You learn at/with every step. Very cliché indeed. Yet, every so often occurs an event that makes you stop and take notice.
There are times when you feel that you know what you want; times when you think you have a generous heart and a tolerant mind; times when you think you have a selfless soul and a worthy existence. And then there is a thud and you come crashing to the ground. Your flights of fancy terminated abruptly, and you left all bruised and confused. Whatever happened?, you ask. A collision with reality, comes the reply.
You find yourself face-to-face with a person whose life and actions dwarf your ordinary achievements, whose intensity of thoughts sweeps you off your feet, and whose unflinching will to succeed makes you pave way for his grand passage. He patronises you and you idolise him. You take to him as fish takes to water. He redefines success for you and you acquire a fresh perspective. He harnesses a yet undiscovered energy source within you and you use it to shape your destiny. And then one fine day, you experience an epiphany and decide to try and take off from the clutches of mediocrity one last time, hoping to reach out to the stars with a stretch of your hand.
But gravity sucks. Literally. This time, it doesn't crash you to the ground. It raises the ground to meet you mid-air instead.
And then you realize, that you may run, but you cannot hide.
November 15, 2004
November 03, 2004
Prisoner Of The Mind
I hate the world of pretentious ostentation. I want to be a child once again. I want to return to innocence. I want to experience the joy of not knowing, of not caring about right or wrong, of being able to cry at will and laugh without any rhyme or reason. I hate wearing make-up each day. I want to feel the wind on my bare skin. I want to feel its chill and curl up in response. I want to feel my heart beat faster and derive warmth from the heat of my own body. I want to sweat it out under the scorching heat of the burning sun and let the sweat evaporate off me ever so slowly. I hate wearing sunglasses. I want to see the world with the naked eye. I want to rejoice in the vibrancy of earth's many colors. I want to see the rainbow form, the sun set on the horizon each day and rise up above the mountains again. I want to forget that mind exists in order to rationalize the world around itself. I want to remember only that I am inherently programmed to act on instinct, to react on impulse.
But alas! I am a prisoner of the mind.
But alas! I am a prisoner of the mind.
October 16, 2004
Complicating Simplicity By Simplifying Complexity
The Gods Must Be Crazy has a dialogue that goes something like, "Man has complicated life to such extents that for mere survival, its young ones have to undergo atleast 13 years of formal education." This assertion sets me thinking...
In the beginning, Man didn't understand the forces of nature and hence gave birth to God, a father-figure who would take care of Man's basic needs, provided, Man demonstrated his obeisance to God's omni-potence. A linear logic by all means - very representative, nothing abstract. Thenceforth, for centuries, Man has worked overtime to complicate the notion of God - ideologies have been formulated, religions have been founded, gospel has been spread, masses have been converted, hatred has been engendered, intolerance has been tolerated, wars have been fought, and humanity has been discounted.
The advent of Science on the horizon of human consciousness not too long ago, has however, managed to replace God with Technology. Where the concept of God was symbolic of diversity in unity, Technology exemplifies unity in diversity. The end result however, is not very different. Where there was one God and many interpretations of Him, there are uncountable demi-Gods, or technological marvels, that swamp human existence with all the glory of their incomprehensible gadgetry, but appear as a cohesive whole - Technology. With a host of gizmos floating around, enticing humanity with the razzle-dazzle of their oft-unwanted utilities, the secret of growing at will, the forbidden fruits of knowledge on the tree of enlightenment, seems suddenly to have been revealed to Man.
Thus, in an attempt to simplify the complexity of his being, Man has complicated the simplicity of his existence.
In the beginning, Man didn't understand the forces of nature and hence gave birth to God, a father-figure who would take care of Man's basic needs, provided, Man demonstrated his obeisance to God's omni-potence. A linear logic by all means - very representative, nothing abstract. Thenceforth, for centuries, Man has worked overtime to complicate the notion of God - ideologies have been formulated, religions have been founded, gospel has been spread, masses have been converted, hatred has been engendered, intolerance has been tolerated, wars have been fought, and humanity has been discounted.
The advent of Science on the horizon of human consciousness not too long ago, has however, managed to replace God with Technology. Where the concept of God was symbolic of diversity in unity, Technology exemplifies unity in diversity. The end result however, is not very different. Where there was one God and many interpretations of Him, there are uncountable demi-Gods, or technological marvels, that swamp human existence with all the glory of their incomprehensible gadgetry, but appear as a cohesive whole - Technology. With a host of gizmos floating around, enticing humanity with the razzle-dazzle of their oft-unwanted utilities, the secret of growing at will, the forbidden fruits of knowledge on the tree of enlightenment, seems suddenly to have been revealed to Man.
Thus, in an attempt to simplify the complexity of his being, Man has complicated the simplicity of his existence.
October 04, 2004
A Streetcar Named Desire
At first, there is an eerie calm.
The proverbial lull before the storm.
A deafening silence that engulfs the tranquil soul,
and an intoxicated life that drowns the mind into unfathomable depths of a subconscious whole.
And then there is a gusty storm - one of the most extraordinary kind.
It comes unheralded, and whistles past the flummoxed mind.
Does incalculable damage, and leaves without an iota of trace.
And the fact that you survive it, offers no saving grace.
What remains after the rampage is a numbed mind, incapacitated in thought,
and an emaciated soul, whose purpose for existence is frantically sought.
O! What on mother Earth is this all-devastating storm called?
A Streetcar Named Desire! Lo and behold!!
Desire, an ordinary word that has come to acquire an extraordinary meaning. Is it fundamentally wrong to have desires? Is a soul with desires, fallen? Is desire the sole cause of misery? Is salvation, the lack of desires? Why do we always associate desire with such high-sounding philosophical questions, the answers to which are the hardest to come by?
A mind, in perfect harmony with its surroundings, is agitated beyond reprieve by the mere intrusion of a desirous thought. What appeases the mind thence is nothing less than performing the surreptitious act of giving into the temptation of desire. And even after the soul has succumbed to the temptation, the crazed mind knows no respite because the fear of God looms large as a spectre in its dark, long, and deserted alleys.
Who then is the true survivor - the one who abandons all fear or the one who abandons all desire?
The proverbial lull before the storm.
A deafening silence that engulfs the tranquil soul,
and an intoxicated life that drowns the mind into unfathomable depths of a subconscious whole.
And then there is a gusty storm - one of the most extraordinary kind.
It comes unheralded, and whistles past the flummoxed mind.
Does incalculable damage, and leaves without an iota of trace.
And the fact that you survive it, offers no saving grace.
What remains after the rampage is a numbed mind, incapacitated in thought,
and an emaciated soul, whose purpose for existence is frantically sought.
O! What on mother Earth is this all-devastating storm called?
A Streetcar Named Desire! Lo and behold!!
Desire, an ordinary word that has come to acquire an extraordinary meaning. Is it fundamentally wrong to have desires? Is a soul with desires, fallen? Is desire the sole cause of misery? Is salvation, the lack of desires? Why do we always associate desire with such high-sounding philosophical questions, the answers to which are the hardest to come by?
A mind, in perfect harmony with its surroundings, is agitated beyond reprieve by the mere intrusion of a desirous thought. What appeases the mind thence is nothing less than performing the surreptitious act of giving into the temptation of desire. And even after the soul has succumbed to the temptation, the crazed mind knows no respite because the fear of God looms large as a spectre in its dark, long, and deserted alleys.
Who then is the true survivor - the one who abandons all fear or the one who abandons all desire?
September 14, 2004
Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman
At first, there was the web; then, there was a net; and then, there was the web again – only this time, I found myself trapped in it.
As children, we knew of the web only as a network of sticky fibers woven intricately by a spider with the intention of catching its prey. Then came the computers and the internet – technological marvels that gave birth to another web of fibers –this time, electronic – that was even more intricate and required uncountable eccentric spiders to weave it virtually in real-time. What purpose it solved and who ended up as food for the virtual spiders do not qualify as food for thought for me. I would rather sit back and enjoy the phantasmagoric spider-man weave webs of love and heroism on the movie screen and capture my imagination with his super-human animation acts performed with downright magnificence.
An outsider this far in all the web-logic above, I recently stumbled upon quite a bizarre revelation regarding our own social existence – the fact that we are mere cross-fiber junctions in the word wide web of contacts and acquaintances. And this realization gave me a feeling of being trapped in the web. Almost instantly, the meaning of the phrase no string attached became crystal clear to me. A simple mathematical formulation thus emerged - an individual’s presence is felt, in any socio-economic, cultural and political setting, in direct proportion to the sum of his weighted in and out degree in the famed web of acquaintances in addition to his own personal worth determined by the standard barometers of success.
This thought is rather unsettling. What if I want to make a mark for myself? I would require to make as many contacts as I can possibly manage, and way too influential ones at that, so that I can generate enough critical fuel mass in order to escape the gravity of ordinary existence. And even then, I will have strings attached. Given the above scenario, I am almost tempted to be not just any cross-fiber junction, but the web-weaving Spiderman himself.
The only problem being, I don’t know who he is. Any guesses?
As children, we knew of the web only as a network of sticky fibers woven intricately by a spider with the intention of catching its prey. Then came the computers and the internet – technological marvels that gave birth to another web of fibers –this time, electronic – that was even more intricate and required uncountable eccentric spiders to weave it virtually in real-time. What purpose it solved and who ended up as food for the virtual spiders do not qualify as food for thought for me. I would rather sit back and enjoy the phantasmagoric spider-man weave webs of love and heroism on the movie screen and capture my imagination with his super-human animation acts performed with downright magnificence.
An outsider this far in all the web-logic above, I recently stumbled upon quite a bizarre revelation regarding our own social existence – the fact that we are mere cross-fiber junctions in the word wide web of contacts and acquaintances. And this realization gave me a feeling of being trapped in the web. Almost instantly, the meaning of the phrase no string attached became crystal clear to me. A simple mathematical formulation thus emerged - an individual’s presence is felt, in any socio-economic, cultural and political setting, in direct proportion to the sum of his weighted in and out degree in the famed web of acquaintances in addition to his own personal worth determined by the standard barometers of success.
This thought is rather unsettling. What if I want to make a mark for myself? I would require to make as many contacts as I can possibly manage, and way too influential ones at that, so that I can generate enough critical fuel mass in order to escape the gravity of ordinary existence. And even then, I will have strings attached. Given the above scenario, I am almost tempted to be not just any cross-fiber junction, but the web-weaving Spiderman himself.
The only problem being, I don’t know who he is. Any guesses?
September 08, 2004
Kill Bill
Awesome. I had been aching to watch the second installation of Kill Bill for ages, and now that I have managed to, I must admit that every minute was worth the agonizing wait. I am no film critic, but I can safely say that the movie epitomizes cinematic excellence. It is an intriguing flick for the simple reason that despite having a hackneyed storyline, it manages to enthrall you with every scene.
To give a sense of the credibility of the (hackneyed) storyline, consider the Crazy-88 in the first volume falling like dominos in a gusty windstorm that is The Bride - brandishing the unparalleled Hattori Hanzo sword majestically, with a monomaniacal resolve to avenge herself. A motif presents itself in the second volume when The Bride is shot at with a rock-salt bullet by SideWinder and is then buried alive with a flashlight and boots that conveniently conceal a pocket knife, all proving crucial aids to her eventual espace from the otherwise imminent death. Such uninterrupted run of good luck can be paralleled only by the Greek Heroes of yore enjoying immense favour with the almighty Olympian Gods.
Such serendipitous glitches aside, the popular critique of Tarantino's Kill Bill volumes being a montage of the spaghetti westerns and martial art cult classics is unfair to say the least, not because the Kill Bill movies are original, but because the essense of the originals doesn't seem to have been lost in translation (or inspiration, if you please). Magic recreated is Magic generated. The Pai Mei sequence, though appreciated by one and all as a comic and refreshing interlude to an otherwise gory tale of revenge, has evoked a sense of déjà-vu in many. I admit that such things have been portrayed with much élan in movies of the likes of Police Academy, but Kill Bill is, in no way, doing them any disservice.
The elements that make Kill Bill unique and memorable for me are the intelligent use of black-and-white sequences, the episodic style of story-telling clothed artistically as reading out of a book, the animated revenge drama that paints The Bride as a comic-strip super-hero, the thoughful camera movement that apes the bride's single-minded obsession for revenge, the entire setup of Deadly Viper Assasination Squad complete with all the characters and their portrayals, the mystical aids to achieving the The Bride's ultimate objective - the inimitable Hattori Hanzo Swords (3 at last count) and the divine teachings of Pai Mei, and of course, the screen-goddess - Uma Thurman.
The best sequences for me have to be - one, when The Bride has been buried alive and while she is struggling in the coffin, wailing in desparation, the screen goes blank and all we can hear is the soundtrack; and two, the final encounter of The Bride with Bill. I came across this interesting piece of opposition to the way the film ends eventually, and I thought it would be worth including the text here:
"The ending of the film is particularly weak because of this total lack of emotional involvement - the sudden requirement that we care about the Bride's situation is too much and just comes across as cutesy nonsense, likewise the actual manner of Bill's death will disappoint both those seeking emotion and action. Action fans will wonder why Tarantino ignores the rules of the genre he is aping and makes the death low-key; but it would have been a great ending if we had had better characters - if Bill had been someone we had gotten to know it would have worked much better. The ending is, fitting with the spaghetti western homage, very much like Fonda's in Once Upon A Time In The West, but his was impacting for the same reasons that Bill's in not."
My response - I couldn't have hoped for a better ending, and I simply can't explain why. You have to watch it for yourself. For me, an 8 month long wait added another dimension to revenge is a dish best served cold.
To give a sense of the credibility of the (hackneyed) storyline, consider the Crazy-88 in the first volume falling like dominos in a gusty windstorm that is The Bride - brandishing the unparalleled Hattori Hanzo sword majestically, with a monomaniacal resolve to avenge herself. A motif presents itself in the second volume when The Bride is shot at with a rock-salt bullet by SideWinder and is then buried alive with a flashlight and boots that conveniently conceal a pocket knife, all proving crucial aids to her eventual espace from the otherwise imminent death. Such uninterrupted run of good luck can be paralleled only by the Greek Heroes of yore enjoying immense favour with the almighty Olympian Gods.
Such serendipitous glitches aside, the popular critique of Tarantino's Kill Bill volumes being a montage of the spaghetti westerns and martial art cult classics is unfair to say the least, not because the Kill Bill movies are original, but because the essense of the originals doesn't seem to have been lost in translation (or inspiration, if you please). Magic recreated is Magic generated. The Pai Mei sequence, though appreciated by one and all as a comic and refreshing interlude to an otherwise gory tale of revenge, has evoked a sense of déjà-vu in many. I admit that such things have been portrayed with much élan in movies of the likes of Police Academy, but Kill Bill is, in no way, doing them any disservice.
The elements that make Kill Bill unique and memorable for me are the intelligent use of black-and-white sequences, the episodic style of story-telling clothed artistically as reading out of a book, the animated revenge drama that paints The Bride as a comic-strip super-hero, the thoughful camera movement that apes the bride's single-minded obsession for revenge, the entire setup of Deadly Viper Assasination Squad complete with all the characters and their portrayals, the mystical aids to achieving the The Bride's ultimate objective - the inimitable Hattori Hanzo Swords (3 at last count) and the divine teachings of Pai Mei, and of course, the screen-goddess - Uma Thurman.
The best sequences for me have to be - one, when The Bride has been buried alive and while she is struggling in the coffin, wailing in desparation, the screen goes blank and all we can hear is the soundtrack; and two, the final encounter of The Bride with Bill. I came across this interesting piece of opposition to the way the film ends eventually, and I thought it would be worth including the text here:
"The ending of the film is particularly weak because of this total lack of emotional involvement - the sudden requirement that we care about the Bride's situation is too much and just comes across as cutesy nonsense, likewise the actual manner of Bill's death will disappoint both those seeking emotion and action. Action fans will wonder why Tarantino ignores the rules of the genre he is aping and makes the death low-key; but it would have been a great ending if we had had better characters - if Bill had been someone we had gotten to know it would have worked much better. The ending is, fitting with the spaghetti western homage, very much like Fonda's in Once Upon A Time In The West, but his was impacting for the same reasons that Bill's in not."
My response - I couldn't have hoped for a better ending, and I simply can't explain why. You have to watch it for yourself. For me, an 8 month long wait added another dimension to revenge is a dish best served cold.
August 20, 2004
Understanding Humour, part I
Humour can find you in the most bizarre of settings - in school, in college (Ok, they are not bizarre for some), at work, in uniform (To use some clichés), et cetera ad nauseam.
I found humour, or rather, the humour found me in my French Language class. One of the tragedies of learning a foreign language at such a 'mature' age is that your consciousness defies the restrictive domain of knowledge, that is defined by a handful of words you manage to pick up at the start of a course, at every step. For example, what do you do when you have not been taught how to say that you are a 'consultant in UNICEF', and to multiply your woes manifolds, you are called up in the front to demonstrate your excellent French pronunciation to an intent audience that naively harbors a desire to excel in the most lyrical language on earth, in which nothing is purposely pronounced the way it is written, or the other way round? Well, it's quite simple, you say 'Je suis chanteuse de UNICEF', which, losely translated, reads, 'I am a singer in UNICEF'. Why-o-why, you may be tempted to ask. But of course, because a singer is the most respected of professions after a consultant, and it doesn't really matter whether being a singer at UNICEF sounds bizarre to the outside world or it is looked at with absolute shock within UNICEF.
Well, this is not the only flip side of things. Say you accidentally bumped into a stranger you met while you were stranded at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris - our very own French adaptation of 'The Terminal' - je suis à l'aéroport de Charles de Gaulle à Paris. How about asking for the stranger's name (or profession, or whatever)? Oh, I feel so terribly ashamed asking such stupid questions that have such ridiculously obvious answers. Naturally, you indulge in the most respected pastimes of all - playing ping-pong with the stranger. You start by saying 'Je m'appeles Aishwarya. Et vous?'. The stranger replies, 'Je m'appeles Salman. Je suis Indien. Et vous?'. And the ping-pong continues ad infinitum. Well, not actually. Once you have exhausted all your crammed-up starter sentences describing yourself, like your name, your father's name, your mother's name, your profession, your address, your nationality et cetera, et cetera, you switch to the most excruciatingly painful and immensely sadistic devise of asking the person, 'Vous parlez français?' (You speak French?). Duh!! As if all this conversation was taking place in Latin till now. The stranger (Sorry, Salman. Oh, is it Aishwarya now? Anyhow...) replies 'Je ne parle pas français.' (I don't speak French). Surprise! Surprise!! Aah. The weapon is as yet unused. Now the next shot - 'Vous parlez espagnol?'. 'Oui. Je parle espagnol.' And the stranger now takes initiative and gives you a taste of your own medicine. 'Vous parlez anglais?'. OMG!! What a duel of words, a battle of wits.
The first act draws to a close, and not without its due share of genuine, unforced laughter. You pick up your books and dig your heads deep into them trying to make sense of what is written in a seemingly familiar script, but a most definitely foreign tongue. I sometimes feel learning French is like solving a jigsaw puzzle or working on a math problem. You know all the rules of pronunciation, but can never perfect the art of pronouncing anything, unless of course, you are suffering from severe cold or chronic cough or both. Whatever. Exercise time. You are shown a picture of a lady sitting at a desk marked 'INFORMATION' and a gentleman approach her for some inquiry. Your task - to construct a dialogue that ensues thenceforth. Lo and behold! Your's truly is called upon to perform the role of his lifetime. And who better to give him company than his sweet and helpful neighbour, Miss Madame (What stroke of genius! Couldn't have thought of a more innovative name than that!! A perfect oxymoron!!!).
After the usual greetings of 'Excusez-moi. Bonjour' - 'Bonjour', it's time to get down to business. I am at the information desk for a purpose. I have to ask for 'INFORMATION'. Eureka!! The solitary tube-light in the dark cellars of my mind flickers, albeit after a long and embarassing (pregnant) pause, and I take charge - 'Je veut un coca cola' (I want a Coca Cola). Ooh la la!! I beat my own record for ingenuity. I have complete attention of a beautiful lady willing to give 'INFORMATION', all expectant eyes are on me (That they want me to screw up my chances with this lady is a separate issue. Not that I disappointed them, in hindsight.), and I come up with this brain wave of an idea to ask for a bottle of Coca Cola. What follows is not even worth mentioning. But the unabashed soul that I am, I think it is my moral duty to put it down for the record. The lady is aghast to see a man with such intellect and denies the possession of any coke whatsoever. I am far too adamant and bang at her information desk demanding coke with final outbursts of energy that reminds one of a drug-addict fighting withdrawal symptoms and trying to cling on to the last remnants of hope for survival. The final nail in the coffin is hammered when the lady threatens me with the Police and I have no option left but to back out. Sigh. A sad end to a promising start. Nonetheless.
The story continues and the third and final act reveals itself. It's time to learn how to respond to the question 'George Bush, veut rencontrer qui?' (George Bush, whom do you want to meet? - No prizes for guessing it is the ever-elusive Osama Bin Laden). Well, the smart fellow that our instructor is, this question is posed only to 'the mademoiselles of our class'. Many say Tom Cruise, some think of saying 'Your's truly', but make a last minute switch in favour of their pet dog. Anyhow. The point being, one madame asks the instructor, 'How do you say that you want to meet your husband?'. The instructor replies, 'son mari'. Très bon. The next lady in line wants to say the same thing, and when it is her turn, she very proudly replies, 'son mari'. Ooh la la!! (for the second time). 'Son mari' literally means 'her husband'. Our professeur played a little trick!! Damn clever, 'a la Monsieur de professeur' (I know it makes no sense, but so does French). The whole class burst out laughing.
Huh. Till the unsuspecting lot of us ignoramuses sort out our 'yours'(son) and 'mines'(mon), we will be in for some really fun times. Good humour, this.
(This article is inspired by this.)
I found humour, or rather, the humour found me in my French Language class. One of the tragedies of learning a foreign language at such a 'mature' age is that your consciousness defies the restrictive domain of knowledge, that is defined by a handful of words you manage to pick up at the start of a course, at every step. For example, what do you do when you have not been taught how to say that you are a 'consultant in UNICEF', and to multiply your woes manifolds, you are called up in the front to demonstrate your excellent French pronunciation to an intent audience that naively harbors a desire to excel in the most lyrical language on earth, in which nothing is purposely pronounced the way it is written, or the other way round? Well, it's quite simple, you say 'Je suis chanteuse de UNICEF', which, losely translated, reads, 'I am a singer in UNICEF'. Why-o-why, you may be tempted to ask. But of course, because a singer is the most respected of professions after a consultant, and it doesn't really matter whether being a singer at UNICEF sounds bizarre to the outside world or it is looked at with absolute shock within UNICEF.
Well, this is not the only flip side of things. Say you accidentally bumped into a stranger you met while you were stranded at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris - our very own French adaptation of 'The Terminal' - je suis à l'aéroport de Charles de Gaulle à Paris. How about asking for the stranger's name (or profession, or whatever)? Oh, I feel so terribly ashamed asking such stupid questions that have such ridiculously obvious answers. Naturally, you indulge in the most respected pastimes of all - playing ping-pong with the stranger. You start by saying 'Je m'appeles Aishwarya. Et vous?'. The stranger replies, 'Je m'appeles Salman. Je suis Indien. Et vous?'. And the ping-pong continues ad infinitum. Well, not actually. Once you have exhausted all your crammed-up starter sentences describing yourself, like your name, your father's name, your mother's name, your profession, your address, your nationality et cetera, et cetera, you switch to the most excruciatingly painful and immensely sadistic devise of asking the person, 'Vous parlez français?' (You speak French?). Duh!! As if all this conversation was taking place in Latin till now. The stranger (Sorry, Salman. Oh, is it Aishwarya now? Anyhow...) replies 'Je ne parle pas français.' (I don't speak French). Surprise! Surprise!! Aah. The weapon is as yet unused. Now the next shot - 'Vous parlez espagnol?'. 'Oui. Je parle espagnol.' And the stranger now takes initiative and gives you a taste of your own medicine. 'Vous parlez anglais?'. OMG!! What a duel of words, a battle of wits.
The first act draws to a close, and not without its due share of genuine, unforced laughter. You pick up your books and dig your heads deep into them trying to make sense of what is written in a seemingly familiar script, but a most definitely foreign tongue. I sometimes feel learning French is like solving a jigsaw puzzle or working on a math problem. You know all the rules of pronunciation, but can never perfect the art of pronouncing anything, unless of course, you are suffering from severe cold or chronic cough or both. Whatever. Exercise time. You are shown a picture of a lady sitting at a desk marked 'INFORMATION' and a gentleman approach her for some inquiry. Your task - to construct a dialogue that ensues thenceforth. Lo and behold! Your's truly is called upon to perform the role of his lifetime. And who better to give him company than his sweet and helpful neighbour, Miss Madame (What stroke of genius! Couldn't have thought of a more innovative name than that!! A perfect oxymoron!!!).
After the usual greetings of 'Excusez-moi. Bonjour' - 'Bonjour', it's time to get down to business. I am at the information desk for a purpose. I have to ask for 'INFORMATION'. Eureka!! The solitary tube-light in the dark cellars of my mind flickers, albeit after a long and embarassing (pregnant) pause, and I take charge - 'Je veut un coca cola' (I want a Coca Cola). Ooh la la!! I beat my own record for ingenuity. I have complete attention of a beautiful lady willing to give 'INFORMATION', all expectant eyes are on me (That they want me to screw up my chances with this lady is a separate issue. Not that I disappointed them, in hindsight.), and I come up with this brain wave of an idea to ask for a bottle of Coca Cola. What follows is not even worth mentioning. But the unabashed soul that I am, I think it is my moral duty to put it down for the record. The lady is aghast to see a man with such intellect and denies the possession of any coke whatsoever. I am far too adamant and bang at her information desk demanding coke with final outbursts of energy that reminds one of a drug-addict fighting withdrawal symptoms and trying to cling on to the last remnants of hope for survival. The final nail in the coffin is hammered when the lady threatens me with the Police and I have no option left but to back out. Sigh. A sad end to a promising start. Nonetheless.
The story continues and the third and final act reveals itself. It's time to learn how to respond to the question 'George Bush, veut rencontrer qui?' (George Bush, whom do you want to meet? - No prizes for guessing it is the ever-elusive Osama Bin Laden). Well, the smart fellow that our instructor is, this question is posed only to 'the mademoiselles of our class'. Many say Tom Cruise, some think of saying 'Your's truly', but make a last minute switch in favour of their pet dog. Anyhow. The point being, one madame asks the instructor, 'How do you say that you want to meet your husband?'. The instructor replies, 'son mari'. Très bon. The next lady in line wants to say the same thing, and when it is her turn, she very proudly replies, 'son mari'. Ooh la la!! (for the second time). 'Son mari' literally means 'her husband'. Our professeur played a little trick!! Damn clever, 'a la Monsieur de professeur' (I know it makes no sense, but so does French). The whole class burst out laughing.
Huh. Till the unsuspecting lot of us ignoramuses sort out our 'yours'(son) and 'mines'(mon), we will be in for some really fun times. Good humour, this.
(This article is inspired by this.)
August 18, 2004
The da Vinci Code
A breezy read, and a fantastic one at that. I have often wondered whether the phenomenon of world domination by the western civilization was a consequence of the emergence of Christianity. Not that I got an answer to my question, but the book sure did highlight certain aspects of Western Christian Thought that were though not completely alien but were surely obscure earlier. For starters, I found the book delving deep into the American film genre of 'Conspiracy Theories'. The deeply ingrained fascination of the West for shrouding its belief systems in absolute mystery and then embarking on a journey to unravel it step by one excruciatingly slow step sets the stage for an intriguing real-life drama. This is not to say that the East doesn't mystify its existence by seamlessly interweaving religion and life. Just that by virtue of the West being more wealthy and pompous in its pursuits, it is always the more conspicuous of the two.
That aside, if the conspiracy theories discussed in the book are anything to go by, my ever-increasing faith in the plagiarising and pillaging image of the West seems to have be strengthened even further. The notion of squashing the pagan religions of the time, stealing their symbols and symbolisms, and rewriting entire characters in the biblical lore seems too much for comfort. It reminds me of 1984 yet again, with the elaborate machinery deployed by radicals with the sole purpose of rewriting the history of the world to suit their conceited ends. Why go as far as the West, let's talk of the rewriting of history textbooks by the BJP back home itself. I sometimes wonder whether this is a consequence of the corruption of mindset by the West through its unabashed display of wealth and prosperity acquired by wielding more power than the others, or is it inherent human nature. It is all too easy to conveniently lay one's blame on someone else but ever so difficult to own up to one's own folly.
I wonder whether the world would be a better place to live in if all its conflicting forces were allowed to mature unhampered. After all, every conspiracy theory tries to go against the establishment of a certain system of beliefs and functioning, and in effect professes a return to the originally prevailing chaos.
That aside, if the conspiracy theories discussed in the book are anything to go by, my ever-increasing faith in the plagiarising and pillaging image of the West seems to have be strengthened even further. The notion of squashing the pagan religions of the time, stealing their symbols and symbolisms, and rewriting entire characters in the biblical lore seems too much for comfort. It reminds me of 1984 yet again, with the elaborate machinery deployed by radicals with the sole purpose of rewriting the history of the world to suit their conceited ends. Why go as far as the West, let's talk of the rewriting of history textbooks by the BJP back home itself. I sometimes wonder whether this is a consequence of the corruption of mindset by the West through its unabashed display of wealth and prosperity acquired by wielding more power than the others, or is it inherent human nature. It is all too easy to conveniently lay one's blame on someone else but ever so difficult to own up to one's own folly.
I wonder whether the world would be a better place to live in if all its conflicting forces were allowed to mature unhampered. After all, every conspiracy theory tries to go against the establishment of a certain system of beliefs and functioning, and in effect professes a return to the originally prevailing chaos.
August 06, 2004
Septic Sceptic
I inherently mistrust people - people at workplace, people in relationships, strangers, and practically anybody and everybody who is not 'family'. I even mistrust my family at times. Sounds paranoid, doesn't it? I somehow feel that people always work to cause you intentional or unintentional harm, and mistrusting their every action provides me a magical shield with which I can safeguard my personal interests. It prevents me from being impulsive. I weigh the pros and cons in my head, analyze the situation and psycho-analyze the people invovled in it, before I reach a conclusion or decide on a response. Seems like a scientific experiment, done ad-hoc and distastefully. I probably am sounding egocentric and too much of a non-believer in the goodness of mankind. However, this is exactly what I have come to realize out of experience, or whatever little of it I've had so far.
It all started with the concept of a 'best friend' at school. I would, the unsuspecting and naive person that I was, place my complete trust in someone I would choose to call my best friend only to find myself 'betrayed'. They would move on nonchalantly to make friends with many more and revel in their companionship while treating me as 'just another friend', and I would be left all shattered. An instant opposition to this argument would be that the friendship above was really a child getting into one, and not a mature adult.
But as I grew older, I was into much deeper and meaninful relationships with a host of people who had varied upbringings and perspectives. But one thing that still remained a constant amidst all the change was the lack of consistency in their responses towards me. Viewed from my standpoint, despite my staying the same always, their perspective towards me kept changing with time. I guess it was the 'Theory of Relativity' at work. From my frame of reference, I was static, but the things around me transformed overnight into something unfamiliar and alien. Maybe it was my perspective that was undergoing a transformation, and much too erratically at that for comfort.
Later, I realized it was more a problem with me than anybody else. Maybe I was expecting a bit too much from others. I thought the best way to remedy that was to stop expecting altogether. A rather radical solution, but it worked nonetheless. I was a believer still, albeit a strange one - one with a null set of beliefs. The will to defend myself from the pain and anguish manifested itself first in mistrusting strangers and caught on gradually with respect to almost everyone I knew, till one fine day, I suddenly woke up to the realization that I had turned into a perpetual sceptic, an abslolute non-believer. Since then I have struggled to strike a balance between the two extremes.
I guess the urge to balance stems from the fact that both the extremes offer something unique that is desirable in all inter-personal interactions. While being a sceptic acts as your defense mechanism that is so essential for maintaining your individual identity, being a believer in goodness of mankind lends you a certain spontaneity in thought and action that is refreshing for the soul of a relationship. Where and how the equilibrium is reached varies with each individual.
It all started with the concept of a 'best friend' at school. I would, the unsuspecting and naive person that I was, place my complete trust in someone I would choose to call my best friend only to find myself 'betrayed'. They would move on nonchalantly to make friends with many more and revel in their companionship while treating me as 'just another friend', and I would be left all shattered. An instant opposition to this argument would be that the friendship above was really a child getting into one, and not a mature adult.
But as I grew older, I was into much deeper and meaninful relationships with a host of people who had varied upbringings and perspectives. But one thing that still remained a constant amidst all the change was the lack of consistency in their responses towards me. Viewed from my standpoint, despite my staying the same always, their perspective towards me kept changing with time. I guess it was the 'Theory of Relativity' at work. From my frame of reference, I was static, but the things around me transformed overnight into something unfamiliar and alien. Maybe it was my perspective that was undergoing a transformation, and much too erratically at that for comfort.
Later, I realized it was more a problem with me than anybody else. Maybe I was expecting a bit too much from others. I thought the best way to remedy that was to stop expecting altogether. A rather radical solution, but it worked nonetheless. I was a believer still, albeit a strange one - one with a null set of beliefs. The will to defend myself from the pain and anguish manifested itself first in mistrusting strangers and caught on gradually with respect to almost everyone I knew, till one fine day, I suddenly woke up to the realization that I had turned into a perpetual sceptic, an abslolute non-believer. Since then I have struggled to strike a balance between the two extremes.
I guess the urge to balance stems from the fact that both the extremes offer something unique that is desirable in all inter-personal interactions. While being a sceptic acts as your defense mechanism that is so essential for maintaining your individual identity, being a believer in goodness of mankind lends you a certain spontaneity in thought and action that is refreshing for the soul of a relationship. Where and how the equilibrium is reached varies with each individual.
August 03, 2004
Delusional Delirium
Stress - that dreadful monster that scares the living daylights out of one and all. Many throw the towel in, most struggle to stay afloat, some manage to hold on to the rope, and fewer still bask in its glory. I want to survive, and better still, flourish. What do I do? Deploy stress-busters!!
No prizes for guessing that the potent wonder-drug of my choice is called 'delusional delirium'. This sounds like I want everyone to turn into a hysterically euphoric psycho-neurotic, when all I want is each one of us to generate a self-sustaining illusion of general well-being; much like a controlled fusion reaction within one's self that powers the mind, body and soul to seek happiness and prosperity, outside, by acting as the driving force for sanguinity and the will to succeed, from the inside. This is hackneyed. Let me elaborate.
I am experiencing an ever-increasing visibility of animated gestures and moods around me everyday. People talk, behave, dress and act loudly to draw others' attention. Cartoons, caricatures, jokes and comic strips are hugely popular with kids and adults alike. They serve as potent weapons to disarm people without offending or hurting them and at the same time drive in valid points that would have otherwise been impossible to make understand. Concepts of Art of Living, Alternate Healing and the like are all aimed at healing the mind more than the body. They all serve to create an illusion that allows you to escape reality. Living with an illusion is not insanity. Infact it serves to provide an avenue to let go of the steam within by envisaging a world where only you call the shots. Once you learn how to control your mind, to see the other side of things, where you are in control, you automatically start feeling better.
The catch ofcourse being that you do not allow yourself to get carried away in your self-generated figments of imagination, lest you actually turn into a psycho-neurotic. Resist the urge to perform the act of this clinically executed self-destruction. The mind has a lot of power. It can make happen miracles by just wishing them. All you need is the will and the determination. Learn to control it. Don't let the boundary between illusion and reality get too blurry. But this seems like an impossible task. Illusions act more like black-holes. Once in existence, they work overtime to eventually suck the entire self into their field of influence and shut all doors of escape on you. The trick is to keep performing 'reality-checks'- a control mechanism that helps your fusion reaction reach a state of equilibrium and avoid uncontrolled escalation. A sensible reality-check is to frequently visit the real-world and express the desire to be led willfully, accept your flaws and work upon them in order to eliminate them permanently.
A time will then come when you will be without flaws and be in complete control of your self and the world around. It is then when reality will transform into illusion, and illusion will don reality. This is the fusion I envisage for one and all.
I have cooked up illusions of my own and hope to tackle stress in all its youthful glory. Still experimenting. Will let you know the results.
No prizes for guessing that the potent wonder-drug of my choice is called 'delusional delirium'. This sounds like I want everyone to turn into a hysterically euphoric psycho-neurotic, when all I want is each one of us to generate a self-sustaining illusion of general well-being; much like a controlled fusion reaction within one's self that powers the mind, body and soul to seek happiness and prosperity, outside, by acting as the driving force for sanguinity and the will to succeed, from the inside. This is hackneyed. Let me elaborate.
I am experiencing an ever-increasing visibility of animated gestures and moods around me everyday. People talk, behave, dress and act loudly to draw others' attention. Cartoons, caricatures, jokes and comic strips are hugely popular with kids and adults alike. They serve as potent weapons to disarm people without offending or hurting them and at the same time drive in valid points that would have otherwise been impossible to make understand. Concepts of Art of Living, Alternate Healing and the like are all aimed at healing the mind more than the body. They all serve to create an illusion that allows you to escape reality. Living with an illusion is not insanity. Infact it serves to provide an avenue to let go of the steam within by envisaging a world where only you call the shots. Once you learn how to control your mind, to see the other side of things, where you are in control, you automatically start feeling better.
The catch ofcourse being that you do not allow yourself to get carried away in your self-generated figments of imagination, lest you actually turn into a psycho-neurotic. Resist the urge to perform the act of this clinically executed self-destruction. The mind has a lot of power. It can make happen miracles by just wishing them. All you need is the will and the determination. Learn to control it. Don't let the boundary between illusion and reality get too blurry. But this seems like an impossible task. Illusions act more like black-holes. Once in existence, they work overtime to eventually suck the entire self into their field of influence and shut all doors of escape on you. The trick is to keep performing 'reality-checks'- a control mechanism that helps your fusion reaction reach a state of equilibrium and avoid uncontrolled escalation. A sensible reality-check is to frequently visit the real-world and express the desire to be led willfully, accept your flaws and work upon them in order to eliminate them permanently.
A time will then come when you will be without flaws and be in complete control of your self and the world around. It is then when reality will transform into illusion, and illusion will don reality. This is the fusion I envisage for one and all.
I have cooked up illusions of my own and hope to tackle stress in all its youthful glory. Still experimenting. Will let you know the results.
July 29, 2004
Mental Rape
Don't you feel violated - born with a virgin mind, and having all sorts of unqualified and unprocessed data pushed into it without consent? When a child, you are served with directives by your parents - which is alright, because they are basic survival tips. Thus, they go into your tender mind and form the first impressions of life and the world around you. As you grow up and receive formal education, the school texts, the print media, the mass media and your peer all contribute to your rapid knowledge acquisition; and it is at this stage that you are first told that you possess the power to choose your own destiny, to shape it according to your own will. However, with time, you increasingly realize that this so-called "choice" is an eyewash. And when this realization finally sets in, it is time you start feeling you've been mentally raped; and thenceforth, you carry the scar for life.
Am I being vague? Am I being over-critical? Am I being cynical, or is this plain and simple disillusionment with life and its processes? Let me elaborate. Upfront, people would say I am being an idealist in my approach. Maybe I am. When I am told I can chart my own course for life, I am not told that having taken that bold decision, I would face immense resistance in the form of inertia of the socio-economic system around me, overcoming which would require a herculean effort. I am supposed to figure this out by myself. Which is fair enough. No grudges there. But the problem lies in the fact that instead of being unbiased in its approach, life prefers a dumb-wit who "chooses" a conventional course of life over someone who tries to be "different". If the purpose of one's life was to act like a non-feeling dumb machine processing given set of rules with least creativity and maximum accuracy, why wouldn't computers suffice?
At a more macro level, if a government policy goes wrong, I am supposed to wait for 4/5 years before I can attempt to vote "my" chosen representative out of power. And this choice too is an eyewash. I am an insignificant speck of organic dust in this vast storm of people who stake a claim to political representation through universal adult franchize. Do I really have the power to vote in or vote out my country's top executive? When a nation tries to act arrogant and hegemonistic with the intentions of absolute world doimination, and with all its foreign policy (and for that matter internal policy) directed towards redefining "colonialism" in a modern and more subtle context, do I have a say? Millions of people staged protest marches across the world against the much-touted Iraq War. Did that stop America from ravaging Iraq? It will now go on to build another American Empire in Iraq with all its glamour of individual liberty, freedom, and the much-revered democratic governance, and in the process, take away the Iraqi peoples' right to self-determination and their nation's sovereignity. Who is to raise a voice against that?
I am taught in school and college about the virtues of social-service, about the need to serve the have-nots and the under-priveledged of the society, towards whom we all have a moral responsibility. But I ask myself today - well-educated, with a fabulous job that pays me really well, do I ever spare a thought for the needy; have I ever considered charity? No. The reason? I feel that unless I "have" enough, I cannot help the "have-nots". How much is "enough"? My choice is restricted because I am blinded by the lure of more money, more fame and more glamour. Who is to blame? Me, or the society? I am not shrugging responsibility off my shoulders. I indeed am guilty. But why is it that this guilt is going without penance? Why has this become a norm with the society rather than an exception, me?
I could ramble on for ages and still not exhaust the scenarios in which I feel I have been "violated" of my right to self-determination. Poeple would retort by saying why don't I turn a sage? And I would respond with a rather cliche answer - I am not an escapist (not to say sages are escapists, but they surely do live in oblivion of the world around them) and have been resigned to the fate of suffering bit-by-bit at the hands of this uncontrollable phenomenon of mass slumber bordering unconsciousness.
Matrix Reloaded.
Am I being vague? Am I being over-critical? Am I being cynical, or is this plain and simple disillusionment with life and its processes? Let me elaborate. Upfront, people would say I am being an idealist in my approach. Maybe I am. When I am told I can chart my own course for life, I am not told that having taken that bold decision, I would face immense resistance in the form of inertia of the socio-economic system around me, overcoming which would require a herculean effort. I am supposed to figure this out by myself. Which is fair enough. No grudges there. But the problem lies in the fact that instead of being unbiased in its approach, life prefers a dumb-wit who "chooses" a conventional course of life over someone who tries to be "different". If the purpose of one's life was to act like a non-feeling dumb machine processing given set of rules with least creativity and maximum accuracy, why wouldn't computers suffice?
At a more macro level, if a government policy goes wrong, I am supposed to wait for 4/5 years before I can attempt to vote "my" chosen representative out of power. And this choice too is an eyewash. I am an insignificant speck of organic dust in this vast storm of people who stake a claim to political representation through universal adult franchize. Do I really have the power to vote in or vote out my country's top executive? When a nation tries to act arrogant and hegemonistic with the intentions of absolute world doimination, and with all its foreign policy (and for that matter internal policy) directed towards redefining "colonialism" in a modern and more subtle context, do I have a say? Millions of people staged protest marches across the world against the much-touted Iraq War. Did that stop America from ravaging Iraq? It will now go on to build another American Empire in Iraq with all its glamour of individual liberty, freedom, and the much-revered democratic governance, and in the process, take away the Iraqi peoples' right to self-determination and their nation's sovereignity. Who is to raise a voice against that?
I am taught in school and college about the virtues of social-service, about the need to serve the have-nots and the under-priveledged of the society, towards whom we all have a moral responsibility. But I ask myself today - well-educated, with a fabulous job that pays me really well, do I ever spare a thought for the needy; have I ever considered charity? No. The reason? I feel that unless I "have" enough, I cannot help the "have-nots". How much is "enough"? My choice is restricted because I am blinded by the lure of more money, more fame and more glamour. Who is to blame? Me, or the society? I am not shrugging responsibility off my shoulders. I indeed am guilty. But why is it that this guilt is going without penance? Why has this become a norm with the society rather than an exception, me?
I could ramble on for ages and still not exhaust the scenarios in which I feel I have been "violated" of my right to self-determination. Poeple would retort by saying why don't I turn a sage? And I would respond with a rather cliche answer - I am not an escapist (not to say sages are escapists, but they surely do live in oblivion of the world around them) and have been resigned to the fate of suffering bit-by-bit at the hands of this uncontrollable phenomenon of mass slumber bordering unconsciousness.
Matrix Reloaded.
July 27, 2004
All that Jazz
Why is it that no matter how talented you are, until you glamorize your worldly appearance, you appear to be non-existent? And why is it that unless you are glamorous, success is hard to come by? Glamour, as I understand it, is not only related to the glamour-world of cinema, theatre, art and fashion, but also applies to the glamour-content of life at a personal level, vis-a-vis, being suave and articulate.
Any walk of life you take, unless you have the power to express your thoughts and ideas, and a will to do so impressively, no matter how talented you are, you lag behind. One of your own peer, who would probably even be relying on you for technical support would walk away with all the glory with some sweet-talk and begged, borrowed and stolen knowledge, and you would be left tongue-tied, brooding over your personal failure.
The question that arises thus is 'how do you turn glamorous?'. Is it a command over your language besides your field of work? Is it the way of expressing yourself, no matter in how many simple words and how slowly, but with effectiveness that is the mark of a successful man? Is it the proactiveness you exhibit in taking initiative even when you are yourself low on self-confidence, or are unsure of the outcome? Is it the natural ability of being at the right place at the right time for the right people to notice the right things about you?
The answer could be any of the above. It doesn't matter. As long as you realize that being glamorous is essential to your success, I am sure you can find ways to accomplish the same through introspection and some external guidance. However, the real issue is, how many of us, despite knowing the importance of such things in life, act to put things in the right perspective. And how many of us, despite having tried, ultimately manage to succeed in this fiercely competitive world.
Any walk of life you take, unless you have the power to express your thoughts and ideas, and a will to do so impressively, no matter how talented you are, you lag behind. One of your own peer, who would probably even be relying on you for technical support would walk away with all the glory with some sweet-talk and begged, borrowed and stolen knowledge, and you would be left tongue-tied, brooding over your personal failure.
The question that arises thus is 'how do you turn glamorous?'. Is it a command over your language besides your field of work? Is it the way of expressing yourself, no matter in how many simple words and how slowly, but with effectiveness that is the mark of a successful man? Is it the proactiveness you exhibit in taking initiative even when you are yourself low on self-confidence, or are unsure of the outcome? Is it the natural ability of being at the right place at the right time for the right people to notice the right things about you?
The answer could be any of the above. It doesn't matter. As long as you realize that being glamorous is essential to your success, I am sure you can find ways to accomplish the same through introspection and some external guidance. However, the real issue is, how many of us, despite knowing the importance of such things in life, act to put things in the right perspective. And how many of us, despite having tried, ultimately manage to succeed in this fiercely competitive world.
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