becomes less and less important, and one where home eventually signifies no specific physical place or space.</span></span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-35246729346569432572020-05-29T14:20:00.001-04:002020-05-29T14:20:18.073-04:00"The world..." by Emily Dickinson<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/H4PU6GCgO4A/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/H4PU6GCgO4A?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The pictures in
the video are both from Katha books for children. The picture on the left by
Oscar Bluemner is from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why always?</i> And
the picture on the right is by S.H. Raza from the book, “Raza by Raza”. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
poem has been a favourite of mine from the very first time I read it – late in
life. Suvro da had sent an essay of his, “Why we read and write poetry?” back
in the Fall of 2002, and there were a few key lines from this poem, and so I had
looked the lines up on the net back then, and the poem has stayed with me since then.</span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-12517019024679199422019-08-04T12:24:00.000-04:002019-08-13T13:07:01.686-04:00Ladakh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Closing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the past few days I have been
dreaming of lunar landscapes. The dreams themselves are not prophetic. I do not
remember the events upon waking up from my dreams but the landscape is returning
from what I saw around me for close-to-a-week week out in Ladakh. The Founder-President
of the organization where I work was supposed to have travelled to Ladakh as an
invited keynote speaker for an Education Conference but due to unavoidable
circumstances, she and her husband had to travel to Madras instead. I was
appointed as an emissary of sorts. That is how I found myself on a flight to
Ladakh a couple of Sundays ago, instead of a flight to Durgapur.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheImkGjdYJi4Ic2ugh_xhWgInkmCnjd3rqgNzNDP5AZXaIPXAERvWjBrha9wCZOItSNHZKuNazFAoDcuXgdk1DVtu9gcleU2vTXxh_JOwn7_mjKv44GxFGGNrie2BvOsew5kl9HFOTjgI/s1600/20190721_101916.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheImkGjdYJi4Ic2ugh_xhWgInkmCnjd3rqgNzNDP5AZXaIPXAERvWjBrha9wCZOItSNHZKuNazFAoDcuXgdk1DVtu9gcleU2vTXxh_JOwn7_mjKv44GxFGGNrie2BvOsew5kl9HFOTjgI/s320/20190721_101916.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">About-to-land</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The flight to Leh took about an
hour. I had a window seat, and when the pilot announced that we were getting
ready to land – I saw the unreal landscape that does not look of this world. It
was not just the sheer raw beauty of the landscape. I have seen stunning sights
from aeroplanes and out-in-the-open. This resembled a scene from a different
planet. Maybe Antarctica gives the same impression of a different order. Here,
what met my eyes was the famous lunar landscape – as far as the eye could see
with a stark unbroken line of snow-capped peaks in the horizon beyond. The
white innocuous clouds hung here and there, looking like gigantic mushrooms
over a landscape, which had grown from someone’s imagination.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There was a nice, pleasant chap
from the Himalayan Institute of Alternatives, Ladakh, who had been receiving the
conference folks from 6.30 in the morning. He sat and chatted with me for a bit
and then went back to his post. After a couple of the speakers joined our car,
we were on the road to Phyang village. On the way to my farmstay, which was to
be my home for the next 6 days, I caught a glimpse of the sinuous Indus –
somewhat swollen, slow and sepia-toned as it wound its way through the valley. I
saw too the Phyang monastery up on a hill, and told myself that I would visit
it before I left Ladakh. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuBYmZ65p8Uezt5Pb0jEbnWUPwaMnKH8pkmqpmiWvjM_w48UMSjzS_697P2IW20n10sVERrZXJpJWFsXL5FDa8hJrsrBrsnr-JEc4LEnp2QLP4_0fIS9_ktfqKdF7W1nJacvRstlu3O0/s1600/20190721_161624.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuBYmZ65p8Uezt5Pb0jEbnWUPwaMnKH8pkmqpmiWvjM_w48UMSjzS_697P2IW20n10sVERrZXJpJWFsXL5FDa8hJrsrBrsnr-JEc4LEnp2QLP4_0fIS9_ktfqKdF7W1nJacvRstlu3O0/s320/20190721_161624.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Phyang Monastery from the farmstay</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The farmstay was run by a woman,
her niece and her husband. The woman and her niece were friendly, polite and
very helpful without being intrusive. There was a lush, green garden that they
maintained, and the village of Phyang stood like a green oasis beyond which
rose those mammoth brown mountains. Just brown. From head to toe. It was as
though one were standing inside a vivid, green bowl with those implacable,
monstrous brown mountains standing like a circle of sentinels. Beyond them –
depending on one’s view – one could catch the twinkling snow covered peaks of
the Zanskar range. There were other folks staying at the farmstay for the
conference and we chatted till lunch was served. I went about once to explore
the garden and to see what lay beyond. My room was basic but clean and had a
bed and a bookshelf, which carried three books – one on Buddhism, one on Ladakh
and the third was The Sea of Poppies. Nandini, a friend who is studying marmots
in Warila came visiting during the late afternoon and we chatted till late. We
went out to the monastery but the solitary monk said that it was closed and
that we could come back at 6.30 in the morning – if we wanted to hear the
morning chant. We left with no promises. After a while we went for a bit of a
drive away from Phyang village and the sky opened up above as one gigantic
space with hundreds of stars. The air was quiet, and strangely-shaped rocks
along the landscape looked as though they might come to life at night when
nobody was looking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Every morning was an early
morning there. One had to make sure that one could use the common bathroom –
being shared by 4 occupants – without causing inconvenience or being
inconvenienced, and I think we managed quite well. One could avail hot water
from the solar heaters but I went with cold baths, and it was fine. I could do
it there in Ladakh but in Delhi – I find it impossible. That morning, after
breakfast, we boarded the bus and there were others who joined our troop. We
visited SECMOL (Students’ Educational and Cultural Movement of Ladakh) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>first – and I caught my second glimpse of the
Indus, along the moonscape gorges, and it isn’t a sight I will forget in a
hurry. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYaWShGZ5UMFcOgn2suS4lBHvGJMyNHqe1apykRY7W-kniiTDmUbXKMPnjadAMMcmdqiPbSPFGXhmPsUWLGPegxNfFjPgWChA7s5Xy7-JQ3mKijkkDfzr7NuCmfo-7RfeJ7Qb3RceXgc/s1600/20190722_101556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYaWShGZ5UMFcOgn2suS4lBHvGJMyNHqe1apykRY7W-kniiTDmUbXKMPnjadAMMcmdqiPbSPFGXhmPsUWLGPegxNfFjPgWChA7s5Xy7-JQ3mKijkkDfzr7NuCmfo-7RfeJ7Qb3RceXgc/s320/20190722_101556.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> View from SECMOL</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At SECMOL, we saw the buildings,
which have been constructed so as to maintain an even 18 to 20 degrees in the
midst of the furious Ladakh winters, where temperatures plummet to -30 and
lower. We were shown the brown field, which becomes the ice hockey grounds
during winter. SECMOL houses the first Indian women’s ice hockey team, which
has gone on to win tournaments around Asia. We saw the vegetable gardens and
the hostel buildings, the work buildings, and the patches of green, which once
again were hemmed in on all sides by the brown moonscape. Later on Mr. Sonam
Wangchuk (</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">the inventor-engineer on whom the famous character of Phunsukh Wangdu/Rancho of <i>3 idiots</i> is ostensibly based; Mr. Wangchuk from what I saw and heard is thankful when people don't ask him about the connection) explained his idea behind setting up SECMOL. It was to give the
students who could not pass the board examinations or get through the alien mainstream
syllabus – a second chance. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33_tgPZxDFjsVIAWcY3atcz-QNRPHHE6U2ZA2PqHZkTYKV3VYrqmlSc5jEEy-8kUCXuf9RhfXDfmloUWSnoasBIBqX7rvHgXq6R-1BEUSkiJ9ecffiD1tdglFxi1m6xLxGedQmShEPhw/s1600/20190722_122917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="1600" height="63" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33_tgPZxDFjsVIAWcY3atcz-QNRPHHE6U2ZA2PqHZkTYKV3VYrqmlSc5jEEy-8kUCXuf9RhfXDfmloUWSnoasBIBqX7rvHgXq6R-1BEUSkiJ9ecffiD1tdglFxi1m6xLxGedQmShEPhw/s400/20190722_122917.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">HIAL site</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">From there we were off to the
Himalayan Institute of Alternatives, Ladakh. Here there was only an empty
landscape. I had no idea where our bus was going because it veered off the road
into the brown, empty expanse. A half-circle of blue shipping containers then
rose into view, and nothing else. A solitary building then rose up in the
distance accompanied by a couple of smaller buildings. It was in one of the
larger buildings that we had the five-day conference. The idea was to look,
listen and see whether the 40 people or so could come up with a plan in 4 days
such that students could experience a contextualized, experiential and
locally-relevant educational experience at HIAL. A very ambitious programme – but
that’s what they had in mind. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1xhMG0g9P7nqGTuxyJ34JY_nD9paHNTgN8k_KWFp9XEreDx25kTGk8XHMbrCVhhmjetNGAfx0NvnZikWOCUNi-exGdl3owpwkPTN1PMdDFLyQyzGwyrCYnH5kCkdg_zM7hp7dzITIUQ/s1600/20190723_085511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1xhMG0g9P7nqGTuxyJ34JY_nD9paHNTgN8k_KWFp9XEreDx25kTGk8XHMbrCVhhmjetNGAfx0NvnZikWOCUNi-exGdl3owpwkPTN1PMdDFLyQyzGwyrCYnH5kCkdg_zM7hp7dzITIUQ/s320/20190723_085511.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> At the Geography and Geology Lesson </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The days and evenings fairly flew
by, and we were there till 6.30 or 7 in the evenings. The first part of the days
were actually unlike any other conference that I have attended. We visited
Basgo village one morning and the drive through the landscape was a delight,
and even though I found the brown gravelly and smooth mountains rather
discomfiting till the end – there was something else that was bewitching about
the place. I insisted on sitting in the front of the small bus so that I could
get an unobstructed view. Here and there, there are army cantonments – right near
the airport and strewn in parts of the land that we drove about but I didn’t
see too many army men on the first couple of days. On our way to Basgo, we
stopped at the <i>sangam</i> of the Zanskar and Indus. Both the rivers were brown –
the Zanskar looked a shiny brown. The director of HIAL showed us a picture she
had taken last November and there the Zanskar was a vivid green and the Indus
was a bright blue. With the glaciers melting, during Spring and Summer – both the
Indus and Zanskar change colour. I was interested in knowing whether we were
going to be sitting next to the Indus for a bit. Another chap was interested in
knowing whether he could go for a bit of a swim. Neither transpired and so it
was off to Basgo. There, Mr. Wangchuk gave us an interesting Geography and
Geology lesson – my most interesting one. He told us the story of the Tethys
sea and how the Indian landmass bumped into the Eurasian landmass, and that we
were standing very near the Indus-Tsangpo suture. He pointed to the two sides
of the mountains and told us why they looked different. That one of the sides
was formed from volcanic rocks, and how the sedimentary rocks on the other side had been pushed up vertically. From there we could see the Basgo palace, which was
perched on the side of a purple rock, which peppered the mountains – and he
explained it was actually clay. The castle lay on a melting clay chocolatey
coloured substance and so was going to gradually disappear. Lower down, we actually
felt the rock-like clay. Some of the more curious ones even tasted the clay,
which Mr. Wangchuk jokingly called “chocolate”, and he told us about the simple
experiment he had conducted to find out whether that particular rock was a rock
or not. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We next went to an idyllic stream
and had a perfect breakfast of sandwiches and tea. Some of us crossed the
stream on foot. It looked like a fairly easy thing but I am glad that the nice
and pleasant young chap had insisted on carrying my shoes. The waters were
freezing, the stones were mighty uneven and the distance looked longer somehow
once one was standing in the stream. One wouldn’t have gotten swept away but a
splash was not unlikely under the circumstances. But nobody slipped and there
no splashes. One young man was helping everyone by pointing out the places to
step on and he gave us plains-folks a helping-hand up the banks. We stayed
there for longer than we were supposed to, and finished our breakfast with some
cake, and a cake-demonstration of the formation of the Himalayas. It was time
to depart. I could have stayed there for the entire day. We skipped off to
Basgo palace after that. And examined some of the ruins and gateways. Since we
were already short of time, we had to hurry off without exploring the temple
ruins and the whole palace. Mr. Wangchuk told us a little story about the
Tibetan-Mongol siege and how the Ladakhi king had taken the help of Aurangzeb
in chasing them off.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On another morning we saw a
rivetting documentary by Stanzin Dorje/Gya, titled, “Living in Ladakh”. It was
a simple documentary made on his nieces and their everyday life. The granny
featured as did Stanzin Dorje’s sister and brother-in-law. The stars of the
show were the young girls. And since he had made a largely unscripted
documentary – it captured the life of the two young girls in difficult,
challenging, normal, happy and humorous moments. It ended with the girls going
on the very arduous pilgrimage walk, and with Stanzin telling us about how and
why he made the documentary. He was an old student from SECMOL. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXf6fZXDxFMQbDuXAiLqKcwIP3gLI7aiooyPaO5Qjg9VcfHIaT2vSyAqyxFLer5n5nlEnhyphenhyphenAoNDZZUUsZyXYBgn8xL57c-Iu1J0l2c0E8XvGqwHdq1CdS5zjU7whxPz76RmxjNyLsOa2o/s1600/20190724_074417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXf6fZXDxFMQbDuXAiLqKcwIP3gLI7aiooyPaO5Qjg9VcfHIaT2vSyAqyxFLer5n5nlEnhyphenhyphenAoNDZZUUsZyXYBgn8xL57c-Iu1J0l2c0E8XvGqwHdq1CdS5zjU7whxPz76RmxjNyLsOa2o/s320/20190724_074417.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At Warila</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The rest-of-the-days and evenings
were spent in the conference room – either talking and discussing and making
points in groups or listening to and looking at presentations. But I ran off
one late evening with Nandini to her field base off a village near Leh. And
very early the next morning, Nandini, her field-assistant and I drove to Warila
where Nandini is studying marmots. Those two hours up there at 5000 metres was
a fine experience. There was an army cantonment there, which was temporary. The
army had just moved in about a month and a half ago. I managed to see quite a
lot of those bounding marmots. The landscape here was not really barren. Everything
seemed to be a soft, pale green and here and there the marmots bounded out of
their burrows, scampered about, stood on a rock, surveyed the landscape and
went off bounding again. I mentioned to Nandini that they looked awfully like
gigantic squirrels, and she laughed and said that they were a part of the
squirrel family. Some of them, near a particular monastery are rather tame, and
are fed by the monks and they even like being petted by tourists. Sometimes,
Nandini said – they even chase the tourists to get some tasty snacks and petting.
We fairly raced back to the town and Nandini contacted and picked up a local
chap, Mingyur who was coincidentally her point-man and also connected to HIAL. She
dropped me off at HIAL and Mingyur dropped her off at the airport from where
she was returning to Tirupati for a couple of weeks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Repainted artwork at Phyang monastery - the mind led by the chattering monkey</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the final day, we went about
for more sightseeing. We visited Phyang monastery, and there some of us
wandered about, sitting in the prayer room with an oriental-looking Buddha, and
looking at the painted-over artwork, and an old prayer room with the original
artwork, and where the monks were engaged in their deep, sonorous chant with
their accompanying drumbeats. I can quite imagine the primordial tug to go deep
into that chanting. There’s something very harmonic and hypnotic about it even
when I don’t understand a single word of what is being chanted. My reasoning
mind keeps saying “but I don’t even know what is being said” and another part
just wants to keep sitting still with no thoughts. From there we went to Thikse
(Thiksey) monastery, where the halls led into other halls and there was a great
big statue of the Buddha. This prayer room was visited by more people and
although I sat still for a bit – I could feel too many people moving around and
I hurried out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Thikse (Thiksey) monastery</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">View from Thikse/y monastery</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> The now-melting ice stupa </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">From there it was to the town and
market centre of Leh. It rather resembled the Manali mall in one part. We were
left to our own explorations, and I took off on my own. I walked about,
explored a couple of side roads and then found a coffee shop where I took out
my note-book, wrote some, looked about, had some coffee and had a smoke. I was
wondering what else I could explore when I spotted one whole bunch of our
conference people. I gently waved from where I was perched but they were
walking along, and didn’t notice, and I didn’t draw any more attention. I went
back to my view and thoughts. From where I was sitting – I had an unobstructed
view of a twinkling bit of the Zanskar. After 20 minutes or so, I looked up
thinking that I would like to go and look about some places when I saw one of
the conference folks. I waved out and joined her, and she was visiting the
Central Asian museum. I happily joined her and had a lovely 40 minutes
exploring the museum with its pictures and portraits and maps – related mainly
to the Silk route – and artefacts. I wondered though why there were no weapons
on display. There was plenty of tea-drinking and food and clothing-related paraphernalia
but only two small knives were on display. From there, we decided to visit the
Ladakh arts museum, which turned out to be an adventure of sorts. The place was
almost impossible to locate and we climbed all the way to the Leh palace and
were wandering about in circles. A couple of helpful tourists pointed out to a
possible direction but we realised that would simply be yet another circle. Finally
a local helped us locate the museum by going all the way with us but the museum itself hadn’t been set up
properly. My travel-companion joked that the museum authorities should give us Rs. 100/- (the price of admission, which we were not charged because nobody was there behind the counter) for making the climb through rocky terrain and visiting the museum. There was hardly anything on display. But the journey to and
fro the museum had been a lot of fun for me. Next we met up with one group from
the conference and went off to see the ice stupa with Mingyur. There we spent
some time, wandering about next to the stream and had conversations and walked
about, and then it was time to return to our farmstay. A couple of the boys
from another farmstay stayed on and after chatting and having dinner, I called
it a night. Early the next morning it was off to the airport at Leh with two of
the very young, friendly and nice chaps from the conference, and a quiet and uneventful flight back to Delhi.</span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-39677610924665178322018-06-07T12:25:00.001-04:002018-06-11T01:34:52.915-04:00Summer trip 2018: Kasauli<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’ve dreamed of hills and mountains more often than I’ve
visited them. But sometimes – not too often – but sometimes, dreams,
in part, come true. And so I found myself on a trip to Kasauli with Pupu and
Suvro da, the last week. The days preceding the holiday deserve a blogpost of
their own – but I’ll stick to the trip for this one. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">We left at an early 6.30 a.m. Pupu and Suvro da being
veteran travelers said we would stop for breakfast on the way. We were waiting
at our assigned pick-up point and the driver came along in a few minutes. I had
the sinking feeling about the driver for when I called him, he yowled on the phone
saying that he had missed CCD and was returning to the pick-up point. We got
into the car and were off on the road. The Delhi roads seemed and looked
peaceful at that hour. I was sitting in the frontseat and looking about. The
highway roads are in excellent shape and if it weren’t for our horrible habit
of ignoring lane rules – it could have been a highway from the US. Pupu’s to-be
university rose up on the right and she pointed out to it. We stopped at a
roadside place for breakfast. The restaurant while it was named Shiva dhaba had
a huge three-headed grinning dragon adorning its front. The road journey would
have been absolutely fine, despite the heat, if it hadn’t been for the rude and
yowling driver who had an uneven and unpleasant temper, kept texting or
jabbering over the phone, and insisted upon playing the radio all through the
journey. There were toll taxes and state taxes stops as we made our way across
Delhi into Haryana, and crossed over to Punjab before journeying into Himachal.
The heat was intense. The road in front seemed to be shimmering with rising
heat waves. Yet inside the car, it was pleasant. I</span> was waiting for the
mountains to fist appear on the horizon, and almost on cue Pupu called out to
her father and pointed to the mountains. They appeared as a haze in the
distance – barely sketched into the distant landscape. And then came the
winding mountain road with cars and buses hurtling in from around the bending
road, which always seem to me to disappear into thin air before the road swerves
back into one’s vision. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We reached Sukhi Johri, a hamlet in the Shivalik
Range. The exact road to the hotel was hard to locate. Suvro da asked at a
roadside shop and the owner helped out. The road wasn’t much of a road and when
we came to a halt in front of two tracks – one at a sharp decline, winding
about the hill and disappearing at a curve and which looked about half a foot
in width and another which rose steeply only to end at a gated house/home/could
that be our hotel? As we debated and the driver was of no help – Suvro da got
out of the car and trotted off on the horsetrack path which disappeared around
the curve. I hopped out to ask a couple of men sitting by the roadside – and
sure enough they told us to take the road Suvro da had taken. We followed in
the car for Suvro da had walked quite far along that narrow footpath. The
winding path curved about and it looked like an alarmingly precarious track but
Suvro da was walking along nonchalantly and speedily. The car inched forward
and the bellboys from the hotel arrived to meet us, and told the driver where
to park. I noticed Suvro da standing near the edge of the path and smiling, and
he remarked on how apt the name of the hotel was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was a little past 2 in the afternoon or so, and
I could hear the wind whispering through the pine trees. God knows what secrets
and songs the wind was whispering.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Whispering Winds Villa was truly a lovely place
that Pupu had picked on-line with her unerring eye. The rooms with a view and
the terrace were delightful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Villa
was perched high up on that weird and precarious goat track/horsetrack/dirt
road but what a lovely, clean forest it was that surrounded it on all sides.
The room was a fine one with a view on three sides and my bed was right next to
a grand view. The private terrace was all ours since there were no other
guests, and the wind kept whispering away, softly and gently and continuously
as I stepped out and sat in the shade smiling beatifically and with a somewhat
goofy expression on my face, I’m sure. I couldn’t quite believe the sights,
sounds and least of all the fact that I was really there with Pupu and Suvro da
whose voices I could hear drifting about with the wind in my ears.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I didn’t think I was particularly hungry but as I
sat for lunch I polished off more than my fair share of rajma , roti, dahi and
salad, and I’m sure I felt guilty later but the deed was done. Very soon after
that amidst the looks and comments of disbelief (for the A/C was running – it was
rather warm inside the room) from both Pupu and Suvro da, I wrapped myself up
in a black and white harlequin-like printed blanket and dozed off into a deep
sleep in my bed right next to the huge glass window. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of the best things of traveling anywhere with
Pupu and Suvro da is that one gets to walk about. So after the noon snooze, we
went off on a walk. The precarious horsetrack was negotiated and I stayed as
far away from the ledge as was possible. The French have some term for the
feeling of being pulled and drawn by some force when one is looking down from a
height or even glancing at the earth from a height. We reached the curving
mountain highway, which was still bustling with trucks, buses and cars. An old,
old Sikh man who gave off the distinct but gentle and harmless
living-in-his-own-world air and who had greeted Suvro da earlier on in the
afternoon when we were trying to locate the hotel road waved to Suvro da as
though he were seeing an old friend after a long time. The old Sikh told Suvro
da to visit Giani da Dhaba on the other side of the road. We did indeed cross
the road after a bit and walked up the slatted stairway to the dhaba. There was
an old Sikh woman manning the counter. I’m not sure any more whether we were
supposed to have had ice-cream or something else but Suvro da spotted the sign
of ‘Chilled Beer” and asked Pupu what she wanted. We ended up sharing a nice bottle
of chilled beer among the three of us. The waiter brought out three paper cups
and the old Sikh woman scolded the boy softly but roundly and told him to get
the glass beer mugs for us. After the beer was over, we walked along the
mountain road, enjoying the scenery and avoiding the traffic. A motorbike
backfiring noisily made me leap up like a goat. It sounded like some rapid
gunshots but otherwise the stroll was idyllic. We walked back to the pine
forests along the sides of the hotel. The wind had stopped whispering. Maybe it
had gone to sleep. We sat there along some edges and ledges and as the train,
which quite honestly looked like a toy train to me with its six little
carriages tooted loudly and sonorously – the sound and sights in the middle of
the approaching dusk felt like the scenes from some book or film. Pupu and
Suvro da were reminiscing about the time that they themselves had travelled on
the train so many years ago. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We walked back to the hotel through the gathering
dark. By then I couldn’t see much but managed to skip along without falling on
my face as Suvro da and Pupu created some trail ahead of me. We went back to
the terrace and sat there chatting and admiring the lights and views. Dinner
was as tasty – well, even tastier than lunch with chicken curry, rice, yogurt,
and a green salad. Thank heavens though that Suvro da had told me to inform the
owner that half a chicken was going to be more than enough. I had rather rashly
said a ‘sure, fine’ to a whole chicken for the three of us after my
mountain-air appetite during lunch. We sat out in the night light for quite a
while. The first evening had come to an end, but not quite. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Suvro da, Pupu and I were chatting about myriad
things and then out came Parashuram’s book. Suvro da read out – nay, performed
the story of the utterly eccentric, bizarre and loveable Lambokorno, the goat.
I kept breaking out into hoots of laughter. Pupu couldn’t stop laughing at one
point and even Suvro da was laughing while deftly donning roles in the story.
The evening and night came to a close with that hilarious and marvelously
read-out tale. I stepped out onto the terrace one last time for the night, and
could hear the strange cicadas. They make a twanging noise like some musical
instrument – a zither, I think would come closest to it. And they keep at it, twanging
and twingging away. The lights in the dark and distant hills shimmered and
swayed and flickered. Yet the lights closer by stayed still like little
unmoving blobs. It was time to go off to sleep and I trudged back in and went
off to sleep in my bed near the window. As I tucked up in bed with my black-and-white
harlequin patterned blanket – I fell asleep even before I knew I was asleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I could feel the sun and the hills even before I
fully awoke into consciousness in the morning. After leisurely cups of tea, we
proceeded to Giani da Dhaba for a breakfast of aloo parathas, pickles and
yogurt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the umpteenth time I wondered how lovely it
must be for mountain folks (with some money) who can stay in the mountains all
their lives and what a Godwaful wrench it must be for those who have to leave
and be stuck in the plains for some reason or the other. I feel that way about people
who might still have homes near or in the forests and near rivers and in the mountains
and even right near the sea sometimes…if it’s the seas – it cannot be in the
tropics. That merely gives one a headache in the blast of summer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Post breakfast it was off to Kasauli – an army and
air-force cantonment. We passed the military hospital along the way and I
followed it from above the winding mountain roads. I was reminded of the T.V.
series M.A.S.H from decades ago. Kasauli was so awfully clean, quaint, quiet, lovely
and neat that it seemed like an unreal town. We drove past Christ Church and to
the air-force base. Monkey Point or Manki Point – I’m not sure why or how
“Manki” came about – is located right within the ramparts of the air-force
base, and I found that more than peculiar. Suvro da pointed out that the “Monkey
Point” had been there for ages and the vantage point offered to the air-force
was something that couldn’t be passed up, and so some reconciliation was made. There
were monkeys of all sizes and one toddler monkey was being fed some tidbits by
a tourist, and the little monkey was far more polite and sweet than many human
beings I have come across. We walked up the slope of a road, and sat upon a
bench looking about and around, and then went over to a small shack for some
excellent cold coffee. Many of the roads within the cantonment barring the
steps leading to the Monkey temple were closed off to civilians. The coffee
took awhile in the making but it was awfully good. I watched the dark green
military trucks winding up one road and turning into the air-force base and
uniformed men coming and going on bikes and on foot, and a little child running
about not too far away from his caretaker. Soon it was time to leave and I
downed the icy coffee in one lovely delicious gulp. On our walk back to the
car, Suvro da shot off the names of the air-force fighter jets – the pictures
were gracing the roadsides of the air-force base. From there, we went to the
church and a walk around the town of Kasauli. The church itself also looked
like it was out of a picture book but I would have preferred far fewer people
running about hollering and shouting on the grounds. Inside the church, it was
very quiet and there were more than a few lit candles at the altar. The stained
glass window had one panel of the Christ on the crucifix. On one of the walls
there was a long scroll with The Lord’s Prayer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">From there we took a long and winding walk about
the town. The town is so clean and quiet that I loved it. It looked like a town
from a dream. There were pretty and large villas dotted all along both sides of
the road, and beautiful blooming flowers, and the sun dappled in and out
magically from in between the trees. It felt like it should be a little cooler
but on the whole, the weather was fine. There were military and army and
air-force placards and posters all along the roadsides. A few of them made me
wince (and I am a person who from her late 20s wished she had joined the army)
There were pictures of military martyrs along with one poster, which kept
appearing at intervals that said military men are always prepared to die but
they never will. But the roads were lovely and long and a couple of the villas
made me sigh. One was named ‘Pahari Villa”. We reached one army stop-post and
took a detour and I spotted a little brown puppy sitting very smartly near the
army check-point. The off-road track sloped down gently and wound around and
along the way we spotted a place called “Blarney Place”. Both Pupu and I
remarked that it sounded like it was from an Agatha Christie book. Suvro da
painted a picture of words on how the place must have been more than a good
century ago. I found myself imagining how the Englishmen, Scotsmen, Welsh and Irish
had managed to come up 6000 feet on horses and some basic amenities. The detour
road although it was well-shaded felt distinctly warmer and the sun felt like
it was shining more brightly near Blarney Place. In a few gentle turns around
the mountain road, we spotted the main road. We had made a complete circle back
to the army check-point, and I found the brown little puppy whom I petted
happily while he wagged his tail nineteen to the dozen. It tried leaping into
Pupu’s lap as she bent down to pet the little mongrel. On our way back we
paused at one of the rest benches and then stopped by Khushwant Singh’s Villa. It
was right against a ridge, a little off the main road – a white house with red
paneling. I couldn’t help wondering whether the old Sikh was watching us from
somewhere above. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We returned via another road, and Pupu picked up a
lovely like birdhouse from a market. I was playing with some bells and looking
at the various colourful and interesting little and medium-sized knick-knacks
for sale. Back to the car it was after that and the petulant driver wasn’t
happy about even driving back to the hotel. Back at the hotel we lazed about
and wandered about on “the banks and brae of”, if not the Scottish “bonny doon”
of Burns – the Shivalik range. It was enchanting. Pupu asked her father at one
point while looking intently at the sky whether it might rain. To me it looked
like there was not the slightest possibility of even a wee drop – but what did
I know. The pinewood forests had soft and clean turf and I slipped many times
by accident and one time I slid a bit on purpose but not once could I slide
down all the way with a whoopee or yippee or even a short whee. No. The turf
had a mind of its own. Suvro da did not slip even once. Pupu slipped once. We
took a few pictures, romped abut a bi’ and then it was back to the room with a
view. I dutifully went off for a snooze and without a shred of guilt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At some point I dreamt I was in the middle of a glorious
hailstorm. I should have known it was a dream because I could feel the chill
and I could see the hailstones. I woke up and it was raining in thick and wild
sheets. One could hear the rain sheets as they flew down and hard and they were
being whipped about by the wind whistling through them. And outside on the
terrace – it was a sight to behold. I caught sight of one mesmerizing violet
lightning fork shoot straight down the entire expanse of the sky. Otherwise
there was the continuous rumble of thunder, the steady sheets of rain, the
scudding clouds which looked as though they were racing along for a terribly
important meeting or maybe carrying fragile news, the freshly washed trees
swaying and almost dancing in the wind and the rains. The temperature had
dropped suddenly and sharply. Pupu and Suvro da were wrapped in blankets and I
was spreading my arms like Superman in my jacket. It doesn’t even feel very
real when I remember the images. They feel like they are images from some dream.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The rain showed no signs of ebbing. It sounded like
an intermittent magnificent drum roll and the wind kept hurrying into it and
kept slamming against it playfully. The power had gone out and so we couldn’t
make tea or coffee in the room but we ordered a huge bowl of egg bhurji, which
was as tasty as could be, and we chatted a lot about this and that. Later on as
the rain slowed down and the wind stopped playing with it – the sky looked like
it had been painted with a soft golden paint made of light. The whole landscape
looked clear and stark. I felt like I were wearing new glasses. And the trees
placed artistically all along the hilltops really looked like they were from a
fake too-good-to-be-true painting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Once the rains stopped – the silence could be felt.
We trooped out to Giani da dhaba later on in the eve’ and supped on some poori
sabzi and the staple yogurt. I was so busy stuffing myself that I missed
tasting the pickle on the side. The power was still out so there was one long
and stern candle at the table standing like a sentinel in the dark. We walked
back to the hotel, and before too long I was back in my bed tucked up under my
blanket. The second day and night had come to a close.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The next morning, we left at 10.30 in the morning,
and were back in Delhi by 5 p.m. Early in the morning or I guess that should be
in the middle of the night, Pupu and Suvro da departed for Durgapur from IGI
Terminal 3.</span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-83706722829524172762018-03-11T14:12:00.000-04:002018-03-11T14:12:28.838-04:00Hardwar 2018<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let me put up this long and winding post. I wrote it a
couple of weeks ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where do I begin for this post? Andy Williams would say
something, and Julie Andrews would say that one might as well start from the very
beginning. But where does the very beginning begin? I could reminisce about
looking at pictures from back in school when I was in class VIII, and seeing
pictures of a clear green, sparkling river and a river bank and known smiling
faces, and how I had been wishing I could have been there. I remember lingering
over a couple of pics while trying not to. Or should I just zoom forth – some
two decades through – and consider January this year? A smooth ride on the
highway and sit-ins and conversations in a garden with a riot of flowers and
squirrels and my best friend, and delightful fat puppies to cuddle in the early
evenings before the sun went down? Or should I mention how I found myself in
Delhi a month ago – because if I hadn’t been here and hadn’t joined work –
there was going to be no holiday – stolen from that thief of time. I’m not sure
whether the beginning is really located in any of these beginnings – so I’ll
jump to the jumbled middle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn’t really think I would be going for an utterly
unexpected holiday for a whole day off to Hardwar. Even when I booked the
tickets – back on the 28<sup>th</sup> of January, once Suvro da told me to –
there was a part of me, which was quietly and stoically sceptical. But the
holiday did happen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Early one morning, a week ago, I took the train from New
Delhi Railway Station. I do not mind waking up early to take trains or buses or
aeroplanes. In fact, I usually prefer early morning travel for varied reasons.
The taxi ride to New Delhi Railway Station was my first in remembered memory. I
rather enjoyed it. The roads were dark, empty and looked clean. Yet I couldn’t
see how that road could be traversed in less than 55 minutes during normal
hours. The train journey was quite nice too apart from a passenger who nudged
me by accident while sleeping. I nudged him back hard and instinctively and he
waved his hand in apology while still sleeping. The journey was not too
terribly long and yet it was long enough to be able to catch mini snoozes, mini
phone calls and a breakfast. There wasn’t much of a view apart from one short stretch
where there were emerald green wheat fields and a couple of lonely farmers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At Hardwar, I got a rickshaw at the station and soon enough then
came the narrow, winding alleys with colourful shops, set (merry) cheek by (happy)
jowl selling everything from bells to blankets to bangles. I was awfully
tempted to buy bangles or take pictures but I did neither. But there was a
flash and flurry of colours and mixed fragrances, and I could quite see why
foreigners would find the medley of colours and narrow alleys – for better or
worse – exotic. Just as suddenly – when I started wondering how the Ganga would
appear in the midst of what I was seeing – the sinuous shop alley ended. Before
I knew it – there was the Ganga to my right. I paid the rickshaw driver and
hopped off. I looked at the Ganga and smiled before knowing I was smiling. It
felt cooler even though the afternoon sun was hot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I reached Hotel Teerth and getting a room was a two minute
deal since Suvro da had already mentioned that I would be arriving. And there
up on the balcony – I gazed at the Ganga. I love small ponds and even little
fountains. I find water bodies – small or large – magical. I love rivers and mighty
seas and oceans. But this was something else – and I know why. I searched with
my eyes for I knew I’d find “Shiva guarding his own”, and I did. I had to bend
low from my balcony to find him though. He was turned away and at an angle, and
looked jauntier and haughtier and grander than I remembered him from a picture
seen close to a decade ago. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suvro da and his mum arrived from Mussoorie, and I skipped
up the flight of stairs to their room. Shiva from Suvro da’s room was not
hiding. He was standing there all tall and grand and I didn’t have to bend low
to find him from that balcony! The afternoon was blissful even though there was
an annoying hammer that started hammering away at some point. I didn’t think I
was going to snooze – in fact, I had no intentions of snoozing and I was determined
to stay awake. But at some point I was dreaming that I was falling from a great
height and jolted awake – and I went back to snoozing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At four it was off to the Manasa Temple. Suvro da and I
stopped at a roadside shop for tea and a flaky biscuit that the French would
have been proud of. We walked along those alleys, and the bangles and bells and
blankets kept beckoning at me. I was half-loping through and half-looking at
those colorful alleys with all kinds of smells floating through from incense to
fried food to even the fragrance from the bells (or was that in my head?) so as
to not lose sight of Suvro da. I had no idea how we were getting to Manasa
Temple but I was all-in for anything really. Suvro da had earlier pointed out to
the landmark and said there was a view up there. Soon enough he was getting the
tickets for the ropeway. I didn’t bat an eyelid but to think I had stayed away
from ever taking the ropeway from the time I was an 8-year old stubborn mule
along a lakeside in Switzerland, and had loudly claimed for a long time that I
never would. Let me not go into reasons. Even some three years ago when a whole
bunch of 70 people took the ropeway (Gondola) in Gulmarg – I had gone off for a
walk in the snowy mountains. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The ropeway ride was marvelous. If there was something I was
sad about it was that it came to an end too soon. On the ropeway, Suvro da said
“And now you’ll tell me that you’ve never been on a ropeway…” to which I had to
grunt in affirmation and mumble under my breath. Suvro da pointed out that the
odds of being hit by a random vehicle back in Muchipara were higher than
falling off a cable car and breaking one’s neck. He pointed out to the curving
hill road, which he and his entire troop had taken during the school excursion
back in 1989. We reached the Manasa temple and took a sandy rocky slope to the
view-point. The path wasn’t too terribly precarious if one were wearing
sneakers but Suvro da went about in his flip-flops and I kept muttering ‘don’t
go that close to the ledge…’ Apparently, the monkeys at the view-point are a
menace. Just before taking the ropeway there was a panda who was trying to get
Suvro da to buy a bag of offerings not for the deity but for the langurs! They
take the food offerings but there seemed to be random stuff like pictures and
boxes that people had left up there at the view-point, and a couple of curious
monkeys were going through the stuff. One monkey also took a bag of puffed rice
offered to it by a visitor, and ran off and sat with it next to the ledge. The
view from the top was kingly. Hardwar lay like a toy town way down and Suvro da
pointed out to the original route of the Ganga, which the British had diverted,
and he pointed out to the dam they had built. I could have sat there on the
view-point just admiring the view and watching the Ganga winding about at a
distance if it hadn’t been for the pesky monkeys, I guess. I took a couple of
pictures, on Suvro da’s bidding, but my pics look nothing like what I saw
through my eyes. I am reminded of “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I half-skidded and slid down the sandy ridge while we were
going back down. Suvro da did better in his flip-flops. We had piping hot
samosas and great big jalebis at a shop next to the temple, and we wondered
what made people decide that they would set up an eatery next to a temple up on
the hills… I didn’t pray at Manasa temple. They say that one can make a wish
(or wishes, I suppose if one is so inclined) and tie a thread and do the perambulation
around the Sanctum Sanctorum, and if the Goddess is feeling benevolent and grants
one’s wish – one goes back at some point and unties one’s thread. But how does
one find one’s own thread? – I wonder. Anyhow, I didn’t know what exactly I
could pray for when I was ambling about up there, and so I shook my head at the
thought of praying any prayers at Manasa Temple. I made all the clear prayers I
could at 22 and I haven’t changed any of them since then.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We came back on the ropeway and I managed to take one hasty
picture but I watched the descent carefully trying to record every bit in my
mind and greatly enjoyed it. I don’t know why I had been so scared of ropeways
almost all my life…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suvro da was racing back along once we were on flat ground
because the Ganga aarti was to begin at 6 p.m. We walked over to Har-ki-Pauri
and it was already full of people. But we edged along and took our places. I
was sort of in a dream-like state by then. Maybe this is what the Durkheim-ian collective
conscience is all about? Or maybe I was looking at and feeling only what I
wanted to feel. The fire lamps and the chanting in the background felt
incredibly familiar. My gaze was fixed and I don’t even think I cared too much
about the crowds thronging the ghat. The aarti came to an end in ten minutes,
and we walked off and away from the centre. I had thought there would be a
sudden river of human beings leaving the ghat but I didn’t feel the crowd
dispersing. I saw a couple of chaps sitting next to the Ganga with their feet
in the river and I very badly wanted to do the same. In fact I had been wanting
to quietly dip into the Ganga and take a swim since the afternoon. But I did
nothing of that sort. The current of the waters looked very strong but Suvro da
pointed out to some people who were wading about in the middle of the Mother
Ganges. She wasn’t in full swell. I still didn’t leap into the Ganga nor did I
go about on a canoe. Back in the work-place, folks asked me later whether I had
had fun white-water rafting in Rishikesh. Somehow people had assumed that I had
gone for rafting or canoeing or for some water adventure sports with my mentor in
Rishikesh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suvro da’s mum had also been there at Ganga-aarti and we
joined her and strolled over to a roadside tea-shop. I saw the statue of
Netaji. Barring his distinct INA uniform – he rather looked like he were in
disguise. Suvro da’s mum later narrated a story about Netaji when he really had
been in disguise and was about to cross the ice-cold Volga (I believe it was).
His accomplice urged him to take a swig of Vodka. Netaji refused saying he had
promised his mum and his Mother (his country) that he would never do such a
thing. His accomplice told him that it would be better to take a swig and cross
the river with the help of the warmth that the Vodka provided to cross the
Volga than becoming incapacitated. That convinced Netaji and so he prayed a
prayer, took a swig and crossed the river. We of course sat out there for our
tea. The tea here is heavy, incredibly sweet and doesn’t taste too much like
tea. However this cuppa wasn’t bad. I could hear the river as I sipped on the
tea, had some biscuits that Mashi had brought along and heard gentle voices
around me and in my head… </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We went for a walk along the river banks and Suvro da shared
a bit about the time that he had come over with a bunch of his school-boys back
in 1989 and how they had stayed at the only lodge on the other side of the Ganga,
and how he had got all of them – teachers included – to walk across to the
other side for their daily meals…He even shared a wee-bit about a visit to
Rajaji National Park during the course of that excursion. The National Park
could be seen as a forest shroud in the distance, up in the high hills across
the banks from the hotel balcony. While we were standing on the bridge and
watching the river rush along below I was looking at the lit flower diyas,
which were sailing with the river current, carrying their offerings to the
river Goddess and perhaps her God. I wanted to float a diya. As we returned
from our stroll down the river-side I was musing aloud that it would be rather
nice to have a small shop selling colourful trinkets and who-knows-what-else
right next to the river. Suvro da stated that the locals would never let
outsiders in. I like to imagine that maybe in some lifetime I had become an
insider – maybe far up The River. I was reminded of a vague story that had
begun in flashes inside my head (when I was a trifle barmy many years ago), about
a woman who had loved and probably lost in worldly terms, and left behind
whatever she could, and went off to spend the rest of whatever remained in
Hardwar…I never got to see more flashes and there never was a complete story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did float a diya. Suvro da remembered in his way
matter-of-fact way. I had forgotten by then although I was looking at all the
beautiful flower diyas along the way and on the way back from our river stroll.
I bought one diya and was badgered into buying two and nearly caved in but I
stuck to one. There was a priest who appeared. I was asking Suvro da whether I
couldn’t just float my diya on my own, Mashi was watching, and Suvro da was
telling me to take off my shoes. The priest asked me a question to which I
shook my head while looking resolutely away, and then before I knew it – the
chanting began and was over. I got to bathe my feet in the Ganga. I got to
touch the holy waters. And then I floated my diya in the Ganga…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The evening came to an end with the roar of the mighty river
and rather too soon and suddenly. It would have been too soon, for me, no
matter when it might have come to an end. I fell into a deep sleep ridiculously
early. I could hear the Ganga in the middle of the night. I woke up and sat out
in the balcony for a bit. The waters were lovely, dark and deep and looked like
they were cast in a magical light. I could hear the notes and the low roar of
the waves. God knows when I went back in and fell asleep again. It came to me
in my half-sleep state that the odd bouts of fever and the persistent
body-aches had disappeared, and so I grinned when Fimh said something, and he
said something else. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was one delightful mini-walk by the Ganga early in the
morning and a very strange cup of tea. Suvro da didn’t find the tea strange. He
found it awful. And then there was the ride to the station through the dark.
The train was late but it came along eventually to Hardwar. I think I could
write a whole blog-post about the wait and the train ride back to New Delhi
Railway station. But let that be. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The train was late in arriving at New Delhi, and it put a
damper to my erstwhile envisioned plans. Suvro da’s mum and I sat put on an
empty bench and chatted, Suvro da sat and chatted for a bit but walked about
here and there for the most part, and as the afternoon lingered on, Aakash,
Suvro da’s old student arrived. We had a neat lunch at the station. We walked
over to Platform 13. Suvro da and Aakash went back to help a passenger with her
luggage onto a train. Rajdhani chugged into the station and we all boarded. I
was rather impressed by the clean and nifty interiors. Suvro da was telling me how
there was originally only a Calcutta-New Delhi Rajdhani and a Bombay-New Delhi
Rajdhani until all other cities like Madras and others started yowling that
they too wanted a “Rajdhani” Express. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But soon enough it was time for Aakash and me to
get off the train and Suvro da nudged us to get off. I couldn’t pretend that I too
was a traveler. Aakash was loitering about on the platform as the train started
chugging out. I asked him what he was doing and he said he was wondering
whether to run alongside the train because that is what they used to do as
children – and one can actually run “faster” than a train till a point. I sort
of chuckled at the thought of Suvro da seeing two of his students running
alongside his window. Suvro da and his mum departed on the Rajdhani for
Durgapur in the late afternoon, and it was time to leave the station. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-89158214451905797722017-12-31T15:00:00.000-05:002017-12-31T15:02:41.871-05:00Christmas Truce and 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are fireworks going about as I write this. I, quite in
a muddled-headed manner, had forgotten, every now and then that it was New Year’s
Eve – just every now and then. I did not entirely forget and I did remember a
few central matters. And I remember, quite clearly, the previous New Year’s Eve’
(and that did not <i>just</i> happen in my
head – Professor Dumbledore!). In fact, I had been grinning about the same while
out on a walk in the evening…so maybe my own subliminal worries about progressive
dementia are unfounded. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I remember my best friend saying that the German
language is a language that is beautiful to the ears (he used different words)
– I don’t quite remember when exactly that was though. I remember – well let’s
say I remember a little more but I do know that I can now never again call the German
language only a marching and military and merely peremptory language after
chancing upon this. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The carol is my all-time favourite. But I had never before
heard the German version. And that led me to glance through the
comment-section. It is peculiar how memories are stored in the mind and
forgotten and then retrieved. I sometimes think that psychologists – no matter
how many studies they conduct on human memories (among other matters) – should do
lots more studies. And I keep wishing the psychologists “good luck”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was reminded of the story I had first heard when I could
not have been older than 8 – about The Christmas Truce during World War I. But
I had forgotten all about it through the passing years. It is not that I have
not thought about or worried or brooded over war and given the two Wars, WWII and
even the Cold War had always stuck into me far more until I was over 26 – but the
Christmas Truce! It is not only about war and killing and loss of life and
meaninglessness and the utterly ridiculous nature of war per se – although of course
one cannot miss any of that – but it is about a bit of hope and faith and
camaraderie and comradeship and even the bare hints of possible friendship
across fire-lines and in the bleakest of times. And given that I am an obsessed
creature (I have had to finally accept my best friend and Fimh’s judgment on
the matter of being obsessed) – I sort of hunted about. Anyone who is
interested can go to the Wikipedia page of course. Here is a link of a
Sainsbury grocery stores ad – a recreation of what "may-have-transpired" during
Christmas 1914.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And it is very soon to be 2018. And we are still here. Human beings, animals, other life-forms, the environment, and our planet </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">we are here. Humanity
is here and we, even in individual or shared spots manage to touch bliss –
well, maybe in our minds and for bits of time in the virtual and real
world. So maybe it is not a bad thing to keep one's faith and hope alive, and to believe in God </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">whatever one's conception of God might be. Beats many of the things that are currently viewed to be "better" or "progressive" or "holy" or "developed". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I
think I will go back to reading the interesting, perplexing and even (pleasantly) infuriating book I had
been before this post becomes longer than a mile. Wishing you a happy year ahead.</span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-22247628495814554202017-12-24T09:19:00.001-05:002017-12-25T08:11:38.879-05:00A Poem by Nicki Giovanni<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I read a poem by Nicki Giovanni (1943-) sometime this year –
I forget when – which runs as follows:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some people forget that love is</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">tucking you in and kissing you </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Good night”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">no matter how young or old you are.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some people don’t remember that</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">love is</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">listening and laughing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and asking</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">questions</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">no matter what your age.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Few recognize that love is</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">commitment, responsibility,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and no fun </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">at all</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">unless</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Love is </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You and me.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I keep wanting to add something here or there but somehow
the poem sort of captures in snapshots of deft images of what I have long felt
and still feel – in essence – even though I can’t, sadly enough, say that I have
been able to fulfill all the points.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It is Christmas Eve’ and I shall go and make some coffee and
listen to a few carols and look outwards and inwards for a little bit and take
a walk. I have been sitting hunched over, typing and editing and framing word
documents for almost the whole weekend, barring a few delightful moments upon unexpected
mini phone-calls. I didn’t even notice when dusk approached and twilight
descended. Now it feels like a dark and rather silent winter night outside. I
can almost see the soft snow covering the ground and feel the blue, crisp air but that is my imagination
running away.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Merry Christmas and a lovely New Year to my loved ones – Fimh
included.</span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-17279192469921304382017-10-30T13:23:00.002-04:002017-10-30T13:38:37.151-04:00The oddities of Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It feels odd to me, to put it in mildly, when I stand
outside of myself sometimes and see the passage of time. Sometimes across more
than three decades or across the years which have now officially become more
than a decade but even across weeks. I remember writing a bit on the oddities of
time from 14 years ago (2003) about a memory from a year before that (2002)…and
a general musing on my perception of time:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s (time for) take-off: The seven
hours have gone by in a snap. Just like seven years or seven minutes. Time
seems to be such an amusing concept. I’m ‘gaining’ a day while travelling to
the other side of the planet. That feels like such a cheeky thing to be doing —
almost against the rules. While I’m doing up my seat belt, I can’t help but
gurgle at that thought. I’m constantly calculating the time back on the part of
the globe that I left early in the morning. An adorable baby boy is standing up
in his seat and looking at me. I feel an irresistible urge to cuddle him. But
it’s time for the most magnificent of moments — the glorious take-off. Later on
in the flight the baby boy Ian, pulls off the blanket from my eyes and says,
“Peek-a-boo.” He then proceeds to make some toast for me in his (imaginary) ‘oven’
while carrying on a conversation with me. I stare at him with bright, bright
eyes while I take a slice of his ‘just-perfect-toast’…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
----</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Time
warps ever so frequently for me. It (almost?) never travels in a linear motion. Sometimes
it collapses and I can’t differentiate between the ‘now’ and the ‘then’; the
past, present and future, the before and the after get sadly jumbled up in my
head; sometimes it balloons up into a rising mist, floating, hanging overhead
—not letting go; sometimes I’m stuck in a time dimension while the world moves
along at its normal pace; sometimes I’m granted a sneak preview of the
what-is-to-be and then I’m sent shooting back into the past (or should that be
the present?) Sometimes time seems to be nothing but a capsule; a reservoir of
memories. Does it seem this way to me because I’m mad or merely absent minded?
Or is it because time is truly relative and everything is happening right now
and there’s only an artificial separation, an illusory slower-ing down of
vibrations so that we can live through experiences ‘in time’? Maybe then the
sense of <i>déjà vu</i> that hits us is not
about the ‘already seen’ but about the ‘being seen’ and the ‘being experienced’
– very much like the sneak previews…but (happening) at the same time in a
parallel universe? Maybe my Fimh comes from some place that’s located near the
mysterious zone of ‘time warps’. It’s confusing at moments and unsettling.
There’s a sensation of inexpressible disorientation, similar to the experience
of living through a gripping film in a darkened movie hall and then walking out
into the bright sunlight. A part of the self is still locked in the movie or
somewhere in between — and there’s a fragmented sense of reality. I’ve been
through reality warps of different orders, different intensities; some just
mildly confusing like the time warp, some distinctly more aggravating (and some
distinctly, if even strangely, wondrous)…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Time takes its own time and works according to its own
whimsy – I am almost completely convinced of this. There is nothing absolute
and fixed about the passage of time. It works according to its own fancies and
feelings. Clock-time says not much about the feelings on the passage of time
and those human feelings – I have been thinking more and more, and quite in
contrast to what I used to think as a teen are not matters that can be or even
should be entirely snuffed out by reason and rationality and logic – although
these latter matters are all good and important and useful aspects. Maybe
recent conversations, the different blogposts, chapters and rather odd books
that I’ve been reading and re-visiting and my general state of being and
whatever it is that I am doing have some hand in this. I remember having
pooh-poohed the arena of ‘Sociology of Emotions’ when it had become a rather
hot and also contentious topic – and yet, now I find myself reconsidering my
earlier presumptuousness. But this post is about time and its oddities – not about
emotions. About emotions, intentions and motivations – maybe, I’ll write on another
day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The week that went by seemed to take its own sweet time in
going by – if even some random passer-by had told me casually that two and a
half weeks had passed by since the previous Saturday – I would have merely
nodded my head and gone back to editing or re-writing a piece of work or
worrying or wondering or missing or maybe walking. And yet if I consider the
four whole glorious days just before that – during Diwali and my best friend’s
birthday – it seems time just decided to whizz by as though it were a flash of
light. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I remember I was looking at and listening to the rain
one morning, feeling the huge gusts of wind, and shivering every once in a
while while sitting out on the verandah and watching a lazy dog and reading a
rather weird (interestingly weird in parts but not as a whole) book on
meditation, consciousness and psychology (Sam Harris ‘Waking Up’), and knowing someone
was snoozing and there I was feeling an indescribable feeling of childish
delight and quiet bliss. I remember walks and conversations, scoldings and
tremblings, incomprehension and perfect conversations, mushrooming questions
which never quite get answers, stories, and boisterous celebrations with fire
crackers and lights and colours and talks and quietness and laughter and togetherness.
I have no pictures or recordings to show myself that all of it really happened
out-there and not just in my loony head. But I find myself thinking that maybe
time while being a silent and wicked thief exists for many reasons but also so that
we can separate events as they happen, cherish some memories in retrospect and remember
what and whom we remember and choose to remember and why?</span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-44381747626526510502017-09-18T14:53:00.002-04:002017-09-19T03:22:05.316-04:00Precious Lord, Chiroshokha he...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two songs, which say more than I possibly can:<br />
<br />
Jim Reeves with Precious Lord, take my hand...<br />
<br />
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<br />
And (best experienced with eyes shut) Chiroshokha He and a Salim Chisti Sufi fusion:<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-36661343017651207132017-08-27T15:39:00.000-04:002017-08-28T16:37:51.517-04:00Meera and Krishna II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wanted to title this ‘Muddled conversations with Meera’ or
a more proper ‘Conversations with Meera’ or maybe, with apologies, ‘Conversations
with a muddled Meera’ – but this has to be titled the way it has been. The
following is a continuation of the previous post:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Do I see him even then? – You ask me. After he leaves – you
mean? – Do I feel him? Can I hear him? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes. I do. I feel his presence in his absence. Is that
strange? Is that madness? I feel him, sense him, hear him, and even when I try
not to or experience ludicrous doubt about my experiences or am miserable or
angry or even try to be very composed and reasonable. It is his voice I hear streaming
through the breeze. It is a glimpse of him that I glance at when I see the blue
of the sky kissing the green of the leaves on tall trees. It is his eyes that I
chance upon when the storm rips the sky and black clouds gather billow upon
billow over the lonely white sands. It is him I see laughing and winking at me when
I see an iridescent river flowing by even when I, very solemnly, try </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">to think
of other things. It is his touch that undulates within me when an impatient
gust of air slows down upon meeting its very own loved one. It is him I see as the
raindrops finer than the tiniest shards of glass pierce my skin and become one
with my tears. It is his smile for me that I see when I live and die a little
every day as I breathe in and out. So I suppose I see him, and then, I suppose,
I do not see him always? Or do I? I do not know what to say – I am sorry. I do
not know everything. I told you I am not a saint. I feel him unless I am too
full of anger, resentment or spite or misery to notice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You look shocked and discomfited and nonplussed – all at the
same time. Why? – You ask me. Why what? Why do I feel resentment, anger, spite
and misery? Do you think I must not feel such lowly emotions because I am a
saint? Or do you now see me as being not so saint-like? I have a twinkle in my
eye –? I am tickled to see you now wondering what I am: a saint or not-a-saint but
then, 'what is she'? I am supposed to be a bhakti yogini, am I not? Not a gyana yogini. The
latter are far more composed and rational and very reasonable. So are the karma
yoginis. I imagine I can be all-in-one – but I fail. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, yes – I have fallen silent. I am gathering my thoughts,
am I not? I want to be clear, do I not? You have been trying to look at my thoughts for a long time but you
can never pin them down to see the whole picture. You get muddled in your higgledy-piggledy head. You
listen to something I say and not to other matters because they do not fit your
pretty but imaginary picture of “the beautiful and blissful and beatific Meera”.
You get all garbled and then you go around bellowing and yelling from the
rooftops about love! You do not?! Of course you do. Almost every year for so
many years. Haha. I have noticed. That is not about me and Krishna – you say? That
is what you think. Now quiet! Stop your chatter. Let me tell you what I have to
say, and listen and look carefully </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">if you can </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">without interrupting. Otherwise we will be
conversing till kingdom come. Do you have nothing else to do apart from talking
with beings in your head – you silly girl!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes – so where was I? Yes – those emotions. I feel all those
emotions and more. He loves so many – do you not see? Do you not know anything –
about history? He has his favourites. And he has his second and third lists and
fourth lists of favourites and many more, and on and on. So I rage and am filled
with dumb and angry resentment and angry tears right when I imagine I am far
above such lowly sentiments. And I wonder where or when exactly I went wrong.
You are tittering? I am jealous, you say? I am mean-spirited and small-minded,
you say? I am mindless, you claim? I am like a little imbecilic, sad simpleton who
does not know about expansive love webs? I am spoilt, pampered and mad – you say?!
How dare you?! – You silly girl. You said none of these things? – But you
thought all of them and some more. You imagine only you can espy thoughts? – I am
none of those things. There you were calling me a saint, now you are calling me
all this, and in the middle you wanted to pack me off to a loony bin?! Tsk-tsk.
No, he does not love me – do you not see? I am nowhere on his list of sixteen
thousand or sixteen thousand and three! I am not even on his – what do you call
it? – waiting list. I do not care whether I am contradicting myself! You can go
away now. I do not want to talk to you. Of course it irks me! Not you, you
silly girl! Him. I could smack or bite or scratch him or embrace him and cry
against him now and then – if I could. But then when I can hear him or he does
appear – my rage and resentment – all – disappear. I cannot even cry when he is
there in front of me. It seems pretentious and fake to cry when I can see him
or hear him. I weep later.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Why can I not cry, you ask me? I answered that already. Why does it feel pretentious and fake? </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– You ask me?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He glows like Life which is real and matters. I cannot cry
when Life stands in front of me. He is dark, you see. But he is light. He glows
with his changing moods – sometimes darkly, and sometimes through the dark –
lightly. Oh, of course he is mine – you silly girl! So what if he is God and
everybody’s God? – He is still mine. No, you cannot have him – that is why you
cannot see him. There – I have answered your second question. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Why are you smiling?!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Am I his? – No – I am not his – you pesky girl pestering me
with presumptuous questions. That is so because he does not want me and is not
fond of me in such a way. And do not ask me what I mean by “Such a way”. I will
not tell you. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, yes. You can ask me other questions. – Why does he
visit me then if he is not fond of me? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That is how he is – is he not? He knows all there is to know
– does he not? He knows Meera loves him and has forever loved him and always
will unless Meera stops being born and dying altogether and enters into some
state of oblivion that she cannot imagine. And he is sometimes – what do you
call it? – suffused with kindness and compassion or maybe pity, and so he
blesses his lonely and useless devotee by dropping in or by calling in to – . </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What, now? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> – Of course, I am
useless! I have not won battles. I have not conquered lands and people and ruled
over with a benevolent, just but canny hand. I have not created grand empires
with my wit and guiles and wiles. I have not created and amassed grand and
almost endless material wealth, and then given almost all of it away. There
have been powerful and stunning queens who have gone to battle and even a young
peasant girl – so I hear or did I dream of her? Anyhow. I do not lead a
many-dimensional, many-tiered, busy, grand, great life – do I? He glowers at me
for looking at him sometimes or for trying to talk to him or for asking him
questions. It irks him. So what do I really do? – I sing. I compose poetry. I dance.
I worship him. It is all to give voice and form to my love for him and because
I cannot help it – and I wait for him. I am not beautiful – so beautiful, so
full of breathtaking grace, exquisite finesse and innate talents that I can
enchant him with my very being, shy smile and limpid eyes from behind a veil. What is it that you say? – I am?
Beautiful? – Why, thank you. There are more than thousands and thousands and
another thousands like me and they all love him. I often wonder how that is possible
– do you know? To be singularly enchanting – what else? No. I see. Of course, you
would not. I am grimacing? No, no. It is nothing. I certainly did not say or
think your ugliness is revolting! The things you imagine! What - ? Oh, okay. It
was only a passing, insignificant thought. Forget that now. There, there. Stop
moping – it does not matter how you – look. But you were saying I sing, were you
not? – I do sing. Did you not yourself hear me, at least once – maybe faintly
but clearly – so many years ago? That is what I can do and so I do what I can
do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I write poetry? – You ask me? Yes, I dream up poetry –
because I must and I can and it is a beautiful act. I forget what I am at.
I am with him or some disembodied being of pure consciousness floating about,
skimming about, coursing the universes with him – even when the poems are angry
or measured or full of abandoned passion or I am disconsolate or I have perfect clarity or I am yearning for him. It
is as if there are two beings when I am writing poetry – one physical
Meera who is here and another Meera who is there with him laughing and making
him laugh with wild abandon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Of course I love him. So do millions – do they not? – He does
not want me around. He appears when he does – fleetingly, in snatches – and he
leaves just as unpredictably. Bad? – You ask? What is bad? Bad to need him? Bad
to love him? Whom would you need then? Who else would you love if not him? What
would you need if you do not need him and his love, and for him to accept you
and your love? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– but, what?! But what do you do after loving him and needing
him? – You ask me, again?! Are you deaf and silly and forgetful? – You do whatever it is
that you do and keep at it! Did I not say that a hundred thousand times
already? – That is what you do. Whatever you can and are able. I too do what I
can, do I not?!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Easy? – Who said anything about it being easy? Did I say it
was or is easy? Do people imagine that that is easy? Why should it be easy? I
am not a cow. A cow has a fairly easy life – I would say. A cow may disagree
with me and may grumble and moo, and sadly say that I know nothing about being
a cow and how difficult it is being a cow. There is nothing wrong in being a cow
and maybe the life of a cow is very difficult in a way I do not know about –
but I did not come to the world as one of his cows which he used to love. I
came here as a human being. I did not come here to win
trifles as a human being. That too would be easy. Maybe. Many people will disagree
with me and so I shall add – maybe not. What do I know? – Maybe it is very
difficult indeed to win and hoard trifles, and preen and prance and dance
about flaunting trifles. Indeed, maybe it is exhausting and very difficult. What
do I know? – Maybe their trifles are very important to them or mean everything
to them, and they will take those trifles with them when they die and they will
look upon their trifles after they are dead, and feel jubilant. What do I know?
– Maybe the Lord will love them always for being who they are</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. Let them
be. I cannot be one of them and do not
want to be. So, no. It is not easy. And no, I do not ‘move on’ –
whatever that means. But it is terribly simple sometimes and I am made
to move along sometimes despite my obstinacy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What do I mean? – You ask me? </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am being
difficult and contradictory?! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Is it an adventure, you ask me?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now which question do you wish for me to answer?! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am being called. I have to go now. Why? </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have to go attend to the preparations for the Sravan palace celebrations.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am in charge of some of the preparations </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">am I not? The staying arrangements, the accommodations, setting up the palace grounds and the competitions. I am a participant too.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> In what? </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– archery, horse riding, sword fighting and a few of the debates. Who will be attending? </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">all kinds of people from distant lands and people from our kingdom too.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Yes, yes </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">princes and queens and ministers and teachers and courtiers and singers and philosophers and merchants and writers and painters and performers of all kinds and silversmiths and blacksmiths and wandering minstrels and more. Sing?! </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– No, of course I will not sing. Are you quite mad?! </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">–</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The prince is calling me. I must go now. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You go do something else. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Do you not have
any work? Do you not have anything else to do? Oh, stop looking like a glum goblin, you silly girl. Do you not believe in God? – And even after yesterday?</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">– </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is a time and place for
everything </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;">–</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> do you not know anything? I will talk to you some other time, maybe.</span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-35579327718515336062017-08-19T09:28:00.003-04:002017-09-15T12:54:11.648-04:00Meera and Krishna<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Krishna and Meera have been visiting my mind, now and then, for
quite some years now. It was 18 or 19 years ago – I cannot quite recall; the
two years (1998 and 1999) seem to have become one in my mind – when they first
appeared and with Fimh and my best friend. After a few years of semi-silence
they appeared again and now it’s been a decade and a half with a few missing
years, here and there. I used to imagine at some point that I could write a
whole book about Meera but I can’t. Yet Meera and Krishna have appeared in very
odd dreams or as very tantalising images - or maybe it’s all a delicious piece of
imagined reality or my delusions? I don’t really know but I don’t really think
that’s what it is. This year too Meera visited and I kept asking her questions,
and it was Krishna’s Birthday, and Fimh absolutely insisted that I write about
what transpired. So here is a part of it:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Janmashtami 13<sup>th/ </sup>14<sup>th</sup> August – </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is a time when silence is sharper and clearer than any
possible sound. The silence rings away in my ears and thuds away with my
heartbeat – especially when I am waiting and waiting, and waiting some more to
hear what I want to hear, to sense what I wish to sense, to feel what I want to
feel and some of what I do not know and cannot expect – the footsteps, the embrace, the whispers and
his voice murmuring near the nape of my neck, the sense of touch from The One who
has caressed my mind and soul, the whispers through the night, listening with my
very being so as not to forget later, fighting, arguing, laughing, teasing and
being teased in turn – and I do not care then about weeping with the departing
strains of his voice and the fainter notes of his flute as I see dawn riding in
through my windows and hijacking my dream – or was that my reality? </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Was he here? Was he not? Did I not hear him? Did I not feel
him? Why was he here, and why did he leave?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What? – What is it that you’re asking me? Do I see him? –
You ask me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes. I do. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Why can’t you? – You ask me. To that I’ll give you different
answers depending on my mood. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">…because you do not have the eyes – I will say. Because you
have not tried hard enough. Because you think you can see him with the same eyes
that you see the world. Because you think you can hear him the same way you do
your listening in the world. Because you are too full of what does not matter.
Because you are blind and maybe deaf? Oh, I am so sorry – I have offended you.
Well it is because you have not loved him like I have. Because I love him – I see
him. I see now that you are all teary-eyed and you are hurt and you are angry and offended – all at the same time. There, there. You love
him? Maybe you have not called him loud enough? Any louder and you’ll sound like
a tuneless foghorn? – You say. Oh, no! –
I do not think you should sing. Well then, maybe I sense him because I am mad,
and utterly deaf and blind to the world. And so I feel him in communion with my
body, spirit, soul, mind and everything about me – till there is no space or
place that is private or “just” mine or me any longer. I do not know what this
“me” or “I” is apart from that which recognises him, knows him, adores him and
worships him. I do not know of any “I” or “me” which does not adore him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just seconds ago you were relieved – and almost smugly happy that I
had called myself mad – how do I know that?
– I could see it on your face! – and now you call me a saint, you silly
girl?! Would you rather have me be sick and mad or are you calling me a saint?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am no saint.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am evil and cruel and depraved and a wretch in more ways
than you or anybody else can count, and many have counted and told me why I am
disgusting and they have seen the better sides of me. Oh, it does not matter if
I have not acted upon every terrible thought and feeling in this life. They are
all there in me from other times and other places, and the selves and voices - which carry them - erupt from within me like macabre monsters
and self-righteous angels and demons and they are all in me. I am not stupid, you say? - Oh, I am stupid, vapid, inert and mindless in so many countless ways too.
You would be horrified to see all the selves and parts of me which move around
about me and which I know prowl about in me with their mangy bad breath trying
to spit at this “me” which you see (which you want to be – and only because I
see him and can sing out my love for him) and which want to consume me with
their evil. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What is evil? – You ask me? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That thing which feels no love and senses no love and which knows
no love – that is evil. That thing becomes evil. It becomes putrid. It rots
itself, and it tries to rot and corrupt everything else that comes close to it
or that which it sees as easy prey. There are worse things than just murdering
a person – even yourself – with a sword or dagger. It is to rot from the inside.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What is love? – You ask me? Why am I smiling? – You ask me? Love
means different things to different people. I smile at what different people
call love. But you called me a saint, not seconds ago! That is what I am saying
too. I am not a saint. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Lust, greed, sloth, avarice, rage, resentment, anger, apathy, violence, mindlessness jostle about for space in every other cell that I carry
in me. They are imprinted in me. They flow like sudden poisonous, malodorous
lava spewing from ugly volcanoes lying dormant, which I think are dead and they
catch me unawares, and right when I am convinced that I am holier-than-thou and
deserve my Lord. Did you know that? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You call me a saint?! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Who is this person?!” – I scream at myself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Who are you?” I ask myself in a whisper. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It is me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes. It is. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet - He saves me from myself – from those
mangy-breathed monsters I carry within me, which want to feed upon me and leave
me to rot with no love or memory of love. He with his flute and with that
insouciant feather and humour and everything else that makes him him. Each of
my cells of terrible memories, each of those horrible and twisted strands that
carry the tides and imprints of evil, malice, resentment, spite and vicious rage
– all of that upon which I have acted somewhere, sometime – aeons ago, ages
ago, many or more summers ago even – it does not matter – but even those, even
those horrors and the numerous insipid, petty, ghastly vulgarities and
inanities in me are washed over by gigantic, tremendous and complete waves of
love and tenderness for him and from him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Which comes first? – His love or mine – You ask me? – I do
not know that. How does that matter, you silly girl?!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I lose myself in him. I find myself in him. I melt with him.
I am cast asunder from him. There is bliss – infinite, ineffable, eternal, and
there is the utter and absolute agony – of the sort you maybe cannot imagine in
separation, in estrangement, in abandonment – in being tossed aside like a
tiny, insignificant, ugly, cheap, unwanted raft by the mighty, expansive,
gorgeous and churning oceans. And there are in-betweens too, are there not? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">How does he love…? – You ask me? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wonder too. He stands before me. He smiles. He speaks. He
sits. He teases. He is cold. He allows an embrace. He is vulnerable. He
ignores. He is aloof. He talks. He laughs with his eyes. He banters. He is
brusque. He listens. He responds. He is quiet. He laughs. He is silent. He thunders. He shoots lightning forks at you which
are beautiful and can burn. He reaches out his hand for you to touch – maybe
once or maybe twice – and that is what you want to remember. He quarrels. He
sulks. He talks like the adorable young boy he once was about his loves. He is
insouciant (yes, like his feather! – You remember). He is naughty. He is
wicked. He is irritated. He plays his flute. He talks of the heavens and earth.
He shows you glimpses from his universes. He makes you laugh. You carry that
laughter, that beauty, that love and the memories through strange days and stranger
nights as time spins about like a spinning wheel. He caresses with a caress,
like no other and the only one you want or will ever desire. He tells you about
dharma, artha, karma, kama, karuna, gyana, bhakti, prem, moksha, shanti…You
want to know more and more, and everything about him. He looks at you with
those deep eyes almost mirroring your love, tenderness and bizarre desire. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What, then? – Then what?!</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then – he is gone. He leaves. With not a backward glance. He
leaves you bereft. Shaking, screaming and wailing, and out of your mind. What?
– No, of course not. That does not make him cruel. No! Are you out of your
mind? Why would he want to be with me all the time? Can you not be reasonable? He
has many things to do and he loves many – do you not know?! And even if he wants to be
alone? Is he not allowed to get bored by me and my prattle and my love? What
about the Gods and Goddesses? – You ask. Speak up, you incoherent girl – I
cannot hear you when you mumble beneath your breath. Hahaha! Shiva and Shakti,
Vishnu and Lakshmi, Rudra and Tara - they do not get bored of one another! That is what you say? - You must ask them. I am not Lakshmi or Parvati or Durga
or Tara. I am Meera.</span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-51388544096714922342017-07-23T18:32:00.001-04:002017-07-24T12:37:12.511-04:00The Sky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The sky has been changing colour. I have been noticing the
sky – for weeks on end, and usually rather intensely during the weekends
barring a couple of weekdays which now seem to have been from a sleep-dream
sequence. One weekend the sky impinged upon me and my dim senses, and the more I
tried to ignore it from my window the more loudly (and utterly silently) it
demanded that I take notice of it. Now it demands to be written about – and I’m
not sure why. I even gave in to the sky and one very early morning while
writing in my diary, dedicated some long, involved and loving paragraphs about
and to the sky and its moods and how it appeared to me – but now it demands
that I write a few lines here – and after weeks of trying to ignore the demands
of the sky – I am writing here.</div>
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I have to say at the onset that I have loved the sky. One
cannot hate the sky or find it obnoxious or even dislike it or harbor ill-feelings
or anger towards it or be irked or irritated or annoyed by it but I guess one
might find it rather too obvious and all-present to harbour too many feelings
about the sky. Unless one is a genuine poet or a genuine writer, one also feels
that it is a trifle silly or a little ridiculous to express the feelings of rapture
or ecstasy or in fact, any feelings, about the sky that one might experience in
private. But I can’t help feeling that there probably are many human beings who
have at some point felt something beautiful inside or even in company while
watching the sky. The sky insists that I turn my attention to it and not to my
own explanations and excuses or apologies for writing about it. I apologise
still.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I have seen rather strange skies – and not merely in my mind’s
eye, which would be of little interest here. I remember January 2003 when I had
awoken very, very early one morning and with great anticipation for Fimh was telling
me something or the other, and I had gone and sat in my chair to look out of my
dorm window and had seen a pure black sky with a blood red gash of a horizon. I
couldn’t really believe that I was seeing what I was and put on my glasses –
but there it was. The sky was the blackest shade of black that I had ever seen
and a little lower a liquid inky blue, and just at the horizon there was a
streak of orange and right below it – a streak of pure crimson. Nobody believed
me when I told them later. And I didn’t have a camera but I doubt the camera
would have picked up that strange sky. I had sat there in my chair mesmerized and
had felt that the sky somehow made sense. It was almost as though it were
reflecting a particular mood – it felt like the sky was in a rather
swashbuckling mood or even a quietly wicked mood where it was smiling softly
and even grinning and was putting on a show to let whoever was awake see how
utterly splendorous and enchanting and desirable it could be. Yet
another time – and it was sometime in the middle of 2011 – I had gone outside
to go for a walk rather late in the evening. Now in the mid-west, there is some
daylight till past 9. But this was closer to 10 and it was dark but there was
something a little odd that I sensed. I looked up and by God, I do not quite
know how to describe what I saw. There was a humongous white elliptical band of
a fuzzy white light covering the sky and the centre of the sky contained within
that elliptical band looked like a puffed up black and grey cloudy swirl – and it looked as though it was trying
to descend or ascend but couldn’t make up its mind completely as to what it
wanted to do. I cannot remember whether I actually called a neighbour to ask him
whether the aliens were finally coming or whether he just happened to be
strolling into the apartment – but he was utterly unfazed when I told him to look
up at the sky. He looked at it and described it as something, which I have
completely forgotten, and said that it was a known occurrence in Indiana skies.
He had seen the same when he was a child and it was called the “ring…” (of
something that I have clean forgotten) and had seen it a few times while
growing up. But even so – I couldn’t help but keep an eye on the sky while I
went out for my walk up and down the hill; if the aliens were landing their spaceship - I didn't want to miss that. I also remember the huge hanging
moon in the Indiana sky. The moon was incredibly large during some of the full
moon nights – it looked frankly unreal, and would change colours – the dense
black sky with wispy white streamers would be all there overhead and even in front of my vision in certain stretches, and I remember feeling
that the moon seemed to be undecided as to whether it should keep growing
larger and larger and softly descend to earth or stay in the sky. I remember seeing
that dense black sky with the wispy streamers and the scudding clouds and that growing, unreal silver-gold-reddish moon while driving back from the department or while walking over the overhead
bridge on some late nights and it seemed to me that the sky did have a hold on
the moon and the moon rather did want to stay with the sky. And I remember the
sky from other nights from even longer back. The sky, which I didn’t notice too
well or just noticed in the passing but I remember the <i>feeling</i> of the open, expansive sky overhead and while up on a
terrace and looking at trees and imaginary scenes and the freckles of stars and
the lone star which shone just that little bit brighter and sharper. And I
remember reading my first P.G. Wodehouse a very long time ago and laughing
aloud and being in uncontrollable fits of laughter and feeling that the sky had
joined me in my moment of absolute laughter. And I remember of other times –
running away to the terrace and finding a secluded spot to look at the
occasional aeroplanes with their flashing lights which seemed to speak of such
freedom in flight and glorious shared adventures up above in that dark,
mysterious sky, and of being up on the terrace one summer, so very long ago, and
feeling this ineffable rush of a feeling of split-dreams and a delicious dreaminess
and of the fleeting feeling of an unbelievable bliss and perfect clarity and under
that great, dark, inscrutable sky stealing even a naughty, beautiful kiss. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And now there is the sky from the past few weeks and these
abominable weekends. Had I never noticed, across two score summers that the sky
changes in its moods and dispositions most awfully and capriciously during the
monsoons? One day it is a refulgent glorious shade of blue – azure – and it is
almost as though the sky is so joyously and absolutely in love that it is
unashamedly and vociferously proclaiming its love and even beckoning at me to
sing with it as it insists on shining through my window at the bleakest of
moments. If I won’t sing out aloud it insists that I sing inside my head or
heart or with my Holy Spirit. If I obmutaciously shake my head and say that I
can’t possibly sing – it insists that I acknowledge that I feel the desire to sing
and dance and connect to some parallel world or universe where maybe I am
singing and dancing! And then if I do finally, pushed to a corner, agree and
some bars of a song appear in my mind on demand, it wickedly tells me that it’s
not about the singing, is it?! – By then of course I have to admit that no, it’s
probably not just about the singing but about the feelings that rise and spill
over from ever since I can remember – dreams and images and desires and
expectations and ambitions and adventures and all those worldly and unworldly
pursuits. And the sky shining and glowing with that unearthly blue, laughs and
winks wickedly and says, ‘oh, you fool. You know it is all about Love.’ And on
other days the sky has merely been a glass. A sheet of glass. And there is
nothing that is given or received or taken. It stays there like a sheet of
clear, invincible glass. I look at it almost expecting it to say something –
but there is nothing. And on yet other days it is as if it is brooding and grey
and dark and beyond gloom and yet holding back the tears that it simply will
not shed. On those days I have felt that if I shed my tears, the sky might feel
a bit better. But the sky is withdrawn and away from the world and far away
from me. It does not care and doesn’t even care that it doesn’t care. It stays
there with its beyond-gloom and even the fluffy clouds stay away. It is simply
a flat, uncompromising grey – unreachable and certainly not inviting me. It
refuses to correspond in any manner. “And so why were you shining so blue-ly
the other day and now you won’t say a thing?!” I almost yell at it aloud when
Fimh almost laughingly points out that “blue-ly” is not a word. And then now, for
a whole week, there have been the rains and the rains and the rains and the intermittent
and continuing rains. But the rains of the monsoons, the stormy sky, the thunder, the lightning are a different story.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFMBXmEg6m1Ah3BtJjEDDZHXgrF7QyulJhuH9k-DFLgHB4KalkKUU3uEjOrEKmiFdv247FM8o-jBNqD-Q9Z0qZx9sgBxunz4Pxd3sJ9eOJh-aeZchnfhhyFsJ3Dd_KWCUs51PTWWNnIg/s1600/IMG-20170629-WA0029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFMBXmEg6m1Ah3BtJjEDDZHXgrF7QyulJhuH9k-DFLgHB4KalkKUU3uEjOrEKmiFdv247FM8o-jBNqD-Q9Z0qZx9sgBxunz4Pxd3sJ9eOJh-aeZchnfhhyFsJ3Dd_KWCUs51PTWWNnIg/s320/IMG-20170629-WA0029.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
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<o:p>And here's a picture and memories of a sky and river and of conversations of disappearing wormholes, unreal skies and the horse and Pushpak, and pure delight. </o:p></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-74625953847620619612017-05-08T16:16:00.004-04:002017-05-08T16:16:54.079-04:00A week gone by<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">6th-7th May. 2017.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The matters of living and dying, sickness, illness and old
age, relationships and love have been whirling around in my mind along with (other) worldly
concerns like work, income and livelihoods and related matters. The previous week
that just about went by – I have to say – was rather – well, beautiful with
conversations, whimsy, walks, delight, laughter, munching, movies, summer rains, and more – and despite the darkness, greyness, awful
oddities, broken dreams and brooding mushroom clouds that hover over the world
of human beings and despite my being what I am (I think I only stay with myself - for the most part - because I don't have the option of jumping out of my skin). Maybe it’s true that God has a
strange sense of humour and so has blended paradoxes along with irony in the
woof and warp of life. Anyhow. I know I thoroughly cherish the previous week. Now the weekend is almost over and I’ve been re-visiting
very old favourites from Rabindranath (<i>Taalgach</i>
being one of them – I was in class II when I read and memorised the poem! –
it was listening to the live recital of the poem that made me return to it), walking, working
over summer posters, having mini-prophetic sleep dreams, reading up for an
upcoming research project, doing some yoga, worrying in bouts, watching some
animations - in the hopes of inspiration and possible future use and for a bit of fun (and feeling so
strongly that a story titled <i>Sorcery</i>
could be made into such a marvellous animated film), breathing some sighs of relief and of even happiness…and reflecting over recent conversations. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I remember reading in early October last year, an article
which had made me grumble, frown and argue instantaneously and scribble a bit. It was a particular
article from the Public Discourse blog. The writer was against all forms of
assisted suicide and of having any control over the process of dying. Death is an end –
according to the author – not a part of life and is a final blow full of nothing
but indignity, humiliation and tragedy. Death - said the author - was “viscerally disturbing”
and nothing but a “sombre tragedy”. The author made no distinction in terms of age or state
of health or mental functioning. Towards the end of reading the article, the
only thing I found “heartening” about it was that the writer mentioned that how
a person lives and the kind of person that one chooses to become and the kind
of life one chooses to live are what count and that the only dignity to be
found in death is to be found in the life that preceded it. I don’t disagree with
the living part. It does matter. How a person lives, thinks, speaks, acts, the
values a person lives and dies by, whether s/he loves, whether s/he truly cares, whom
and what s/he loves and cares for, what s/he does, how s/he is as a person – I think
these matter. Somewhere, someplace, sometime – yes, but also within the temporal worldly space. Living life – as far as I have noted – does not involve
only a matter of making-do or what sociologists used to term an “organic level
of existence”. In our current times, maybe many human beings have turned it around and said, “we
live to eat, shop, take selfies and go woo-hoo for no reason” but that doesn’t make it right. That said and I could go on with
this part – but to cut it short – I certainly do not agree that all death is
undignified. Death is a part of life. Absolutely, irrevocably and even perhaps,
at some point, enjoyably and to be met with acceptance and peace. Horrible illness or terrible suffering or to be completely incapacitated by physical or mental debilitation...make me feel helpless and undignified but why would the entire process of dying - and with no exceptions - be considered to be undignified? I think it matters how a person faces death, accidents, illness, pain and suffering just as much as it matters how a person faces life in its happiness, joys and meaning and bursts of unalloyed laughter. The monk who was making people laugh
at his funeral with the bursting firecrackers hidden in his clothes knew so. The
same goes for the individual who opts for Nirvakalpa Samadhi – when s/he knows
that “love is done”. Morris Schwartz felt so. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Sikander sang about dying with a laugh in </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Muqaddar ka Sikander</i><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The brother from the tale of the three brothers (Harry Potter) who asked for the invisibility cloak knew the same. Dumbledore said so
and believed so and even when he knew he was going to die. Emily Dickinson felt and expressed the same. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sogyal Rinpoche says so in </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Suvro da writes so with his, “Life is short, fun and precious…it should be fun, even the dying”. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Debjaan paints a vivid picture about there being more to death than meets the eye. Only if we
believe that this flesh-blood-bones and body is the only reality that exists
can we actually say that death is only viscerally disturbing and a sombre tragedy and always undignified.
Even if lots of people do believe in the same – I have the feeling that all those who
have passed on will have something different to say about that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet. It isn’t that making some semblance of peace with
the fact of death and dying being a part of life makes all the pain, questions and doubts
go away. Further questions arise. For one thing, one starts wondering and worrying about the hereafter. I do not know
whether this is a function of age. Two decades ago, I remember I had been blissfully
bereft of any broodings about the hereafter. I was sure that that would be taken
care of by the powers-that-be. Now twenty years later, I am still here and I can’t help but wonder
sometimes and worry. And then if one goes along that particular pathway – the matters of bardos,
reincarnation, karma and the utterly improbable hits and the even more
ludicrous misses (in this lifetime) keep rising to one’s foreconscious or maybe have made a permanent home there. The contrast between what has transpired and what hasn't feels well-nigh remarkable. I sometimes
feel (and I cannot even begin to explain the conundrum) that I am rapidly
and horribly racing against time towards making this lifetime a little useful before it’s
too late (leave alone any future ones) and sometimes feel that all is in place
and I am exactly where I am supposed to be, so help me God (I am quite sure that it's Fimh who makes me feel this). One can rage against
God and weep with one’s Fimh or howl in Fimh's presence or be utterly peevish
when suddenly God or maybe Fimh will decide to grace one with a break. Or else one can be as calm and as true to oneself
as one can possibly be, insist upon feeling and sending out positive/good vibrations, be utterly grateful...and say that one will just believe in one’s highest
truth that one has truly felt and seen and known, and move along at which point there might descend further darkness or sudden light and even words and a pathway that just might bring solace within and a way on the out...I know that there
is a correct combination for moving ahead in both the true and useful mode in a
single lifetime. Some six years ago, I was jubilantly sure I was putting it into practise and I still have the feeling that I really did at that point, but sadly enough I cannot say that I have come anywhere close to mastering the method in the intervening years, and something tells me that I should have, by now. Even if God came and gave me a consolation prize for 'best effort' - I would grunt at this point and shake my head.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know I have thought a bit and reflected a bit in this lifetime – although I am not claiming to have always thought and reflected fruitfully and with great purity (my best friend sometimes calls it “wool gathering”) – but I think that what scares many people about dying and death is the matter of physical pain, the fear of the unknown or of getting stuck somewhere, the fear of letting go of what has become habitual and familiar and known, the niggling feeling or fear of not having lived the life they feel they were supposed to have lived this time around, the fear of being an inconsequential bit of nothing, and for some or a few – of love not mattering. And then there is the matter of those who are left behind, about which I will stay quiet about here. Maybe sometimes a fear or a couple are dismissed or they evaporate or they are warded off or one is told repeatedly that there is no real reason to fear - and one can feel the truth of it in moments of clarity or immense love even if one does not understand the reasons behind it. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And I do feel that no matter whether a single lifetime is a mere bubble in the cosmic sense of time and space – a single lifetime does matter. That's why finding meaning and identifying and having a purpose or a few or maybe many, matter. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then one takes one’s leave when it is time and one goes somewhere else. I don't know how many "purposes" can be fulfilled across a single lifetime but one must be able to look back and say that one did what one could do and that one was able to give some times of pure joy and laughter...</span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't have material evidence of whether I am right or wrong or delusional but through my readings, reflections, and the moments of clarity and beauty, and even prayer or meditation - that is as far as I have got. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">And these are just a few of the aspects which keep taunting or teasing or niggling at me me when they do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet. I know for a fact that there are so many aspects (more than I usually think of or imagine) which are not just out of my control but don't even fall within my scope of understanding, no matter how I have tried to coax them to reveal their secrets across the decades. But sometimes I wish that even if I didn't have the power to control outcomes - I understood the complete picture of life, living, specific lifetimes and the hereafter. But I don't even fully understand what the soul is - and this annoys me. What really is the soul? I had this utterly barmy idea once that every soul has a soul-keeper but I think that was just my wistful bit of imagination doing what it does. Anyway. I won't digress further. Sometimes I am sure that such understanding (of life, living, specific lifetimes and so on) would bestow upon the perceiver a wonderfully rare and glorious power. And in a very worldly sense - it would lead to becoming naturally productive and useful...which would be perfect for me. That makes some part of me immediately call myself a "donkey". That part of me is quite right in addressing me thus and for thinking that I can get away with such a thought. For it was this realm precisely which is so utterly beyond my ken that The Buddha brought within his purview of understanding. Old age, illness and death – every human being, at some point or the other is made aware of these parts of life and yet it was The Buddha who made it his life’s single purpose to understand the same, see through the same, remember his past lives and to even state that he would never be involved in the same and then he went forth to do what? - To teach others. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet...but I'll let this post be. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oocunV4JX4w" target="_blank">Here</a> is a School of Life video, which made me </span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">nod my head in parts, disagree vociferously </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: left;">(a brain in a jar! - it reminded me of the creepy Roald Dahl tale)</span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> and mildly in parts </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and wonder a bit. I think it is still interesting on the whole. And <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5yunhX3FIE" target="_blank">here</a> is an animation with a doggy Dustin and a Dust-in, which made me grin...it sort of reminded me of the lifelike robots from Asimov's tales.</span></div>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-80915030219842832652017-04-01T12:54:00.000-04:002017-04-02T03:33:38.822-04:00I see the sea...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I spent three and a half hours splashing about in the sea, showing all my pearly whites every now and then and trotting along a beach and through the waves, and drawing and writing gigantic words on the sand with a staff that got washed onto the beach right near my feet and I pretended to be a woman Moses but the sea did not part and so I just kept looking away at the sea and the sky and I could almost see words (I did in my mind) and images and was reminded most awfully of the utterly unexpected holiday at Pondicherry from the previous month and some songs too and words as well and even rather distant dreams. God knows why some songs keep following me around and from where they suddenly spring a well of memories and even memories of what never really happened. There has been <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PsmV-1w0zo4" target="_blank">Nazia's 'Boom boom'</a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNOTF-znQyw" target="_blank">John Denver's 'Annie's Song'</a> and there's Jack Johnson with 'Upside down'. For the last one the whole video keeps playing in my head and I feel a little or a lot like Curious George...well, I don't quite feel like a monkey but I do feel like Curious George. Here's the video of the song - below:</span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-68234075171447693602017-03-14T15:38:00.003-04:002017-03-14T15:50:48.040-04:00Down South from February<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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14<sup>th</sup> February 2017</div>
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Hullo, It’s over a month that I’ve been away from my
domicile state. I’m officially in Andhra Pradesh – and I realize as I’m writing
this that this is the first time that I’m visiting this state in all my 41
years. I was in Madras for a bit and then in Bangalore. There was a trip to Vellore
which we cancelled. But the project on Young (and Old) Biologists in India is
coming to an end. I find myself even hoping sometimes – that it blooms. </div>
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Away for a month from my usual moorings doesn’t make me
feel any different as a person. For better or worse, I see the same thoughts
and same images in my head, talk to Fimh when I do, worry when I do about old
worries, smile a rather toothy smile when I do about the identical reasons, pray
for, rant about and wonder about the same things that I usually do. Come to
think of it – wasn’t I the same when I was 10,000 miles west? I’m not sure
whether that makes me bizarre or boring. The only difference here is that I
take a bus to work at the same time every morning and I probably smoke a little
less, since there is this draconian no-smoking policy in almost all campuses
and guest houses and so forth. </div>
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The places that I have been staying at in the South of India
feel very different from the plains of the North-ish and East. Not so much in
terms of geography or the spread of the land or the colours. But in terms of
culture and language and the people – the regions strike me to be as being
remarkably different. I feel guilty for feeling thus – but I feel like an
outsider. Every day as I travel by bus and when I look out and observe people
and signs and the hustle and bustle of this town which is famous for its temple
– I am quite perplexed by my own emotion. Objectively speaking, the people
don’t look that different, on an average, from the people of West Bengal. I
thought they did. I was sure they did. But one day I told myself on the bus to pretend
that I was traveling through some districts of West Bengal and while the
emotional side of me told me that I was an idiot for even trying to pretend –
one part of me observed. Not the language on the billboards or the flexboards and
signs on the shops – but just the people. I was less sure of the absolute
difference. And what about the people of Sri Lanka? That part of my head said.
Do they look very different from Indians? The only discernible difference among
the people that I can actually notice without bias is that many women go about
their daily days with flowers in their hair and many of the men sport very big,
almost handlebar moustaches. But it’s the language – whispers a very diffident
part of me. The language sounds very different.</div>
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The language does sound different to the ears – true. The
majority in Madras speaks Tamil and here in Tirupati, the majority speaks Telugu.
The language barrier is probably what makes me feel like an alien. Hindi is really
a no-no. By this time, I feel as though I could carry on a medium-length conversation
in Hindi – given the options. One is more likely to be understood if one speaks
English or very-broken-English. The head bob that Desmond Morris spoke about in
his BBC documentary on body language is very popular here – far more than in
the East is my guess. As far as I have noticed – the head bob is almost
conspicuous in its absence in Delhi and its surrounding areas. But the meaning
of the head bob is not always clear. </div>
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On the first night when I took a taxi to a guest house in the
IIT campus at Madras – the taxi driver gave me a smile and a vigorous head bob
when I asked him whether he knew where the guest house was and he led me to his
taxi. In the middle of the ride he suddenly spoke a sudden string of sentences
and I had no real clue as to what he was saying. He might have been asking me
where I was from or speaking about the weather. I knew after a bit that he had
no clue of where I wanted to go. I spoke from my end repeating the address and
he didn’t know what I was saying but he was vigorously doing his head bob. He
didn’t seem in the slightest bit perturbed as he kept driving at a healthy
almost speedy pace to God-knows-where. I wanted to ask him where he was going. Finally
I managed to get him to stop the taxi and I asked a policeman. The policeman, listened
to and nodded at me in a deadpan way (which is probably the universal code for
policemen) and gave the taxi driver the directions. I sat in the back not
knowing what was being said when the policeman breaking the universal code for
policemen waved me off with a smile and the head bob. I asked the driver in an
absurd mix of Hindi and English whether he now knew where we were going. He
half turned around and gave me a smile along with the head bob. This time he
did know where to go and we reached the campus and the guest house. I think I have
now almost picked up a permanent head bob. </div>
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Many college and university campuses in India are all
becoming no-smoking or have been for decades and I have not known about it. Even
smoking in public spaces is frowned upon. It would have been marvelous had we
shown the same religiosity regarding cleanliness in our public surroundings,
maintaining road rules (having some enforceable laws in the first place might
have been a good idea) and really dealing with and taking care of the hungry,
diseased, injured and often emaciated stray animals. Those are just three
things I can think of right now. For a day and a half I went about smoking on
the IIT campus and thought it distinctly strange that not only was I the only
person to be doing so but that there was not a sign of even one random
cigarette butt anywhere. Nobody said anything and so I went about my business.
Finally one afternoon while I was running out of one appointment to go to
another and I was taking a few hasty puffs – a student stopped me on the road
and informed me that the entire campus was no smoking. And that campus gate was
at least two miles away. </div>
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The Saturday that I was there in Chennai, I felt an
overwhelming urge to visit the beach. The interviews were done. I had got my
workshop proposal in. I was leaving early on Sunday morning. “We can go to the
beach!” – so Fimh said. But I didn’t go
to the beach. Between then and now there has been the trip to Bangalore apart
from this stint at Tirupati. I think I prefer Bangalore to Tirupati – in terms
of distant-places-where-I-do-not-stay….which is odd because normally I prefer
towns to cities. But then again – this whole work trip seems very odd. There
might be a real holiday trip to Pondicherry – but I don’t know for sure, as yet.
I have an interesting view out of the window from the guest-house here in the
evenings and early mornings. I can see gentle, rolling hills in the distance
and the open expanse of the sky is full of stars and there’s one very bright
star in the midst. I am sure of this. Tata for now.</div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-74430277042431942802016-11-02T11:49:00.000-04:002016-11-02T12:21:09.136-04:00The curl of a year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The year for me seems to have travelled from September 2015
to September 2016. Given the way my mind works – that doesn’t seem off or
abnormal but it does seem queer even to me that the mind can create odd realities
of its own. Or does it? The past month feels like it has been an interim
period. It feels like it was a this-worldly bardo during Durga Pujo: a
period of introspecting, looking back, understanding or trying to understand; a
period of looking at what I did wrong or what I can do right in the coming round, reconnoitering the possibilities out-there and a period of
praying for a mind expansion which makes the universe conspire to work with me.
I can’t say that this bardo has been as grand as the one in winter 2010-2011
before it blew up partly in my face or the one in winter-spring 2002 that
turned out to be a dream within greyness and opened into a golden experience by Fall or a
couple of other ones…; of course all my past bardos, I can see led to one final
point of realisation. This was a particularly non-hallucinating
bardo for the most part with a few streaks of unmistakable colour and very quiet
bits of insight in between the lonely pits and dungeons. But I was expecting
the state back in the middle of the year, so this time, at least, I can’t say
it was unexpected. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have no 5 minute miracle wand. Deluded or not – I am convinced
I have my failsafe guide. What is to be? The old year feels like it is over. I
have memories I cherish – a few of which I even wrote about on the blog – ones
that I wouldn’t give up, including a burst of workshops in Spring, warm
conversations in the external world, which made me feel that all was becoming right
in my world and even while the scratching fingers, inside my mind, showed me an
empty expanse in terms of workshops for the future months. My scratching fingers are not always right
in predicting gloomy futures but in this one they were right, which doesn’t make me
feel any better. I had been travelling a fair bit through the year but that
simmered down when the organisation with which I work on projects started going
through changes of its own. But there were still times of delight post Spring
and despite the scratchy fingers too which made me believe that maybe I wasn’t
born to endless night – some of those times now feel like they happened to
somebody else. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In the age of the internet, it is true that one will find an
answer to any question that one might type into the google box or about a topic
of interest. Pupu said, among other things, that there’s a movie liner which
says, ‘you can find anything from how to make a baby to how to make a bomb,
on-line’. Whether the answer is likely to satisfy one or makes sense or proves
to be useful in some form or manner is another question. I would be the last
person to be against the internet, email, blogger and even youtube, for which I
have my own reasons. On the other hand, I am quite firmly with the Dalai Lama
on the fact that we have more and more marvelous means of communication but
have nothing meaningful to communicate. Where there is meaningful
communication, however, the internet has been a boon for the likes of me who
neither have the ability to go gaga over every new bit of technology for
communication that comes into town nor wish to go back to the time of carrier
pigeons. I remember a few of the scenes from the film ‘Mona Lisa Smile’; one of
them being a young woman who is desperately trying to be happy by showing off
her husband’s novel purchases of which she is the proud owner – a washing
machine and dryer. Now it has become phones, apps, the social media…and more
and more gadgets and selfies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The only reason I catapulted and bought a smartphone this
year was because my best friend first coaxed me, goaded me and then when I
still gave excuses and reasons – he threatened to buy me one. It is a useful
gadget certainly; it helps me find the way through this city to places I have
never been and it has helped me earlier on in the year to get to places in
unfamiliar cities for appointments or meetings. It helped me book an Ola cab
too, in July, on one marvellous morning. A week ago, I told somebody that she could
check the projected fare ride for Ola on her phone and she called me ‘tech
savvy’! I even bought and got an A/C fixed this year. I sometimes look at it
happily, being reminded of some particularly fine memories or sometimes glare
at it – poor thing – while grumbling (and for an utterly bizarre reason). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have never been a Marxist and I’m almost grinning as I
write this but my point is that with my views well and truly beaten and
tempered, I can well see that there is nothing inherently bad or wrong in
technology or in making money or even shopping for material items or discarding
old technologies for the new but it goes back to why one is involved in the
same. I don’t think my views about this nugget have changed in the last 14
years. But Fimh says a ‘haha’ to me and I have to shake my head for I am
reminded of my batty beliefs from some years ago: imagining that the knowledge
of the presence of the reality of thought-communion at a worldwide scale would
usher in a new age of consciousness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have been on the net more often over these last couple of
months and especially during the long Pujo break, thanks to Suvro da who
insisted I get broadband cable instead of using a ‘silly’ dongle. And it’s not
been a waste at all, I think, despite my inner and often adamant railings and
even plain mute wonderings against and about the obsession over technological
marvels in our present-day world. I even managed to have two consecutive Skype
chats and not with my imaginary friend for one thing – and all because I got
broadband cable. Normally, I was reflecting, my net habits had stayed more or
less the same (with all factors remaining constant? – which they didn’t)
through a decade. Along with my daily ritual and sometimes regular and
sometimes not-regular communication over the net, I watched movies and read
on-line in the US when I could afford to and now I have watched some TV series,
longish youtube videos, read all kinds of stuff on self, creativity, sexuality,
mindfulness, memory, meditation, self-hypnosis, karma, past-life regression and
stock market trading, and I got hooked onto yoga and pilates all over again via
some youtube videos and stuck to a daily mixed ritual of my own. The yoga has
not done the good like it did in expanding my mind one Spring quite some Springs ago and all of a sudden when
I needed it badly. It even led to receiving a clear sign from the external
world. Back then I practiced from what is called a book and had attended a few
classes with a matter-of-fact teacher who told me that I should practice on my
own and she told me quite firmly that I didn’t need to come to the class. This
time, I’m hoping that the yoga is at least benefitting my body if in some
invisible way but the mind expansion and the ‘lighter feeling of being’ that I
was looking for and even looking forward to have not transpired as yet – sadly
enough. But then I did still receive the sign - so there's something to smile widely over, for now!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have been thinking too, recently, that by certain individuals,
people and communities I would be seen as a crackpot or an insane woman or at
best sick or obsessed or useless. Strangely enough, I don’t think I had ever
processed this bit. I have certainly been called all those things at various
points in my life, and not always without reason and not always by people I
don’t care about (Come to think of it, in an earlier age I might have even be
seen as a witch, I guess, which seems more interesting in a way; I certainly
have some of the right attributes for being branded as one!) But I would not
argue against the names or the same because the individual calling me the same
has not always been wrong. I have not been entirely right – which would have
made me a marvelous messiah, of sorts, by now, or at least, gloriously
successful by worldly standards or something else. The years I have gone
through across the past 20 years weren’t always productive and they haven’t
always been beautiful and enchanting and while I am sure that I have gathered riches
beyond compare – from worldly standards, I do come across as rather poor and/or
abnormal…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Before I start counting or recounting my experiences here –
let me move over to a few other matters. While practicing some very good yoga
videos, I noticed with a wry raise of an eyebrow and an inner grumbling that all
the best yoga videos are made by North Americans. Why is that? Also, I noticed
that for every general self-help video or random article which supports a point
of view – there is always another which espouses the opposite. The opposed
voices on the net do not all come from the same source, and they don’t belong
to one who takes count of the ‘fluid many-sided nature of reality’, and so I wasn’t
expecting any miracles. But I wanted to see what was out-there, for multiple
reasons. If someone is talking about the importance of clear goals, another
person will say that it’s not goals but the ‘systems’ (process) which are (is) important.
For someone who says ‘follow your passion’, someone else will say ‘find
something to do which is socially worthwhile’ or ‘find your market’ or ‘create
a demand’. If someone says ‘you are what you think’, there will be someone who
says, ‘you are not your thoughts’. For someone who says, you are powerful and can
accomplish anything you set your mind to, there will be a cautionary voice piping
in saying you must accept certain conditions for what they are, and a voice of
some psychiatrist saying that to think that you are powerful and to believe that you can do something great could actually mean you have bi-polar disorder. For
the very reasonable voice which says, ‘do not let anyone else define who you are’,
there will be voices in unison saying that success, happiness and bliss can
never be experienced alone. For someone who sings, that there is always visible beauty and love around
us in the external everyday world, there will be someone – meaning my own self
saying ‘gah’. For someone who says ‘stick on’ because that’s the only way to
accomplish something even if things don’t work the way you want or wish them
to, there will be yet another reasonable voice saying that there is nothing
good about a flat period of rejection and failure – so, ‘move on’. For someone
who says let go of all desires, there will be someone who says that desires –
all desires – make us human while The Buddha's voice rings around my ears with his, ‘desire leads to suffering’ and my Fimh, many years ago, pointed out to me that the very 'root of life is in desire'.
For a Dumbledore who says, “Of course it’s happening in your head, but why on
earth should that mean it’s not real?’ – but let me stop right there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I could go on with the list of opposed ideas that I have
found on the net just across the last month and more, and it can be confusing –
even if they don’t necessarily sound wrong or absurd or silly all the time. It
reminded me of Eliot’s bit on the wisdom we have lost in knowledge and the
knowledge we have lost in information and that was quite some time ago. It also
provided me with objective proof that I’m certainly not ‘la-la, gushy-mushy’
biased when I am biased or ‘obsessed’. Personally, I think while remembering
what one has read and/or heard or seen and felt – one has to judge the context
of where one is placed, look at one’s own experiences, examine one’s own motives
and consider the significance of what one is intent on achieving and pray a
prayer. I have never seen anything noble or glorious about being a failure. From
the perspective of plain reason, I can quietly accept that the joys, delight,
bliss, adventure and perfect experiences that life potentially offers will not
be granted to a single human life (maybe that’s why imagination and the inner
world become over-active and one’s Fimh speaks?) and maybe many questions are
answered in the hereafter and many unspoken of joys are experienced there too –
but the intention in this world is to win in some crucial rounds and on very clear
grounds, after beating certain odds which seem unfathomable and inscrutable. To
me, it almost feels sometimes as though God is playing a bizarre prank – but then
I cannot believe that God would play a malicious prank…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Occasionally, I find myself loudly arguing over
Shakespeare’s bit about nothing being good or bad – only thinking makes it so.
Yet Rumi’s line about meeting in a field beyond ideas of rightdoing and
wrongdoing also strikes a chord somewhere deep down. </span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-86380391530084570612016-05-22T13:30:00.000-04:002016-05-22T13:38:46.311-04:00Fate and Faith<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I sometimes am compelled to wonder over some matters of
life, which cannot be understood or explained by reason. That could be a long
list because life as whole on this planet, life-chances, the experience of living
life, happenings and incidents and accidents, encounters, feelings, responses
and interpretations do not work like gravity, lunar and solar eclipses or
because of some immediate, observable cause and effect relationship. I remember
from many years ago, when I was once wondering about reason, my best friend had
shot off the quote to me about reason being like a drunk on horseback; you prop
him up from one side and he slips off the other. Maybe if human civilization
flourishes – human beings will one day, with more conscious and co-operative
intent explore and find other ways to tap into the great mysteries of the mind,
world, life and the beyond. In my early twenties, I never got consistent,
unequivocal answers for all that which lies beyond reason or out of the boundaries
of reason. I was instead propelled into another direction and one which was
very much in-this-world, for the most part. This allowed me to let some of those
other matters alone. ‘Those other matters’ do not refer only to spirits, the supernatural
and suchlike. I explored those matters as well, at 21. But before I start
scratching my head over all the uncanny, inexplicable or humorous (if seen from
one angle, I think) shots from life, let me write about the matters of faith,
meaning, purpose and fate that have returned to my head. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can’t say how old I was exactly when I first felt that beyond
the general meaninglessness of everydayness, life has a meaning and where one’s
purpose is attached to that meaning. I felt this in a general way but more so,
in a very individualized way. I had doubts too – for what really explained why
people were born where they were? Across the past decade and more – I see
meaning, purpose and sense criss-crossing. But without karma, I cannot see how
the other three factors can criss-cross. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Through my school years, I did not even know what karma was.
But I could see that girls who came from similar backgrounds – did not turn out
to be very similar in terms of thoughts, views, intelligence, likes, dislikes,
sensitivity and what they considered to be important. Two, maybe, at a stretch,
three stood out sharply in their reading habits, levels of intelligence,
memory, powers of articulation, levels of General Knowledge and awareness of
current affairs. They were also the ones who used to top the examinations. One
girl could sing outstandingly well, another was excellent at track and field competitions,
a couple of girls could sketch and paint very well. Then there were girls who had
remarkable memories for remembering almost every line in the textbooks and they
scored very high marks but that was about all they did. I fell in none of the categories.
I am very much aware of what intelligence looks like, enjoy reading about it and
I am still interested in the exceptional human mind but that is as far as I
shall speak on the subject. On the other hand, I didn’t care two hoots about
marks. I was oblivious to it to the point of idiocy. I felt fine when I got
high marks and I wasn’t particularly happy about failing in various subjects –
but I could never equate life as being the summation of marks. I didn’t see
anything wrong about what I felt. If anything, across the last two decades of
my life – I actually feel vindicated in being an idiot about this. On the other
hand, I used to feel delighted to the point of idiocy when we won in basketball
or kho-kho or we won some inter-class prize for the best one-act play or
received an ovation even if we didn’t always win the prize. I’m not really sure
how to explain this. I have mulishly stayed away from anything group-related for
ages unless I’m planning or conducting different group games and team
activities for the workshops, which I enjoy doing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The matter of making choices in life and what influences the
choices we make could fill a library. But at a basic level, the way I have
understood it – choice-making often depends upon the choices that are available,
visible and one’s awareness of what is out-there. Secondly, it depends upon
whether one sees oneself as being capable or having an ability or some value in
a particular area. The third is abiding interest. This very basic combination
often directs and drives one towards building a life of meaning and purpose.
The fourth which relates to one’s character – with its eccentricities and
personality – is a combination of perseverance, tenacity and belief. The fifth
and sixth are serendipity and faith. The seventh, I would say is Karma. From
another angle, if one considers the ‘compartments’ of life – one can see that life
falls into the compartments of work, relationships, inner-world and
hobbies/interests. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know that even if one chances upon the meaning of one’s
life in however a fuzzy or plain barmy way early on by one’s early twenties –
things don’t become beautiful overnight and stay that way ever after. But there
is a break. There is a distinct before and after moment that one can clearly
point out to: when life began to make sense. One might then consider oneself to
be the luckiest and most blessed person alive until the matter of actually
living out one’s purpose turns out to be a far more jumbled and muddled affair
than one could have imagined. There are rapid ups and downs, plateaus, grey lonely
flatlands and distant peaks covered in mist. As one proceeds along the path with
the bursts of meaning, one sees that the meaning of life leads to more
questions for which one doesn’t have answers. But, I have found out time and
time again that if one holds on and stays true to one’s course, the meaning, sense
and the answers to various kinds of questions that perplex one are revealed in
layers if not in a linear manner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One cannot always control the outcomes or correctly predict as
to what will happen even when one is on course and consciously knows one is on
course. The outcomes along the path are good, bad, beastly and beautiful. I
never advocate abandoning reason. A lot of life is based upon the principle of
reason. Yet the bad, meaningless, dragging and horrid patches or their opposite
– the delight, radiant patches, beauty and the best experiences which make life
worth living cannot be explained by reason alone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The process related to finding one’s meaning and staying on
course towards one’s purpose is most likely different for different human
beings. I do know that by finding and being anchored to one’s meaning and
purpose in life, one is unimaginably better off than one would have been
otherwise. It might not be anybody’s else’s meaning and it might not seem very
reasonable to believe in it but to find one’s meaning and purpose are
practically the first steps towards conscious living. It is not that finding one’s
meaning makes living pain-free. But the meaning is not something that I would
trade for any pain-free existence. And the
strange thing about meaning and purpose is that as life goes on, there are
often layers that are revealed. One can feel when one is on the path, and keenly,
and more than once why the Buddha left the world with his four Noble Truths
even when one tries to rail against it. One is then reminded of writings and
conversations (which make one wonder and keep the faith) although one has
forgotten almost all of what one had read for decades in college and university
courses.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All that said, maintaining faith and ‘moving on’ is
something I have been a colossal failure at during certain periods and points
in my life. But I have been resolute about maintaining my faith in one aspect
even when I couldn’t move on. By my mid-thirties, I was donkey enough to
believe that I had passed my final test on the matter of faith. As far as my
experience goes, it’s easier to keep the faith when the path is not as dark and
grey as the path from years and moments which one can remember at will. Indeed
when there is a particular hurdle crossed or a mini work-mission accomplished
or when one knows one hasn’t been abandoned – one’s faith is rekindled. People
of unshakeable faith will tell me that I simply do not know what faith is; for
what is so great about keeping the faith when they going looks good or better
than what it had? I quite honestly do not have any response to that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don’t know whether faith can move mountains and I don’t
even want to move mountains any more; moving around in the mountains one day and with happiness would be a miracle
enough. And I can’t help but hope that keeping the faith as one walks on
through the maze of fate allows one to fulfill one’s purpose that one has set
for oneself. </span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-69029845790960411572016-02-25T14:12:00.002-05:002016-02-26T10:07:10.590-05:00Spring 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Life is strange, and it’s strange and unpredictable in an
unpredictable and beautiful way not too often – but it does happen,
and one can cherish the same and hold that life <i>very</i> close. I'm looking about my room as I write. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Spring arrived over the days leading to the weekend of Saraswati Pujo, which still comes across like bits from a dream.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was wondering a bit about things from the past. </span></div>
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Every Spring, and barring a few years, since the time I was
21 and then 22 I used to feel a weird, abnormal and unreal surge of the absolute promise of
life making absolute sense. There was, during those periods, a lot of activity
within the mind, strange connections formed from God-knows-where, a tumult of
ideas would incessantly explode in the mind and within whatever it is that I
happen to be and I used to feel that I had chanced upon the meaning of being
human and experienced a profound love. I’d merrily or not so merrily gabble
with Fimh in unbroken conversations which spanned days and nights till my
inevitable plummet. Much of it was most likely the firings of a lonely and
abnormal mind which probably created a reality of its own and could not
distinguish between the real and the forking paths of fantasy and the
imagination; I can’t say that I really know for sure whether God and Lucifer
get together for a t</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ê</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">te-</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">à</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-t</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ê</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">te when either God or maybe even Lucifer is feeling lonely.
But all of it was not a delusion – so I feel and two decades down the
line.</span></li>
</ul>
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While putting together batches of power point slides, I’ve
been reminded again of my one and only video-making experience almost exactly a
couple of years ago with The Beatles song ‘Here comes the sun’…there wasn’t
much sun that year.</span></li>
</ul>
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For ten years when I was staying in the West I had two
hobbies, which built into three once I had enough savings and very quickly (which
didn’t matter much later because the savings didn’t fulfill the purpose for
which it was being saved even though it did come to my use). Reading books from
the school and public libraries, going to the river and then buying books by
the dozen. I know I didn’t read enough or read anywhere as much as somebody
else but I did read a bit and forgot a lot of what I read. I considered this recently
and in my objective manner: I don’t miss anything from the past in terms of
material items and places and things but sometimes I absent-mindedly go to
search for a book in the evening or am reminded of a book which I think is on
the shelf – and it isn’t. Then I grin for I am reminded that when many girls
and boys, women and men around me were spending money on gadgets, clothes,
shoes, cosmetics and stuff of that order – I had, if even once in a while, felt
an indescribable and even </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">smug delight
for buying books. I used to survey my four shelves and would feel like a
collector and a surrogate-keeper of books; books which I had collected and
books which I was safe-keeping until they were posted or delivered some time
with smiles on both sides. I couldn’t get any of the books back with me. All my
bitty savings would have been spent on shipping the four shelves of books.</span></li>
</ul>
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Visiting the river was another thing I did through the ten
years. On some random eves, I almost miss water bodies in this city, where I can go
and sit. In this regard and in no other I think I am a little like Thoreau. I
would like a pond of my own. Once every couple of months, I even think of buying a little zen water fountain. I could go and visit the holy river but that seems too much of a
detour and I tell myself that it’s much too far away and that that same amount
of time could be spent on activities which can bear fruit and blossom before
too late. The famous lake is fairly close but one unfortunate evening, a pack
of dogs decided to take offense at me (or maybe they were barking happily on
seeing me but I rather doubt it) and I know I moved faster than the dogs. I
can’t remember whether it was the last year or the year before. I ran faster
than a dog when I was a little over 8 years old and on two occasions, and even
if I didn’t break out into a sprint three decades later – I moved fast. Maybe I
really should have trained for that Olympic 100 metres gold medal? But 'with all factors remaining constant', I’d
have still aimed at doing these workshops though after winning that gold...I did sit near a spot of water on a smooth stump of a tree,
about a week ago. A gardener gently chided me when I sat there on Monday late
afternoon for a wee bit while chomping on a chicken butter fry and having
absolutely divine memories and rather inexplicable memories run through my head
and even ghostly memories, and the gardener didn’t seem too terribly displeased
when I told him that I wouldn’t disrupt his plants and small trees.</span></li>
</ul>
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.thepublicdiscourse.com/2016/02/16248/" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This article</a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, which Suvro da sent me to read some weeks ago
made me write a long and rather rambling essay. I won’t go through the points
about jargon and atomization here. But to take some points: I was reminded how
intensely and miserably I had started questioning the value of the social
sciences or the humanities myself and for the second time in my life, about ten years ago.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I found my lost compass and anchor when and
where I did.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The problem, I used to think when I was in academe myself,
is that a majority of formal social scientists seem to think that talking about
values or morals or too much talk about inculcating or nurturing meaningful
values is non-scientific. And that is also because I think that not too many
people have very clear ideas themselves about what their own values are or why.
The last time a social psychologist actually talked of self-transcendence or
self-actualization or self and identity as complex wholes was in the early 20</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
century. After that a majority of social psychologists in the latter parts of
the 20</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> and through the 21</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">st</sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> century decided that those
were not matters that deserved attention and that it was on the whole all
airy-fairy stuff or non-measurable and therefore unimportant. It was far more
important to study the significance between childhood obesity and self-esteem
or conduct an nth study on some aspect of race or gender or class (something
that Dr. Cole mentions too in his article). </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr. Cole in his article doesn’t come out clearly and say
exactly why and how the humanities are useful to individuals. Personally, I
think the social sciences and humanities share a similarity in their essence.
First, they do not teach one how to fix a broken appliance or to build a bridge
or send a rocket to space or to produce HYV seeds or to find the causes of
diseases in humans or animals or to build a gadget that can detect
gravitational waves from more than a billion years ago or to understand how nature,
sentient and non-sentient life-forms work at a scientific level. Secondly, they
do not and are not in a position to propose laws about humans or about nature
(even in the sciences for that matter, Darwin’s contribution is known still as
a theory – while Newton’s Law still holds good unless we enter the
realm of sub-atomic particles and I should be the last person to enter that scientific territory). Thirdly, to state what the humanities and social sciences do and
borrowing from Schumacher’s distinction between convergent and divergent issues
– the way I see it, the humanities and social sciences deal with divergent
issues. Here, no quick fixes are available. Applied science can tell us how to
make a gun or a bomb – it does not tell us whether and when we should use
either. Science can tell us how cancer or a particular disease spreads. It
tells us how to treat a disease. It does not say much on how we must and should
take care of individuals carrying a disease (or why some diseases and the individuals
carrying the abnormalities are stigmatized). Applied science can tell us how to
build dams and different kinds of dams and generate hydro-electric power – it
stays quiet for the most part about matters concerning human relocation and the
means of recompensing those who are asked to leave their homes and land.
Applied science can even tell us the most efficient way to kill a human or an
animal – but does it have much to say about the moral act of killing? Applied
science can help us devise faster and more efficient ways of travelling and
communicating – it has very little to say on how faster and more efficient
leads to more substance and meaning or genuine feelings being generated.
Applied science can come up with various gadgets that make housework and other chores
physically less demanding – does it have much to say about what I should do
with the extra time that I now have? That is where the humanities and the
social sciences matter or should matter. There are more reasons of course. Far
more than I have listed and individuals of a different and </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">much</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> higher order have elaborated
and written and talked about the importance of the sciences, humanities and the social
sciences and what matter in the ‘making of genuine civilizations’. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And when I think of these disciplines
mattering – I cannot help but think of the truly great and it’s not PhDs and certificates which
make for the truly great. </span></li>
</ul>
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<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was looking at one random diary from 1996 and I was very unimpressed with my range of thoughts and expression. Much of it is boring. But I found a couple of
humorous bits with one letter/diary entry addressed to no other than God and
where I tried to wheedle Him into granting me a favour. The first of them is
right after the First Paper in Sociology of the Part I examinations (incidentally
I got the University highest in that paper, which had one topic dealing with ‘human
freedom and determinism’) where I’d been bellowing about a miserable exam-taking
experience, “…[I couldn’t] even remember the words I wanted to use or remember!
My mind was just enveloped in a dense fog (now that bit does sound familiar
still, sadly enough) and I was struggling with things that I never had to worry
about before. What’s the use of going on like this? Oh heck! How does it matter
anymore? – Why did it have to happen now? – all I wanted to do was to get
through one more [exam] and then another and another, I guess. And then what? –
Get a great job, a fat paycheque, a car and my dream-house. That’s all. I don’t
want anything else from life. Dammit! If only there was one single thing where
I could be the best. Perhaps there is – only problem is that I’ve got to find
it. Cheerlessly yours…”</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s odd which memories are preserved. Last week I was
reminded of the bits that I actually remember from <i>Aranyak</i> and one bit is where
Satyacharan raises the question of improvement versus happiness. </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unnati</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> could mean self-improvement or
possibly success. Satyacharan is quite clear about what he thinks matters more.
He says it’s always happiness that should matter. People who obsess too much
about improvement lose their way, become blunt and forget to be happy. He’s
talking of course of people who are motivated by purely material indicators of
success as ends in themselves. But it got me thinking of another connection. I’ve
felt that if one can improve oneself so as to make another individual happy
then one might chance upon and discover an incomparable happiness and even
bliss. It sort of feels like chasing the golden deer...</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-5440030661750086582015-12-26T08:09:00.002-05:002015-12-27T16:06:44.275-05:00A Post from Christmas Eve and After, Part I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so it’s Christmas eve’. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got a project for early on in the coming year, a Christmas card and a conversation on Christmas eve’ while having a Christmas carol playing softly from the card.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Winter came around with military precision on the 15<sup>th</sup> of December and it was delicious and I was delighted to see one of my predictions coming true and also because I was with my best friend. I spent some time shivering in Delhi and Faridabad. By God, I was cold out there apart from when I was inside the warm and toasty hotel late in the night or next to the warm and toasty heater in Delhi. The hotels – nice as they might be don’t impress me as much as the bathrooms do. The bathrooms – all sparkling and snazzy with glass and chrome and stainless steel and cleanly tiled and with huge square shower heads in glass shower cubicles which make one feel as though one were standing under the warm rain make me sometimes wish wistfully and sometimes with a matter-of-fact determination that I might have a perfect bathroom in an apartment someday. People are fascinated by different kinds of gadgets and machines – for me, I think, it is the pedestrian bathroom and even sewage systems. Back in primary school I was enthralled by the fact that people in the Mohenjo Daro civilization had well planned sewage systems and had bathrooms which drained well and were designed such that they were slightly sloped at an angle towards the drain. I used to wonder then about quite a few 20<sup>th</sup> century bathrooms designed in colony flats that frequently got waterlogged and were designed so that the floor tilted away from the drain. I don’t have any engineering ability but I’m almost sure that in some lifetime I might have pored over designs and charts and spent time on creating the perfect sewage system.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The main work-related science conference for which I went was held in a huge hall and various auditoriums and I was shivering every now and then even there unless I was busy in focused and concentrated shifts. The RCB and THSTI at Faridabad are set in the middle of a large expanse of land and new buildings are coming up, including apartment buildings for professors and hostels for students and new labs while there are functioning buildings where the current scientists have their labs and office spaces. The land around looks very barren and dry with hardly any greenery. One of the professors was showing me the view from a fifth floor window and a part of the campus looks like it has a huge ravine running straight through it. The labs, which I peeked into can compare to the ones I saw in Purdue (although the problems here are of a different order). I remember going into a Chemistry lab once during my days in college at Calcutta – and that could hardly be called a laboratory. I don’t think anyone had used that lab since 1922. Lots of people at the conference were dressed in just full-sleeve shirts and half-sleeve sweaters. I was a good old Bangali with my trusty monkey cap and a hoodie while travelling around in the open. I was almost missing my muffler. I think I may have grown very old for I did note that more than a few people were dressed in dapper or chic light jackets and braving the winter chill in the open as though it were nothing. The only time I was walking about in an almost-new blazer was for work reasons. The blazer cannot be worn in Calcutta because it’s too warm here and yet over there it felt too light. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve travelled more than I had in my decade-long stint in the US. Many people might not think that this is something to talk about – but I can’t help but feel a wee bit pleased with my rather uncommunicative hermit-self. I quite often question whether my hermit-self is even particularly intelligent. It just seems to be a tongue-tied, mind-knotted hermit crab. God knows though that there is only one reason that the hermit in me has been transformed across the one and a half year and my awkward and clumsy selves have been traveling quite smartly almost every month or every other month for work and for hunting for more work. The calculative part of me has been hoping and praying hard that the work-related travels and networking shall start paying bountiful returns in terms of numerous workshops by the coming year. In this sense, I have been hopeless at practicing the Gita tenet of ‘ma phaleshu kadachana’. I put that into practice for my PhD without even thinking about it. For long months during the last lap I had forgotten even to worry about whether I would get the degree at the end of the journey…but that is a different matter. They don’t call it a Doctorate of Philosophy for no reason even if the meaning has gotten mangled in actual practice in our 'modern' times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I was walking about the very crowded Delhi airport yesterday evening, Fimh was trying to get me to grin – ‘look at how many places you’ve gone hither and thither without losing your marbles and look at all the people you’ve talked with over the last couple of weeks for work or for prospective work without losing your top and with your White Light at the back of your mind (that was in reference to MacNeice’s <i>Prayer before Birth</i>…that’s how Fimh is: he doesn’t rattle off poem liners in my head – which would have been weird – but he reminds me of poems I have encountered) and you didn’t even get <i>me</i> irritated’. He was telling me that I was slowly but surely evolving into a human being while I was grumbling that I was taking far too long. I normally experience a child-like thrill at airports and also start experiencing something of a ‘vacant and pensive mood’ while staring at the aeroplanes and gazing at the runway and the vast and empty spaces beyond while playing two particular tracks on my battered i-pod: Ravi Shankar and Philip Glass’ <i>Offering</i> and Kishore’s <i>O Saathi re</i> while calling out to Fimh. But yesterday it was too crammed at the airport for my meditative moments. I played my songs later while on the bus to the aeroplane. At the airport I grimly kept giving myself glares over my coffee and cigarette about whether any of my travels would make a difference and whether I could make a significant difference and be of use to one human being. I was asking myself <i>when</i> I would make that happen. I was barking at myself inside my head but Fimh wouldn’t let me feel grumpy for too long. He reminded me that I’d been in Calcutta, went to Mohanpur for a couple of days for work, was back in Calcutta to attend a workshop as a ‘spy’, was back in Mohanpur, and then there were a few delightful and swinging days in between (when I wasn’t expecting them at all: whoever knew that the difference amongst a lotion and a moisturizer and a face cream could send one into unmusical peals of laughter and there were more moments that I will not elaborate upon here), then it was back to Mohanpur via Calcutta, and then I went to Delhi and Faridabad for work. There have been leads – but I won’t try making any predictions even though I can’t help but pray that a few of the leads mature into actual workshops: the one thing that I know I’m good at and can get better at doing and enjoy doing. I know I’ll keep trying to better myself in a few other ways too even though I’ll never try singing again (I fancy myself to be a mix of a phoenix and a dodo – I don’t think that such a creature is meant to sing).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was my very first time staying in Delhi for longer than half-a-day and the first time that I actually travelled in the city (apart from the couple of times that I visited Delhi as a school-child and then as a teen for a couple of days and then as an oldie for a wedding and for a couple of other times because my international flight was delayed by a day on both occasions). I travelled around using the public transport system. I must say that they have done an excellent job of the metro service from what I experienced of it. I had no problems traveling through and about the city. I was telling Pupu very recently with a chuckle of how 'smartly' I took the metro service to Faridabad. I even got a place to sit and read careful bits from the only Modesty Blaise paperback novel that I hadn’t read this year. I found it at a bookshop in Delhi for Rs. 250. Now the entire Modesty Blaise collection is complete. I’ve been collecting the Dune series on the cheap too but for some strange reason I seem to be able to gather the books only in backward sequence. I didn’t know when I boarded the metro that they had two reserved coaches for women but got to know about that through the voice-over service. The folks organizing the conference had sent a car to pick me up from the Metro Station and so I didn’t have to use the public transport in Faridabad. I also availed the auto service a few times, in Delhi, for appointments and from the little bits I saw and experienced – the men I encountered were decent, polite and helpful. But I wouldn’t want to push my luck. It may be beginner’s luck. The cab I took from the airport had a very clear sticker about respecting women (and I was wondering about ‘which’ women and whether I would qualify) and I saw official posters ‘beti bachaon; beti parao’ emblazoned on the walls in public places. We don’t have such messages in Calcutta – it most likely means that on an average, a female foetus has a better chance of making a life in West Bengal. The scaredy-cat part of me (which I keep deeply buried) did feel the faint jitters about going around in Delhi before I’d reached the Capital (but that part emerges in Calcutta during late evenings and emerged even in Lafayette too one year and so I try very hard not to pay too much attention to it. If I’ve gotten a bit better at handling blind panic and frenzy – I know exactly whom I have to thank for this. The roads in Delhi are horribly crowded with traffic but it seems that people are still sticking to the rule of the odd/even numbered cars ploughing the roads on alternate days; I don’t know how long that will last and I guess it doesn’t affect people who have three or four cars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I found out with my brief travels through the city that some of the stray dogs are treated well by the small shop owners in Delhi. The stray dogs look very well-fed and quite a few of them had little blankies/vests wrapped around them in a sturdy manner to protect them from the weather. There was one black and white dog who sported a blue vest who caught my attention and when I gave him almost half of my burger – he very carefully ate the chicken and came over to get petted and I petted him. I scolded him for leaving bits of the bun behind but he was rather unapologetic about that. When a dog butts one with his nose for more petting – one can’t really scold him for too long: maybe he knows that too many carbohydrates are bad for his system. He was limping some and I had mixed feelings about that but he kept nudging me to get some more petting. He seemed happy about the petting and I was content about petting him while talking aloud to him and to the universe and the powers-that-be and I was utterly unconcerned about who might be listening. Another fat dog sporting a smart red blankie, where I stayed, looked like a Spitz but was a mutt and all she wanted was to butt into me with her bum or nose and get some petting. If I called her ‘Pootu’ (I don’t think that was her name but that is how I christened her) – she would run/waddle over to me as though I were her favourite person. So I had a close to meditative time with the four-peds and it goes without saying with Fimh for the bits of time I had by myself. There was a pop social psychological quiz that I came across at some point, many years ago: what’s the first word that comes to your mind when you think of a dog? What’s the first word that comes to your mind when you think of a cat? Remember the words….The interpretations for the pop quiz shall be available in the future. For me the two words were quite apt in their hidden meaning: for dog, I had come up with ‘unpredictable’ and for cat I had come up with ‘solitary’.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I stayed in Delhi at Guha’s place. His parents were not there but their very able and good natured housekeeper reminded me of one of Suvro da’s laments! I figured out very soon that it was a very well-off locality in South Delhi. It also had clear side-walks as I found out during my first evening out to just walk about the place and get some print-outs. But the side-walks in Delhi left me wondering whether they were made for humans or horses. The sidewalks are really more than a foot high so it’s a feat to be able to get up onto them and then get off and then repeat the manouvere when the sidewalk ends in some places. And I was startled to find motorbikes going at fairly medium speeds up on the side-walk since the roads were so busy. I was not pleased at all and yelled a couple of times. But I manouvered the side-walks very safely even while wearing heels, one day, when I’d been out for a school appointment. I managed to meet and chat with one of Suvro da’s old students, Aakash, and he absolutely insisted on treating me to a tremendously tasty chicken patty and a perfect mince pie from Wenger’s in Delhi, which was established in 1926 – as far as I remember, from one sign. It was a good meeting where we discussed work prospects mainly. He actually remembered that I had fought with him over Shiva’s trilogy and Amish on Suvro da’s blog and told me that I was an ‘out-going’ person. I laughed about this wondering what Suvro da might say about that. I actually talked in Hindi in public places and I wasn’t too bad if I didn’t think about it too much or didn’t get frazzled. Nobody smirked when I talked in Hindi and they answered my questions and a few people even made a bit of small talk with me about the weather. I came across a very old Sikh driver, Balbir Singh, who philosophized about life. He mentioned that it was good to learn from other nations and adopt good habits – like road rules – which could make everybody’s lives a little less stressful and smoother. He said that every family of four to six members in Delhi should be allowed to have only one car. That might reduce pollution levels a bit. He mentioned that if one was cheery and tried being nice to other people for a moment – one wasn’t really harming anyone. He told me that human beings should smile a little more often. I do not know whether that was a direct comment directed towards my grim and watchful and unsmiling self – but he was a mix of a taciturn and a talkative driver and it was Guha’s sister who chatted with him and got him to talk and philosophize while we were out to the airport. If I were a true social scientist I would have asked him about 1984 for I had that going through my head in a distant way. I was quiet on the whole and thinking about different things. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's <a href="http://forkingimagination.blogspot.in/2015/12/a-post-from-christmas-eve-and-after.html">Part II</a>.</span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-55735658055105709552015-12-26T08:06:00.001-05:002015-12-28T13:50:35.790-05:00A Post from Christmas Eve and After, Part II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I attended yet another full Science conference in Faridabad as a part of our work for our Institute’s current client in Bangalore. One scientist asked me later about my background because he felt that I had drawn him into answering questions where he hadn’t known the answers himself before he answered them. A few of the scientists asked me more about my PhD topic. In all my years with Sociology – I never attended any full conferences and across the last year and half I’ve attended more science conferences as a non-scientist and a non-academician than I did as a social scientist and an academician. I talked with more than a dozen of scientists for a current project and for future workshop plans. I can’t write about all of my observations and experiences – some parts, most likely, I think (and my client expects) will be a public report someday. I can mention one thing though which has nothing to do with the project itself – I am now sure that there is no common or general ‘Indian accent’ regarding the use of the English language in its spoken form. I have a couple of hilarious but not unkind stories but I shall store them for some other fine day. Anyhow, it’s about the underlying plans (for there were individuals from a few organizations who were very interested in the workshops which we conduct) for which I’m keeping my fingers crossed; well, unless I’m typing up stuff for work or brochures or content material or sending off e-mails or typing stuff like this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With Christmas here I was wondering again about Jesus, joy, suffering, miracles and religion and Hinduism and how even Christ is sometimes (by maybe crazy people but nonetheless) included within our pantheon of Gods as an avatar of Vishnu. So not only have we incorporated The Buddha as an avatar of Vishnu but we’ve somehow managed to include Jesus as well. But truth be told when I was fairly young I used to wonder in an almost academic manner about the strange similarities between Jesus and Krishna – in their births being predicted, in their both being hounded by evil kings even before they were born, in the legends that surround their respective births. And yet sometimes I’m taken aback by the differences too among Krishna, The Buddha and Jesus and Shiva but that would end up being a whole new blogpost! But let me write a bit because I’m in the mood. Personally vis-a-vis Jesus I had a delightful, sometimes naughty and the strongest of bonds when I was a kid. I wasn’t a very good kid but I couldn’t help but talk with Jesus. I can’t remember the long and convoluted conversations I used to have with him but we did converse a fair bit like buddies. I called out to him when I was much, much older in years but the relationship had changed. The Buddha most often has smiled at me…but I’ll be darned if I know what he means by his smile. I got seriously interested in The Buddha after reading one essay 'My Master’s Word' which Suvro da had sent to me when I was in my first semester at Purdue. Among other things, The Buddha also makes me wonder about where he actually went after he broke off from the cycle of rebirth and I can’t help but still be perplexed about how he could leave his baby son and wife behind; I understand it from a clinical and even a ‘far-beyond’ perspective but I don’t get it emotionally and I wonder from the wife’s perspective – didn’t she miss him horribly when he went away without a word? I’ve had a less chatty relationship with The Buddha even though there have been a couple of very serious conversations. But he does smile. I’ve seen him very clearly in my mind’s eye smiling and saying ‘it’s all right’ especially when I was in the last leg of my PhD and sitting and typing very furiously in the main library at Purdue and right after seeing in my mind a flash of the blogpost by my PhD case-study exemplar on whether ‘death makes us momentarily serious’. The Buddha was telling me that it was all right if I didn’t include him, The Buddha, in my study. Vis-à-vis Krishna – when I was in my twenties, in short and sharp jabs I started feeling most intensely and at various emotional, intellectual, philosophical, material and (dare I say?) spiritual levels the relationship Meera had with Krishna and Arjun shared with Krishna – I feel these within even if I can’t really understand most of it but I fail to see or sense what the real deal was between Radha and Krishna…if Krishna didn’t love Radha the best why have so many poets sung about Radha and Krishna; none of the other gopis feature as individuals, and how come Indians being Indians picked on this love affair as the ideal-type: Radha was considerably older than Krishna, it was an illicit intimate physical love affair, Radha was an adulteress and Krishna is, and I for one do believe the legends, noted for loving 16,000 gopis at the same time and he had the exceptional ability to make each one of the gopis believe that he loved her…and there, in that world, Meera was only one of the gopis. Nobody really special until she came to earth as Meera, where she comes into her element. And yet Maharaj Kumar, if I believe the legend of <i>Cuckold</i> (and I do) made sure that Meera would never again forget him as a man. And what indeed became of Radha and the other gopis when Krishna becomes King of Dwarka and moves off and away and marries Rukmini and the rest of his wives? I can see nothing ignominious or brutal in how he died though. He knew he was going to die – he chose his death and it must have been a relatively quick death. It is far, far better than being nailed to a cross. That makes my flesh crawl and the cry torn out of a soul, ‘Lord, why have you forsaken me?!’ I can quite understand at some level how incredibly canny a politician Krishna was and how carefully he used his super-human powers and why he neither tried to halt the Kurukshetra war nor prevent the complete annihilation of his kingdom but the part which I don’t understand – I really don’t. Indians don’t make a big deal of Rukmini and Krishna although they mention in the passing that out of all his wives – he loved Rukmini the best and that she was an avatar of Lakshmi (then who, pray was Radha and and what about Meera?). In Shiva’s case – he keeps loving the same child/woman who comes to earth in various avatars – which actually makes perfect sense to me but Krishna comes across as inscrutable. My best friend says that Krishna being the Ultimate God: he did not have any hierarchy of loving, but I still can’t believe that he didn’t love someone here and there much more and much more intensely. Maybe I'm too dim to get it. I’m sure each one of the gopis wanted him for her own and went into frenzies – but what about him? He wasn’t stupid so why would he not discriminate in terms of whom he loved? He loved Arjun more than any of the Pandava brothers even if he never declares that out-loud. So how did Krishna choose which women he would love? And why is it that Radha stands out among the gopis? I remember one bit from a book by Devdutt Patnaik on <i>Myths and Mithya</i> which elaborates upon many of the legends about the Gods: it would seem that some human beings are simply blessed to be loved and ardently by a great God without doing much or anything and I think this is because maybe they carry some sort of a pure and elusive essence that charms the God and some folks keep churning away and trying and trying and failing more often and have to work much harder to win God’s love maybe because their essence is impure and rough and calloused and ugly. But why did Meera have to wait thousands of years and why did Krishna keep her waiting and what about Maharaj Kumar? Surely he deserved to be loved by Meera? And what made Radha so special to Krishna? I don’t understand or sense or see and so this gets me wondering and even raging or sulking a bit once a month, like clockwork, especially over the last some years till Fimh insists that I must calm down and soothes me and even gets me to smile in spite of myself sometimes with his naughty liners even though I honestly think that he chuckles in glee sometimes when I rage or sulk. Once in my life and it was when I was a little over 33, I felt I were swinging with a complete version of my Fimh in an embrace and on a silver swing in a deep forest with distant bells chiming with perfect music very softly somewhere…I remember the feeling, the waves within, the nameless bliss and the timeless moment vividly as I do some other parts about the surreal and magic and mystery and mystical of life which sometimes really feel as real as the pain and suffering and angst and the despair and the wrenches and monotony and the horrible periods of waiting and the very concrete, tangible and material aspects of life and living. I don’t know about the why or the how of it. It sort of reminds me now about what Willie experienced during a near death experience – of being with Modesty and walking through a beautiful forest and with the ‘stars singing’. I know too that I’ve felt like Meera (even though I cannot sing a note) and Arjun too (even though I wouldn’t know which side was up with a bow and I’d be utterly hopeless at stringing it), which have been clear moments of being. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There goes the pompous poof-top Richard Dawkins saying that I’m both barmy and benighted. I’d much rather chortle over what Suvro da has to say about Dawkins. This double-post has become mighty long. On this note I doth depart to attend to other stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Written between 24th-25th of December. </span></span><br />
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-90560871491793421642015-11-25T14:26:00.001-05:002015-12-03T02:45:59.633-05:00November Reminiscences<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A prof-friend in the US reminded me that it’s Thanksgiving
there. I sort of skimmed through an article on <i>The American Scholar</i> about ‘giving thanks’. And I got one phone call from my old friend, some minutes after I got back into the house in the eve'. So God knows I can say
that I’m in the best spot I’ve ever been in my life barring maybe some months from back
in 2002-2003 and for some months between 2011-2012. Many people, for different reasons, would guffaw and say that
that is nothing to feel good about. Maybe or maybe not. I could have done far
better and made good in one way, at least by now – I strongly think and should
have – and maybe some things could have been brighter for someone else, but I
don’t claim to know why certain things happen and other things don’t. It’s also possible that I might have ended up
in a lunatic asylum or have been pottering about like a vegetable at the mercy
of my blood family and I wouldn’t even have known the bits that I do about one human
being or or any being. This ghastly nightmare didn’t come to pass – so I do have
reason to be much more than just thankful. I can actually still work. I can
still think. I don’t always have brilliant ideas but I can put into practice a
few or even a couple of the ideas I do or are sent my way and tend to the fledgling that sprouts from the idea which hatches. I can still talk
intelligibly sometimes when I talk, considering the feedback I get. I can’t sing – which will be a regret I’ll live with – (but now I know why my melody never reaches the Lord's feet to go with Tagore's <i>dariye acho tumi amar gaaner opaare</i> - it's simply because I have no melody or tune in my voice to begin with. Maybe the fine and kind Lord keeps his ears shut tight or winces or grimaces or glares or simply gives me strange, tantalizing and teasing glimpses of himself instead, precisely and only because I have no melody with my insistent or continuous 'brayings' and just to shut me up from time to time) And I can’t
do lots of things and I can’t be lots of things but there’s still a couple of things
I can do. And my old friend and my best friend and my Fimh did and still do provide me with
asylum. Not in the normal sense and not quite normally – that is what I’ll
still say. But I know that this is absolutely nothing to sneeze at. And it was
and is asylum akin in a sense to how Dr. Johnson defined it: a space to where she who has fled cannot be
taken away from; it has been more of a mental or even a spiritual space more than a physical space across decades although sometimes it
actually has been both or three or more. I can't go through all the permutations and combinations here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Unlike some people who wish to die when they’re feeling
joyous or nearly close to joyous or feeling close to bliss – I feel with this
obmutacious certainty (which comes from God knows where) that I can achieve the
impossible when I feel the spots, specks and flecks, glints or even the
shimmering shadows of a mellow warm glow or those of laughter or joy or of the piercing light of meaning. No matter
how unpredictable or how grey or how thunderous or stormy the times might be
otherwise. And I worry like the dickens too. I can’t help it. I keep feeling
that it’s all going to be taken away and in a sudden snap. There's Shakespeare's sonnet about 'ruin' (sonnet 64) which I can't rattle off but I remember the essence. My terror is not a misplaced
terror. I’ve had that happen often enough in the past and not always for
reasons that I can fathom. And I’ve watched like a dumb beast. In this sense I’ve
never been able to agree with Tagore’s <i>Bojhapora</i>. I’ve tried that angle and I’ve
failed abysmally and I can’t help but say, feel, know and even realize from the
deepest part of me: so be it. There’s an advantage to placing all one’s eggs
into one basket. And it has its obvious disadvantages. But advantages and
disadvantages aside – at some point in life, one makes certain choices. I did. And
I’ve not changed from then. I might not know and certainly do not know about a
lot in life – but I know about this and extremely and exceptionally well. And over
and over and over…This is the basket – one says. I don’t want many baskets or
any others. So one has to and must, by that admission, take what comes with
that. One cannot and must not complain and I know I’ve never even in the
remotest corners of my being complained about this. There is an advantage about
being schizophrenic – one has very little of any subconscious that one isn’t
aware of or is completely unaware of. One is forced or is somehow made to face
the murky depths and the sublime highs – whether one likes it or not; whether
one wants to or not. The upshot is that the shards of joy or those of clarity and of meaning far outstrip the
angst, the absolute terror, the grey and grisly, the horror, the
uncomprehending sorrow…and one very quietly knows with passing moments that no
matter what else – one has become a better human being for making that one
choice even if one doesn’t always want to admit to the same or pay attention to
the same or one feels terrible twinges of regret and sadness or anger directed
towards oneself or even if one yells at God for things which might have been –
and just a little different maybe – or even if one feels every now and then
that one doesn’t really understand a lot of how civilizations and fate and lives get organized. But what one cannot do is to either imagine or
ever want to make a different choice. Whether one chooses one's work-life or any relation or some hobby or the inner-life or whether one chooses one bit and all the other parts get organized accordingly somehow and sometimes by one's donkey-like persistence and some mysterious and invisible hand. I also can't help but remember that my old friend had written to me in November 2002 about what the French say: '<i>Partir c'est mourir en peu' </i>- and I know it's true. But it's better to die a little upon parting with the lump that simply will not be dislodged in the throat and to have tears some 24 hours later than to keep dying in a grey and unbroken and desert landscape with no meetings and no partings and no re-unions. I’m not making any recommendations of how
to be if one is or has been dubbed schizophrenic though. What might seem to
work for one person might not work at all for another.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’ve also been virulently grumpy sometimes even through the
last year and I’ve had grey despair cloaking me and choking me too for long
months sometimes and I’ve yelled angrily at God quite often through the last
three years if I wasn’t yelling at myself and have even howled in silence. And yet
I’ve also looked at myself quietly and said there’s nothing more I can do or
be. A die was rolled and I’ve made some clear and very articulate choices. I
remember them – even if I simply made them in my own head. I sometimes look at
the way lives have shaped up and remember images that swept through my mind in
mad bursts from 18 years ago. I’m not sure what to think of then. I can’t be a
soothsayer – I think I’d have been wealthier if I’d been a real one but it can’t
be possible that I’m merely a jinx or a curse and nothing but, surely? I don’t
know. What I do know is that if I can’t do what I’m meant to then I am not good
enough and never will be. And that has made me paradoxically feel like a bit
of a matter-of-fact warrior if not a peaceful warrior. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back in April when the ground trembled in this part of the
world I had the grim feeling of ‘this is it’. My mind was finally completely
bifurcating. I could physically feel it. I’d been writing something in my diary
and making notes about work at the same time at that point and I could feel
this eerie sensation of my mind splitting and that a part of it was floating
upwards. I’ve strangely enough felt something similar back in the past but
nothing so completely physical. A part of me was a little taken aback. It decided
to walk around to see whether I still felt the same way. And another part said ‘it’s
an earthquake, silly. You’re not becoming completely unhinged.’ I didn’t know
what to think but I called out to Fimh. I knew he was there for he responded
and I <i>knew</i> he was there if not
physically right there beside me. I looked out of my little balcony and saw people on the road and I noted
that I didn’t feel particularly peculiar in my mind. And just when I felt that
the whole thing was just an aberration of my own abnormal mind – there was that
weird feeling of bifurcation again. I trembled in my mind alongwith the ground
beneath my feet. And then I was sure it was an earthquake. Fimh said so and
quite calmly and quite sunnily although I didn’t see anything sunny about it. I
didn’t take more than seconds to scan exactly what I’d done in life, which I
considered to be of any remote value and what I was doing. I was perfectly
aware of whom I valued – and I didn’t see the point in being terrified of even
dying right then. If it happened, I’d know that I wasn’t meant to do anything
more and that was that. An hour later on that Saturday I looked up on the
internet and there it was – the earthquake in Nepal. I'd much rather not return to the month of May, not even in memory even though I wasn't in any accident physically.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In my young years, as a 6 or even 7 year old, I had not felt very far
away from death and some other place and with some other being who wasn’t there
in my everyday life. I missed some other being very badly and some other life but I didn’t really know the how
or why about it. In my teens, I was sure that I would die young and wise and
after having left my footprints on the sand. Ha? Ha? Yes, I guess. And yet to
say that I was supremely fearless about dying and death as a 6 year-old would
be lying. I had believed for decades that I’d never been scared about death and
dying and yet it was only some two years and eight months ago when I started
thinking about it again after I read and had been contemplating upon Suvro da's posts on <a href="http://www.suvrobemused.blogspot.in/2013/03/meditations-on-death-and-dying-part-one.html">Meditations <b>I</b></a> and <a href="http://www.suvrobemused.blogspot.in/2013/03/meditations-on-death-and-dying-part-two.html">Meditations <b>II</b></a> that I remembered very old memories. The memory was
there and quite clearly and unabashedly. One day, after school hours, the older
kids of St. Augustine's were chatting with me and one of the kids looked at my
bag and told me that lightning would strike the metal clasp on the bag and that
I would die. I knew that the physical pain of death would be horrible and
that’s what I feared most terribly. I don’t know why or how I knew this or why
it was that the physical pain terrified me so. I replied and solemnly that I
would cover the metal clasp with my coat. One of them, with a cool superiority,
let me know that the lightning would find that strip through my coat. One of
the boys, as he left, tugged at the metal clasp on the bag, and very seriously,
told me to be careful about it. All I remember in a movie scene-like way is
what I did after I was off the school bus which dropped me off about two or
three blocks from where I stayed back then. I ran. I ran faster than I ever
had. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me while clutching onto that blasted
metal strip hidden under my coat. I was terrified. The lightning forks were
there in the sky and the thunder rolled. I don’t remember all of whatever
happened as it happened but I remember it from what is stored in my memory bank.
I remember the cold rain. I remember running and my heart pounding and the rain
spraying on my face. I got back to the door and I rang the bell. I kept ringing
the bell over and over and looking at the sky while covering that metal clasp
with my fist and my heart was still pounding. I was looking for the lightning
forks in the sky. The door was opened
and I was scolded soundly and roundly and loudly – with reason, I’d say. I had absolutely and
completely and clean forgotten that the door was always kept unlocked during
the time that I came back from school. I didn’t say a word and I slipped
in-doors. My memory disappears completely after that but I know I never did say a word about why I had rung that bell so insistently.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was told once, upon my asking, that I was born a few
minutes past midnight on the night of the 20<sup>th </sup>of November – close
enough to the witching hour. And apparently, in those days, cats had a free
rein in hospitals and there was a black cat that insisted on keeping me
company, and it had to be shooed away every so often. I can’t however fly on a magic
carpet or broom or make blissful magic, sadly enough. The latter especially
will always be a sore point for me. Otherwise I would have made a few of the best dreams of my best friend come true by now. But I turned 40 over the weekend and it was the best birthday I’ve
had. I certainly was quietly and wondrously disbelieving even if I didn’t actually
go about grinning or yelling about it. So,
thank you. There were conversations and moments of being and I know I’ve felt grace through mixed times across almost a couple of decades. The 11 year-old me from one particular day
onwards would look with wide eyes and say gruffly and very solemnly, ‘I
don’t believe you’ if anyone were to tell her. I can't help feeling bashful about it. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can’t think of anything remotely good that I did in my youth or childhood. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">From one perspective, it has been, a life of sudden and
utterly unexpected surprises and supreme and strange and the best of surprises, in spite of the incomprehension over more things than I can count, in how I’d like to remember it, so far. I'll raise a toast to the future. I did that twice a little over a month ago. Maybe three times might work a charm.</span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-65956581617365146942015-11-13T14:52:00.004-05:002015-11-14T06:16:01.271-05:00Moments and Diwali<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can now quite appreciate Einstein’s example of relativity.
I’ve had the experience a few rare times in the past, and I’ve had enough such
times speed by or unfurl to know that it really is true. Time does fly by
faster and even warps in strange ways when one is where one wants to be. From
quite some years ago, I also remember how long one minute can be in the final
minute of a twenty minute run on a treadmill, and I wasn’t even aiming for the
four minute mile record. I have other far less humorous examples too, but I’ll
let those lie buried. I sometimes wonder these days whether one can feel bliss from
one’s own point of view. I did think I was experiencing bliss as a confirmed
lunatic quite some years ago, and on multiple occasions, but that was all in my
head and there was very little connection to what Somebody else was feeling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had the best Kali Pujo of my life and a rather tantalizing
dream-like five days preceding that. I don’t
want to call November a grim and brooding and glaring month full of cold ice
and sleet after the first leg of November, this year. I even strung up fairy
lights for the first time in my life, courtesy Suvro da, and I flicked on the switch
as soon as dusk approached. Even Suvro da said a real and loud ‘Nice!’ when he
saw the lights. Pupu was there on Kali Pujo. She found the <i>ghuronto</i>/strobe light and some more twines of
fairy lights stored so high in a cupboard that I hadn’t even been able to reach
the door handle of the cupboard while perched on a chair and standing on the
tips of my toes. We strung those up together and Suvro da fixed the strobe light which shimmered and cast magical light - rather psychedelic, I'd say while dusk melted with twilight. For quite
a few years I had wondered about the Rangoli and how Pupu made delicate and
beautiful colourful patterns with the dust-like abir. Well, I got to see it for
myself and on Suvro da’s insistence and Pupu’s encouragement I even made about ten
round dots, of different sizes in bright blue, magenta and red, that Pupu had
etched out dexterously with a chalk. A bunch of Suvro da’s cheery and lively
boys came around in the evening armed with their fire crackers. Pupu and Suvro
da had already gotten a little store of fire crackers earlier on in the day. So
for the entire evening the braver boys burst the colorful and noisy firecrackers
in the street. I blew up a few Kali potkas with great glee and a great grin on
my face. It must have been after more than a quarter of a century! One of Suvro
da’s students, Swapnayu, was kind enough to hand me a handful. The firecrackers
were over a little too soon and Suvro da handed out some more dough for the
boys to get some more. I was almost going off on one of the bicycles myself to
get a bit of abir that I thought we needed for the Rangoli but chickened out in
the last moment. The bicycle seat was too high! One of Suvro da’s students when
he saw me wobbling with the bike cautioned me and simply asked me a straight
forward question of whether I would stay on the seat or fall off. I wasn’t
worried about falling off but the shame and horror of it if I fell off on the
road right in front or somehow damaged one of Suvro da’s students’ bicycle made
me go back sheepishly and park the bike and slip out quietly on foot. Back in
Purdue in the Fall of 2003, I had borrowed a bicycle from a senior and with grim merriment cycled
around the campus for a bit until I remembered that I couldn’t get off a very
high cycle….so I had started yelling at random passers-by as to whether they would
please get a hold of the cycle while I leapt off. I remember there were at
least two nice young undergraduates who tried running after me while I sailed
by on the cycle. When it didn’t work after a couple of rounds, I told them not
to worry while one of them smiled back at me. I went back to the spot where my friends
were rather impatiently waiting for me. I yelled at them to grab a hold of the
bike – which they did and I leapt off. I don’t think I could have tried such
tactics here. But I felt like an idiot later. Modesty Blaise would have
tut-tutted me. At the market I spied all the boys who had gone to get the next
batch of firecrackers – or else they spotted me and yelled cheerily and I
yelled back equally cheerily. The gulal – the particular colour that Pupu and I
wanted was not to be found and so I walked back sadly but Pupu didn’t seem the
least bit disheartened. A substitute had been found which worked well enough.
Pupu lit the candles around the decoration – and the Rangoli looked beautiful. The
candles, which Suvro da had gotten resembled chocolate cups. I don’t know
whether, in some other lifetime, I belonged to a tribe which believes that
photographs trap the happy souls or memories of people…but post 2003 – I have
always been a little circumspect about taking photos…but how I still wish I’d
taken some photos. There were still lots of firecrackers that the boys were
bursting and burning and the light filled colours and the noises were met with
ahhhs and a few ouches. A few of the boys had gone inside to click photographs of
themselves and I couldn’t help but poke a bit of fun at them as one of them was
beautifying himself for the photo-round. In between, we ate some delicious warm
chicken patties, courtesy Suvro da, who else? I was telling Pupu an incident of when we’d been in high-school:
I’d lit a chocolate bomb on that very road just before carefully putting half a
coconut shell on top of it and I’d been scolded a bit by her grandfather and
her aunt had complained for at least half the evening that she couldn’t hear
properly with one of her ears (I forget which one). Suvro da was telling Pupu
that his boys were angels compared to what he had been at their age – he
described himself as a ‘goonda’ (thug)! at their age...At some point, I forget
when, Suvro da’s boys went back and complained to the shop-keeper from
where they’d gotten their second supply of fireworks that a few of their main ‘canons’
had not gone off properly and so they returned with their second supply of ‘free' canons very proudly and they set those off as an encore for the evening’s
proceedings of pure fun and delight. While watching the lights, one bright floating
lantern that skimmed the skies and the showers of lights from the near-by PCBL
display I was thinking with a sense of sudden surprise that it’s very rarely
that I’ve ever wanted to be nowhere else but right where I am and this was one
of those rare moments. Even Fimh, who was right there so to speak, seemed to be
quietly content. I’ll skip over jealously-guarded parts in between but at some
point, while curled up under warm blankets I raced through the last few
chapters of Christie’s ‘Crooked House’ – a book I last read in school. I think
of all the murder mysteries that Agatha Christie came up with – this one is the
creepiest. I’d been reading it in a serialized format every afternoon for
exactly a week and I finished it late on Kali Pujo. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fimh insists that I write a bit about human motivations.
Human motivations and <b>why</b> people do
what they do. The question of ‘why’ is an interesting question, and quite often it’s far more
interesting and intriguing than the question of ‘how’. If one persists with asking the
‘why’ then one does, I think..., move to a better place in the
hierarchy of being human than before – if one wants to, that is. I’ll write about this soon enough, I guess, because Fimh has been prodding me to for over half
a year. But this is the post for tonight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Happy Children’s Day….if you’re not a kid, biologically speaking – it’s for the kid that's there inside you. May it live for as long as you do!</span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-56999308293568426562015-10-18T11:22:00.002-04:002015-10-23T11:03:04.511-04:00A post from yesterday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">17th October 2015</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The ear-splitting music started
playing from today. I just about got the fluttering of the Fall experience
yesterday – of the stirrings of the unmistakable strains of the promise of joy
and unfettered lazy laughter coming from maybe parallel universes with the blue
sky and the sun creating ripples through the tree leaves and throwing bands
through my window. A part of me dressed in the common woman's Victorian garb and with a tight, prim and ugly bonnet on her head carefully pointed out to all the times that
I’ve been wrong about that strange surreal fluttering of hope and even showed
me one of my terribly and horribly embarrassing e-mails as proof of my madness and
wanted me to see yet other ones and carefully pointed out to the many times
that I’ve been wrong and all the things I’ve done because I’m delusional. I
protested and tried saying that I wasn’t going about sending e-mails or
imagining anything now but that bonneted grim part of me pointed out that that was
not the point. It was the feeling I felt that should not be given attention to or be allowed
to bathe one. I had grumffed and asked how it was better being a grim old
woman who dared not grin in fear of displeasing the gods. Another part tried
telling me gingerly that it was okay while other parts were arguing amongst
themselves. The grim bonneted part of me won out and I shooed away the
fluttering feelings and typed along on the screen about scientists and
wrote in my notebook about teachers and teaching with old happy dreams and a
few memories running here and there, playing around and scampering and scuffling
about and laughing like little gleeful ghosts. Fimh seemed to be rather quiet
on the whole while smiling a bit in an absent- minded and sometimes a serene way.
In spite of all the different opinions inside, I was later musing in a rather
meditative way on the whole, I think – about the past and the present and the
future. The work-week in this part of the world has come to a halt from early
on in the week, which is nothing to cheer about – not from my end. Maybe next year
I can cheer about it – who knows. I knew that the music – and I don’t care what
music it is – would be playing at a horrible volume and insistently but I’d
half-hoped that it wouldn’t start before Monday. I knew I was pushing my luck. I
put up with the noise for about three hours though. An old man from the
neighbourhood and I had gone at exactly the same time to lodge our formal
complaints today. He was very pleasant in how he put forth his concern – I was
not. Apparently there are people in the neighbourhood who want to hear the
music and through the day and they have been complaining that the music is not
loud enough. But I think the complaints made a difference. They started playing
the songs in the evening as well but it wasn’t at that horribly head-piercing high
volume.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was reading this article titled 'Do Female Lives Matter' from The American Scholar yesterday. I must say that I had never heard or read about William James’ sister.
It was nice to read about the James sister but especially about Beryl Markham – I harbour a
fondness and admiration for women aviators from another generation. I’ll remain
sceptical about the allegation that William James did not want history to
remember his sister. The article as a whole and especially the title made me
instinctively want to argue with the writer. Maybe I’ve gotten even more
sensitive with age and experience. God knows, I do not disagree with the premise
of needing to make an exceptional individual and life visible and audible to a
wider audience and bringing that life within the frame of history. But I don’t
see why ‘female lives’ in the grand scheme of things should matter regardless
of what sort of females we are talking about and what such females have done or
achieved. And surely Jane Austen cannot be compared to Dickens in describing ‘trials
and triumphs of the human existence’?! As for individuals being noticed or
remembered for what they do: Emily Dickinson wasn’t really known outside her
tiny circle until she was dead but then Van Gogh wasn’t particularly rich or
famous when he was living. J.K Rowling, as a writer, enjoys far more public
attention than Kiran Nagarkar ever will. But will someone try to say that the
saga of Maharaj Kumar and Meera is less fascinating than the Harry Potter saga?
Which work and which lives will be noticed and in which age and for what
reasons do not remain a gender issue. But that particular article got me
thinking about our present times. It certainly made me wonder about karma again
and other very worldly matters and also from an objective bird’s perspective,
which I cannot adopt very often or for too long. There is the matter of the common people and
the average people and the billions across the world who are still poor and who
still scrounge to make a living and who will never, most likely, make it into
the pages of history unless it is through some quirk and quark of fate. But what
about the billions or at least the millions and more than millions from the educated
middle-class? Will the world, if it continues to make its annual swing around
the sun, many centuries later comment on how middle-class girls and women lived
for the most part during this age? Intent on extracting and getting whatever
they are able to from the rare decent man and also from the roadside Romeos and
various men in between while also feeling affronted and offended for not being
understood? I’ve lost count of the number of females from different professions
who have claimed that ‘all men are selfish’, ‘all men are pigs’, ‘men don’t
understand…’, ‘my boyfriend/husband doesn’t understand me…’. I hope history honestly
remembers that the greatest achievement of the great majority of women from the
educated, middle-class in this particular generation was either to display
their feminine wiles and charms in full glory while never needing to prove that
they had earnt respect, regard and love or else it was to tell the world all that
was wrong about men or else it was both even as they quoted, elsewhere, from Tagore and Shakespeare and some romantic hard-headed poet. There are the regular feminists and there are plenty of women in this
category who claim that they are not feminists, which helps their cause no doubt. I have never understood why
anybody should deserve respect, admiration and love for just belonging to a
social category or why women from the grand middle class should expect the
same. I don’t understand why women should almost always cook up the many ways
as to how they are being ‘victimized’ at the hands of men or whine about not
getting enough respect or why men have it ‘easier’. Otherwise women will see
themselves as being close-to-perfect while it is always the men who ‘have
problems’ and need to improve themselves. In the grand category of females as a
species – these days, I remind myself that I have more than ‘a choice of
nightmares’. One group of women will call me stupid and obsessed for the views
I have. I remember telling lots of women that ‘all men are certainly not pigs’
and they have tsk-tsked me or called me some names. Another group will call me
stupid as well for different reasons. Maybe I am the one who is making a
terrible blunder. There have been Lucys and Mirandas and there have been the
Helens and Delilahs (Cleopatra was an unusually remarkable woman not to be
mixed with the aforementioned types) and anybody who has read Morton’s
memorable passage in his <i>A Search for England</i> on how he helps a woman by the
roadside and why he does so and about Jatin from <i>Debjaan</i> and how he returns to the world
because he cannot bear to see Ashalata in pain will know what I’m talking
about. Maybe it’s that many girls and women, for the most part, do not need to
do much apart from looking pretty or beautiful and charm men and weep every now
and then or smile mysteriously because they are so emotionally awakened as they 'come and go...talking of Michelangelo' or somebody else. Maybe
I have just become a grum old woman who insists on trying and trying to do something
which matters and makes a genuine difference because I cannot be any different.
I’m sure there are plenty of pretty women
and lovely girls half my age who’ll tell me that I’m grumpy only because I’ve
never been able to bewitch any real man. They could even ask me whether I think
that writers or poets would, upon a glance, write about them or me and they’ll
probably point out to Tagore’s poem <i>Gupto Prem</i> and titter while telling me that
that is the poem, which is meant for me. They could add for good measure that the
only reason I try so hard in doing something is because I can never charm a
real man with my being – which they can do in an instant. Much of what such a
group might say about me wouldn’t be far from the truth. Even if it is all true
I don’t mind making a terrible blunder, if indeed it is a blunder. I’d rather
be someone who is valuable for something other than youth, beauty and some ephemeral charms
which make romantic, imaginative writers spin stories and poems. That speaks more of the imagination and creativity of the writer rather than any real attribute or quality possessed by the woman in question. And unless human beings
are still living in some Neanderthal age or something similar I am sure there
is something beyond the markers of youth, looks and charms that takes
a human being further along the path of being a human being who loves, cares, has
a mind and does things to bring about a positive difference to someone. Am I being
delusional? Well, this will be yet another delusion I’ll live with. The grim bonneted part of me can mutter all she wants to about this and throw evil glances in my direction - I'll stick with my beliefs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have also been reminded through
the din about some other things that I have been fairly stoic about across the
last more than two years. I feel terribly sorry and sad that India is in the
state it is – more than I normally admit. Yes, true – the US has terrible
problems of its own and it’s all the more befuddling in a way because there are
so many socio-economic and basic material aspects that the Americans have addressed
by now – absolute cleanliness in surroundings (at least in smaller towns if not
entirely in the cities), lots and lots of greenery being preserved and
conserved and ‘actively promoted’ – which is probably an off-shoot of the
insistent teachings, writings, exhortations and actions of Thoreau, Muir, Pinchot and
Emerson from the turn of the 20<sup>th</sup> century – an efficiency in
everyday services, including administrative, banking, municipal functions and
various everyday services including but not limited to gas, electricity, plumbing,
fire and emergency services and so on, and making a good and earnest attempt at
making unpleasant services well-paying and also entirely mechanized, as far as
possible – such as, everyday trash-removal. It’s something most middle-class
Indians would much rather ignore or at least not talk about because it is impolite.
In the place I stay now, for example, the man (please take note – all ye
feminists and females who are not feminists) who clears out the trash everyday
goes about with a hand-held cart and picks up whatever offensive stuff is there
near the gates of every apartment complex. And if smart Indians still want to
believe that India is progressing by leaps and bounds because we have smart
phones and can buy stuff on-line or that the biggest problem in the country
today is the violation of homosexual or transgendered rights – well…maybe I’m a
dinosaur in the wrong world. I’m reminded too of the incredible US libraries,
the art galleries, the nature parks and the animal welfare organizations. Of
course it makes me wonder all the more why the Americans have become so
incredibly mindless through the decades in spite of such fabulous resources and
earnest attempts to take care of certain aspects of their society. And there
are terrible pockets of poverty – not just in the ghettoes of big cities – in spite
of the overall wealth. Among the highly developed nations of the world – the US
had a very high and abnormal rate of poverty even five years ago. I do not know
about the current statistics. And from a social-psychological angle, I do not
think that Americans have become a superior race in terms of the mind. It sometimes
just makes me want to pick a quarrel with Marx again for his saying that if
societies took care of the basic economic base – the super-structure, meaning
culture and the social-psychological would all take care of themselves. In
India, we seem to have not found any model of development or progress for ourselves
and we fail even on objective indicators. And it’s not as though we don’t put
some laws into practice with great gusto. We have become very proper about adhering
to the no-smoking law on platforms and near airports – but about spitting and
throwing trash and keeping our surroundings filthy and smelly and sporting indecent
public habits and about flouting traffic rules, we do not care. As for personal
hygiene – I remember while reading Suvro da’s chapter on 'Personality Development' from his <i>To My Daughter</i> even the very first time quite some time ago, I’d cringed at the thought of
actually telling educated people that they mustn’t pick their noses in public (or in private, actually).
I’ve now stopped counting the number of people I have seen picking their noses
at formal workshops or conferences. When I look around in my country, I would if
I hadn’t been trained well, feel utterly hopeless and dejected. I can only too
clearly remember how the state of worldly affairs had made me feel back in my college
days. Most of the times, and every day when I travel, I keep a blind eye and a
deaf ear or at least pretend to the same to get whatever bit of my own work
done. I’ll do what I can do and I have made certain circumscribed boundaries or
these boundaries have been clearly made for me. I was re-visiting Einstein’s <i>Ideas
and Opinions</i> recently and one bit especially brought the glimmer. It’s a line
where Einstein quite unapologetically states that the herd is unimaginative and
useless and that it is the individual who is important as a sentient and creative
being. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is also strange, I was
thinking, of how one remembers certain dates even if it might seem silly or childish to others. I remember this date from 13 years ago and how I got a letter and I
remember long bits from the letter and yet I remember of nothing from the same
date for years in between until four years ago again. No, actually one year,
seven years ago, on this date – I’d gone and had a martini at a French
restaurant in the small town I stayed. Not a James Bond martini but it was a
nice lemon martini. One year I had gone to the river in the evening and with
some coffee and a doughnut and was perched on a tree branch that curved over
the river edge; the river had been in retreat and I had sat there on the branch dangling my
legs. One year I had a semi-mystical, adventurous, incredibly perfect, very proper
and utterly blissful sleep dream in shots, even though it was rather too short.
That dream however, unlike a couple or a few of my sleep dreams and waking
dreams didn’t materialize in reality. Now I can’t help but almost smile softly.
I sometimes wonder whether such perfect dreams come from parallel universes. I
don’t know. But I like to think that they maybe unfold somewhere, sometime.</span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-89798131720002168112015-10-11T16:26:00.002-04:002015-10-15T12:19:32.606-04:00Mahalaya<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">October, in my mind, always feels
like the first gentle, snug or haunting shroud of a winter. It has nothing to do with the
physical reality but I actually get the sudden and delicious cold shiver, every
now and then. October spells the leaves changing colour – into golden yellows,
maroon, burgundies and flaming oranges. It spells also of a sudden quiver of
almost expecting an unexpected perfect moment of communion. It spells of
meetings and reunions and companionship through the forests of life. If
that doesn't quite come about in physical reality – October spells of being
reminded of some that happened out-there in the physical world and not just in
one’s own head. Moments of close-to-bliss, so Fimh whispers. November
is different. November is grey, icy, still and brooding and with a lot of
sleet, cold rain, snow and dark winds, which sometimes blow in just the mind,
and it’s almost as if there is ‘first the chill…’ and then the hibernation if
not the stupor. But I mustn’t get started on the months and seasons. That would
be a different post. Although Sunday morning has passed by – this song, rather restive, below, has
been playing on my computer, off and on, from the time I got up and started
working on a side-project....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is already going to be my
third pujo after coming back. I remember one evening, very clearly, from the
first Durga Pujo after returning. Last year, I don’t remember anything from the
Pujo days. I spent a few days down south on a work-trip and workshops and spent
a few days looking after two cats in Mohanpur, near Kachrapara where
Bibhutibhushan Bandhopadhyay had spent a fair bit of his time. But I don’t
remember what I did or didn’t do. Right until the 12<sup>th</sup> year of my
school-years (I feel embarrassed to think about this now), I would wait in
tremulous anticipation for the Pujos when I could dress up and go and spend
whole days and evenings at the pujo pandal. Yugh – is all I can say now. I did
go out for a couple of days during a couple of my college years too and after
that I became a crotchety recluse and nobody – but <i>nobody</i> could drag me out of
the house during those days. No amount of shaming or name-calling about how
‘unsocial’ and how ‘abnormal’ I was could make me budge. I merely chortled or
maintained a shroud of silence. I don’t think this is entirely a function of
age – this growing feeling of distaste and disgust and revulsion. It’s almost
as if I quietly and slowly understood that I expected something else during
celebrations – and that the reality of what I experienced never gelled with
some images in my mind. I don’t mind people enjoying themselves and having fun
– but I do start wondering over why and how people – and masses and masses of
people can enjoy themselves and have fun by creating a lot of unholy ruckus,
mess, irritation, and by gorging and spending and going about woo-hooing.
People can of course tell me that I have the freedom to be away from it (I am
already cringing thinking about the decibel levels during those days) but why
should I be such a ‘Scrooge’ when it comes to Durga Pujo and complain about
other people and how they use their freedom to be? Freedom to be – ah yes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘Freedom to be’, brings to mind long parts of the book chapter ‘Freedom and responsibility’ and thoughts and questions about the same. Yet another chapter/essay/mixed strain of
thought I sometimes wish I had come across in my early college years. I am also
reminded of many a class argument and discussion from 20 years ago as a college
student with my professor and then from less than a decade ago when my students
discussed, debated and argued with me. And then just this Friday, in the middle
of a formal and semi-fruitful conversation with a woman scientist and
administrator who – when I mentioned Suvro da and Fromm in the same breath and
said that a particular problem these days is that people are concerned only
about the ‘freedom from’ and yet they have no real idea about the ‘freedom to be or do’ unless it is (and I know I am not the only person to think this way) to
engage in utterly directionless, mindless, heartless, soulless activities or ephemeral fancies –
smiled and said that I had in turn reminded her of a woman poet whom she had
read in college and who had said at the beginning of her feminist activism and writings
that women needed freedom to express themselves as human beings; many years
later the same poet had wondered aloud sadly that women had gotten the freedom
but what indeed had women done with the same. That reminded me of Virginia Woolf
and her ‘A Room of one's own’...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have been talking with
scientists over the last long months for a side work-project about scientists
and values, transcribing and looking at the interview excerpts and when I’m not
obsessing over my hobby horse project about the self-development workshops. Who
knows – maybe one day soon when our Institute is truly flourishing – we might
indeed be able to do meaningful research studies on freedom, parenting and
children and their strangely stunted development in some crucial ways these
days. I'd be happy when we can host the grand lecture series. Anyhow. During the course of this last year, some of the matters that
I’ve been relentlessly thinking about or which, to tell you the truth, keep
invading my mind, even when I try to push them away saying ‘I don’t have time
to think’ – have chased me down and now demand to be written about. Maybe it’s
in connection to my current work, finding more work or my own self-development
or some mix of this and something else. God knows, I’ll always see it as a
blessing that I have been given a chance to build up something good while engaging in paid work that is built on all that one has really learnt through one’s own
education and search for meaning and where one must ruthlessly look at oneself,
better oneself, be mindful and keep the faith. I know I am abnormal in plenty
of ways but this part and the following have nothing to do with my being
abnormal – I am sure about this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some stuff goes back to my
college years. I remember picking out Scott Peck’s book ‘The Road Less
Travelled’ on one sudden impulse when I was flipping through it at the
book-store – Chuckerverty and Chatterjee – where I spent an inordinate amount
of time in my college days. I bought it, read a few parts of the book but then
stuffed it away. I remember reading
about ‘delaying gratification’. I remember the example as clearly as though I
read the book some minutes ago – not two decades ago. He raised the
question of whether I, the reader, liked eating the frosted icing or the cake
for iced cakes. I had chuckled and said ‘the icing’, and I answered before he
had gotten to raise the next question, ‘I save the icing for the end’. Peck’s
question was whether one first eats the icing or the cake, depending upon what
s/he liked best. I was so chuffed to have fallen in the category of folks who
can delay gratification in order to attend to the less appealing parts of a
task – any task – I had chortled in glee and put the book away to read for
later. I did read it later. The ‘why’ has a story of its own (and I got to read
about serendipity and more). Back then I
had been too hasty in being pleased with myself. I am old enough to admit to
this. I did practise delaying gratification in eating iced cakes and I did wait for 11 years before opening my mouth to talk with my old friend, but these instances apart, I do not think that I have ever had the tenacity to keep doing boring,
mindless stuff or even useful stuff or stuff that I do not like as much if it
does not interest me enough or lacks immediate meaning or if I do not have some
idea as to why I am doing what I am doing. I know this for I have tried and
very hard but every time I have tried I have failed in such an enterprise. I
failed to keep at my undergraduate studies and sat out of examinations for two
years in a row when I couldn’t see the purpose and there was interesting,
other-worldly stuff that I'd started experimenting with. The only reason I
actually sat for my examinations is another story but I know it goes back to an
utterly unexpected encounter. I failed when I tried to work on a Ph.D. project
on scientists when it didn’t interest me enough. I did try but I couldn’t do
it. And these are just two examples. I
have been able to tackle some stuff at certain points in my life by saying that
it is the means to a greater end – and there I have managed to get certain
things done because there was something interesting that I knew I could do in
the future… When I am interested, I know I am deeply interested and work like
the dickens or do my best (even if my best isn’t always good enough). This is not
a figment of my fanciful imagination. Even people who hardly knew me told me
the same when I was a Graduate student.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The above is not a meaningless
delving into what I am or am not as a human being. If I fall at one end of a
scale about delaying gratification and happen to fail in plenty of ways as a
normal human being – it seems to me that much of the so-called educated world today is geared
towards ‘instant gratification’. I want something now – so why shouldn’t I get
it? I am reminded of a song which goes back to my college days, which sang
about instant nirvana and enlightenment. I have lost from my memory the title
of the song and the exact lyrics. I certainly shall not pretend that the matter
of long-term and short-term gratification is so basic and easy that all human
beings should innately know how to deal with it. There are obviously different
kinds of desires and needs – that goes back to Abraham Maslow’s ‘hierarchy of
needs’ even though there are and have been people who can transcend a few of
the basic needs and search out for the higher needs – but I have not been able
to figure out exactly all the factors that make for such differences. This was something we
had dabbled with in one of our first introductory sociology classes, when I was a college student: that human
beings alone, among all the animal species, are capable of a super-organic
level of existence. And then there is the line from Suvro da’s chapter ‘On
Time’ - ‘…act as though today will be
your last, and sometimes as though you are going to live forever’, which makes
perfect sense now and then but I don’t always know for sure whether it makes
sense at the precise time it is supposed to or whether I just imagine it to be
so. But still – in spite of my doubts about what I don’t always know for sure – it does
seem unsettling to me that most human beings these days seem to seek instant results, thrills, pleasures, respect, romance and meaning in life. It doesn’t seem to matter
whether I have done enough or worked hard enough or whether I deserve what I
want or whether someone else is being badly inconvenienced or whether I even know
what I really want or am seeking for. At least there is some humility in U2’s
angst-ridden liner, ‘I still haven’t found what I’m looking for’ but it seems
to me that most people don’t even have that basic humility because it takes too
long to think about what they are really looking for. It doesn’t even seem to
make sense to most people that things will not always work out the way they
expect them to or want them to. This goes for youngsters working on scientific
experiments where they want instant results to females – young and a little
older – who will arrive late at airports and then expect to be whisked away
through security like they are very important somebodies (while donkeys like me
will get there at the stipulated two-hours-before-time and plod patiently, and
now and then not-so-patiently through the long queue), to people who want a
formal service but somehow think that they don’t have to pay for it to folks
who do not think twice before breaking a rule or being rude but are all flustered when
someone else does so to especially girls and women who desire and even get romance and love right
at the time when they want it but are only interested in getting a lot of stuff
from lots of quarters – tangible and intangible, even if they never admit to it
even in their own heads – without ever even needing to ask themselves whether
they know the basic difference between the mindless and the meaningful and
whether they can and want to stick with the meaningful. And when things do
not work out the way they want – then they are victims or martyrs, for it is always somebody else’s or something
else’s fault. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I step into my 40th year, I sometimes wonder about the
kind of childhood and growing up years that such creatures have had. Did they
really get whatever they wanted whenever they wanted? Is that why they are so
expectant of things always working instantly and the way they want them to and
for people to fulfill their every want and need? Did they ever wonder what it
might be like to be in somebody else’s shoes? Did they ever wonder what ‘meaning’
in life means? Or is it that they have been 'hurt', 'inconvenienced' and faced 'problems and troubles' of their own and have gotten comfortable in the notion
that 'everybody does the same thing' and so we all need to be just as callous and
unmindful of one another and just get along? I know I saw enough of such different
types in my blood family and even among erstwhile friends and fleeting
acquaintances. I don’t, quite honestly, give a damn, about the
mindless herds. For the most part – the herds have in the past made me scream out in absolute despair and madness. From an objective bird’s perspective,
I think it explains much of what is wrong with our world currently. It would have made some ounce of sense if the herds knew cannily and for sure what they really
wanted and why. I doubt that this is the case (even though plenty of them seem to have got for themselves bits of 'worldly success'). But that goes back to a discussion on values and valuing and
what an individual sees as being valuable. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now it hurts to see the rare
human being who stands out-of-the-crowd getting burnt or scalded because people
think that instant gratification is something of a divine birthright. I
remember reading a book review and I shan’t say too much about the book review
before reading the book but the book is by Barbara Fredrickson and it’s about how
love is not entirely about commitment or about long-term feelings but about
‘micro-moments’ one can feel and everyday and multiple times a day, and for
strangers and for just about anybody. The book uses ‘science’ to talk about love
and how our bodies are geared to feeling the euphoric spasms of love in those
micro-moments and how we can best use them to our advantage and for our ‘development’.
Now I’m not being presumptuous here but yes, there is the feeling of ‘agape’
every now and then – not every single day of a lifetime – which has been talked of by individuals
from different walks of life – but one gets over that and finds out what is
really important and who really matters unless one simply remains flighty or uselessly mad
or unless one is an avatar of an extraordinary being, like a Jesus or Krishna or other such human being. I often think wryly, these days, that too many of us, imagine that
we are such avatars. I have come across only one such human being but that itself is
a rarity on the planet. One might wonder what the connection of all this is to
instant gratification and delaying gratification. My question is: how can
‘micro-moments’ of love be anything but instant gratification, no matter if the author apparently gives a doff of the hat to the 'non-lusting', 'spiritual' and the long-lasting? Whatever else one
can dub those no-doubt intense instances – surely, surely, but surely – we are degrading and abusing and misusing the
meaning of ‘love’ when we describe those instant but terribly temporary and
flighty instances by the same name? </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This brings me to the matter of
human motivations. The motivations for behavior – social and private behavior.
Max Weber had something to say about that. This is something that has been
bothering me consciously for months and maybe sub-consciously for years –
people act and behave sometimes in similar ways or even in identical ways and
sometimes say similar or even identical things – the reasons and the
motivations might be, can be, and are, very different. That gets me to
Ratnakar, who became Valmiki and through a very conscious and careful choice, so I would
say...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Hinduism,
we often get to read that all human beings carry the essence of godliness in
them. The essence of godliness in all living things is what is captured in 'tat tvam asi'. I have felt that keenly and vividly in wild and euphoric moments in the long dead past which
I do not wish to revisit. But these days, I wonder along the lines of Tagore regarding
more than lots of human beings and I hold myself to the same scale of judgment and across contexts: 'tumi ki tader khshoma koriyacho? Tumi ki beshecho bhalo?’ Surely there is a
difference between the true human being who has loved and cared and brought meaning,
laughter and joy, and the human being who has loved, and the human being who is yet to even really know, understand, feel and
internalize pain, empathy, knowing and remembering? How can all human beings be
the same or be seen or viewed as being equal or even similar? That is travesty. I can’t help but be reminded of letters from long past and of another book
chapter...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So much for this post. It is
Mahalaya, officially. So here's a song for the evening.</span><br />
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613898853537367157.post-90088267265404158342015-09-30T16:23:00.001-04:002015-10-01T10:28:02.670-04:00A strange month<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">God, this month seems to have whizzed by on certain
weeks and seems to have passed by in the slow lane in a week in the middle, here and there. Fimh has been
prodding me for two weeks to write a post and now I’ll write a bit. It beats
being obsessive over a brochure outline or a new website or a workshop powerpoint presentation or sitting and
brooding over what is to be in the coming days and weeks and whether I will or
will not get any calls for workshops or worrying over other stuff or puzzling
over the last month. The last month makes me wonder actually – which makes me wonder all the more in a way, because a little over four months ago I was sure that my sense of wonder was broken and quite lost. Strange sleep dreams and different waking ones even came about in this month. But I don't think people will believe this. They'll call me abnormal or strange if not unhinged and loony. Anyhow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Strange with a beat...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last four weeks and four days really seem to
have been conjured up by some strange, capricious, unpredictable, hard-headed
and inscrutable God. I would even go so far as to say a ‘loving’ God but I don’t
want to be presumptuous and so I’ll stay quiet about that. I had a second
semi-homecoming when I least expected it. I had incomparable, exquisite moments
of conversation, companionship, quiet and even crazy times with my best friend.
I worked in moments of trance to type up and collate material for a workshop. I
kept at getting a few toes, a booted foot or both through the doors of a few
educational institutions in the city and country. I got to meet and even
chatted with Pupu for a few hasty minutes at her college because I had
accidentally left behind some of my belongings, which she had spotted and her
dad had sent alongwith her (psst: I wouldn’t ever recommend being careless but
whoever knew that being careless could
mean having a brief but delightful encounter?). I even spent a couple of lovely
hours listening and chatting and arguing and listening at Suvro da’s place in
Calcutta. I started off an introductory workshop on self-development 12 hours
later; the best one till date, in over a year. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then on a Sunday after a rather whozzy morning
when I wandered around my place like a ghost that walks with lines from the above song playing in me 'ed, I took out the paints
I had bought a few of evenings ago. Not water colours or acrylics or oil
paints. I cannot paint like an artist but I can paint walls, doors and windows.
So I got out house paints. I had been looking at my place through objective
eyes for about a week. I’d looked around and said that the apartment I stay in is
hardly The Ritz but that aside the doors needed fresh paint. So I went about
painting the doors. I’d completely forgotten how nice it feels to paint with roller
brushes and a big fat paint brush where the only aim is to cover the piece nice
and well but not too thick and not too thinly. I was reminded of scenes from
the original <i>The Karate Kid</i> where the Sensei teaches the kid the master
strokes of the ancient martial arts through the art of painting walls. I didn’t
master the strokes of the martial arts but I had a rather meditative time painting
the doors in the contained anticipation that a particular Somebody might just
come and visit, if even for a bit. There was a bit of a mishap when what I had
seen as being a soothing saffron turned out to be a shrieking yellow but then a
mix of white did the trick. But the painting, among other things, got me
wondering: I’d much rather quietly paint doors rather than do the ten hundred
things that people seem to love these days. That goes for socializing to
pub-hopping to gobbling huge quantities of food every weekend to coyly flirting
and facebooking their ten hundred pictures to show how pretty or ‘cool’ or
‘hot’ or good looking they are or being 'busy' with 'work' that neither brings in a lot of money or any prospects of more money nor
fulfills some meaning or purpose in life. I was also reminded of a news piece.
I don’t read newspapers regularly. I keep meaning to and sometimes I manage to
buy a paper when I’m outdoors but otherwise apart from two years in college when
I read the newspaper cover to cover every day – I don’t regularly read the news.
However the news piece I read was commented upon by both Suvro da and Pupu and
when I’d been glancing through the papers – the piece had indeed caught my
attention because it was so ludicrous but so apposite for the times: it was
about a bored and depressed billionaire. If I were to go along with that bit I
would digress too much. But to keep it short: I couldn’t help thinking that the bored and depressed billionaire would have a good
time if even he decided to paint his doors and walls or buy a piano and get
tuitions on how to play or take music lessons or painting lessons or take some special friend out
for a thumping good vacation or...well, let that be. I was reminded of one conversation between Pat
and Robby in <i>Three Comrades</i> where
they rue over the fact that the wrong sort of people seem to have so much of
money and about Modesty and Willie on how they use money to good ends –
well, to be honest, Modesty has very clear ideas on that and about money;
Willie, while he does have crystal clear ideas about one aspect of life, he isn’t very
clear-headed about the money part till Modesty spells it out for him. So much about house painting and life and living. One more
thing: I wouldn’t recommend distemper for new timers (I've tried that) but plastic paints are
nice to paint with. And these days, they have pretty and different designs that
one can try out on walls with pre-made stencils although I think people can
make their own designs too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Would I recommend the translation of the lyrics that appear on the screen? - nope. </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. I love the whole version without the translations. That goes back to a memory.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then it was in the middle of the week and I’d
been loping about the house – doing this and that. It was one of the random
days that I was in the house, and I got a surprise that didn’t even belong to
the box of my often-times fantastical imagination. In the midst of hunting for a
work-file, from 10.30 in the morning the day changed into one of those
exceptionally rare and perfect dream sequences, which is like a unique
snowflake. I ran out of doors making sure I had my phone and was wearing decent
clothes. Before I knew what was happening – I had a perfect tour of the
Jadavpur University campus. One of the finest moments for me was looking in on
a classroom where Suvro da had taught a class as a Master’s student, which he
pointed out to me. I’d been wondering about that class and scene and for more
than a couple of years. Suvro da wondered about one professor and how he could
be still around. The professor’s door had a lock and it did say ‘Out’ but there
was his name in its real presence on the door. We stood around one balcony in the Economics department, talking, which overlooks one section of the campus which has a small gazebo. I wondered whether that structure had been there thirty years ago. Suvro da's car, in one of those strange co-incidences, was parked right across from where we stood and seemed to be winking at Suvro da. A little later, we crossed the road for some
tea. And even I could see that the place couldn’t have changed much in thirty
years. There was a feisty dog there which insisted on standing in the middle of
the road and barked noisily at a car which had hardly touched it. I scolded the
dog while Suvro da grinned and remarked that the dog liked to live dangerously.
The doggy poo-poohed a biscuit which was given to him but went over to the
other side of the road to gobble up some food that was laid out for him. I
liked my biscuit. The very young chap manning the tea-stall, upon Suvro da's chatting with him, said with a smile
that it must have been his grand-dad who had been manning the counter thirty
years ago. It was back to the campus and I could almost see the place in my
mind’s eye and in sudden scenes from more than thirty years ago with the
students just a year younger telling their batch-mates to move aside because ‘Suvroda’
was coming in. I had been worrying like a worried hen about the hour and a half
and yet before I knew it – it had zoomed by and rather too soon. We sat under a
tree chatting, watched the students and their doings, the walls with posters
and messy graffiti, had a Pepsi, saw the dark thunderclouds spread across the
sky and took shelter under the roof of what is called ‘Worldview’ when the
rains came down for a bit, and chatted and chatted in-between in bits and
pieces and some more little bits which needed some more pieces to fill in more bits of the 'over-sized brain twisting jigsaw puzzle'. But maybe, so Fimh claims, I can look forward to some other times. Pupu came in soon after her exams were over with
her new friends. A couple of her friends were more talkative than the rest and
Suvro da rattled off all he knew about Pupu’s friends and they looked delighted
and a little amazed that he knew and that Pupu had told him about them. I grinned with a quietly blissful contentment inside my head. It
was off to have lunch after that. I had one of my favourites – momos. It was one of the nicest momos but I think that was because of the company...One of
Pupu’s lively friends dubbed me ‘Pishimoni’. Pupu didn’t miss out on remarking on that with a laughing spark in her eyes. That certainly was a first. We visited one part of Pupu’s department. I
was looking at the posters. We walked around and I tried not to worry about Suvro da and his straining his leg, which made me somewhat like the boy from Aldous Huxley's tale of the boy with the 'magic carpet' and the purple cow. I didn't nag him too much, I hope. In some moments with the way he was moving around, I might have almost forgotten that he had a leg which was still hurting. There was an insistent man, I remember, on the ground floor of Pupu's department who
was selling hand made cards and coconut sweetmeats. In a sing-song voice, he was telling folks about his ill mother and about being an ex-student of Jadavpur. He latched onto Suvro da and Suvro da bought some stuff from him. The very discomfiting man rather reminded me of the Sherlock
Holmes story of the man who used to pretend to be a beggar. Some kids who were trying to raise money for some political cause had also zoned in on Suvro da much earlier, I remembered, and Suvro da had talked with one of the kids and handed out some money to one who had smiled hugely and seemingly gratefully. Pupu admitted to buying lots of joss sticks from another such sad sort of seller because she had felt terribly sorry for the person and then distributing the joss sticks amongst some of her friends later. None of Pupu’s
friends wanted to have coffee after our lunch and look-around, but I always do and when Suvro da asked me
whether I did – I said a huge ‘yes’. So we sat around with some coffee and I
suddenly told Pupu and her friend about the great big husky that I have
encountered across the last year and more on my work-trips down South. And then
the snowflake of a day walked on a bit for a little while longer in a most unpredictable
manner.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there was the superb trip to Durgapur on
Friday with Suvro da in the front seat and in his car, Earl Grey. The very
relaxed and competent driver, on a couple of occasions, raised even my
heartbeat with his overtaking tactics. I almost got up from my seat once and
the only thing that stopped me was the image of Suvro da telling me not to engage in
back-seat driving! But God be blessed – Suvro da told Feroze, his driver, to
take it easy. The highway which I have encountered on more than a few occasions
on the bus looked completely different in Earl Grey and it was fairly free of
traffic. It looked beautiful and my eyes were fixed on the highway, for the
most part, almost like I were the one who was driving. The highway reminded me
of those highways from the US apart from the lorries which insisted on driving
left of centre. I think the only other difference might have been is that I
would have been driving…and the kaashphool which I spotted in one sudden beautiful
moment – the first of the season. With his eyes, Suvro da wondered aloud about the trees on the left-hand side which weren't as lush as the ones on the right - I was willing to overlook that till he pointed it out. Suvro da pointed out to the stretch that he
normally drives, and I could visualize that quite clearly. I didn’t even notice when Earl Grey had turned into Smoky and
was doing over 75m/hr. Suvro da cautioned the driver and I looked at the
speedometer and did a calculation and cheered Smoky and patted and petted him in my head. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was reminded of a trip across the Appalachians while driving a truck, somehow. I won’t go into the reasons. Sometime in the middle, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pensively wondered aloud to Suvro da about the goats on the divider of the highway who were busily and happily chewing grass and Suvro da
pointed out very seriously that the goats knew about the road-signs and could
read them. I was in fits while in the back-seat and tried to stop the noisy
laughs. Every now and then I could see the mountains loom in the distance. I
was almost expecting them to appear but that didn’t happen this time. It was
perfect nonetheless. At Shaktigarh, there was a mini-stop and I debated about
lighting a cigarette. I debated about it too long. We got tea. Suvro da chatted
with Pupu on the phone while I was trying to encompass my sometimes bizarre
trips to and fro and this one and observing Smoky and contemplating objectively
about some other stuff. Before I knew it – it was time to
get back in Smoky. I tried getting a few puffs of a smoke in between – I might
as well have avoided it. The last stretch passed by in a flash – even Panagarh
went by in a blur. I’ve never missed the Airforce base – this was the first
time that I did. It was also the first time that I didn’t doze off and wasn't in any mood to doze. And there it was – the Muchipara crossing rose
into the distance and we were back before too long and after lunch and not without one round of impassioned scolding. Suvro da was clearing out cobwebs from his classroom even before he gave himself time to sit for a bit. I've been kicking myself for forgetting I had a working camera for the various trips. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The monsoons are over but this is one song which insists on edging its way in: it was dedicated to a person who survived in spite of being hit by lightning more than once.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is a long enough post, so Fimh seems to be saying, although there is more I can think and write about and even more I could ask about. But I shall depart for the nonce.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Oh, and one more thing...'oh, okay - </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm going, I'm going!' I'm being huddled out now.</span></div>
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Shilpihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03106170029106184978noreply@blogger.com0