amidst the falling snow

In a data-driven world, there is an urgent need - methinks - of meaning.

There is a notion among birders that we use to identify the birds you gets very familiar with... the 'jizz' of a bird. It's not really quantifiable or articulated. It's the 'feel' that the bird's being arouses in you. The spirit of the bird, if you will. A sense given off by the gestalt whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.

Much alike, the world seems - to me - in acute need of an infusion of... meaning, jizz, geist, spirit, artha, soul, essence... call it what you will.

Numbers need to be replaced with meaning; patterns and trends with consciousness of the beauty of each intricate nuance of being; analyses with life itself.

 *

I yearn to ground, send feelers deep into life.

That could be what I pursue in life. Capture the geist of people, places, things. Articulate it. Feel the spirit of each doxel of experience. Drive the semantics deep into the fabric of thrown-in existence. And be grateful for that carnival thus created in the playground of life.

*

In gratitude, for life, for the world that has shaped me, for each of you who have made my being. Thank you.

Comments

I hope these two excerpts will suffice. The first, an analysis; the second, a vain hope.

For I say that those who do not feel motivated to serve their country when they think of their nation as nothing but their nation and respect people as nothing but people, who need to be hypnotised with shrieking invocations to a mother or a deity, do not love their country so much as they love passion. The attempt to maintain a stronger infatuation with something over and above the truth is a symptom of our instilled sense of slavery

Excerpt from "Home and World", Rabindranath Tagore (Tagore for the Twenty-First Century, trans. Arunava Sinha).

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

"Where the Mind is Without Fear" by Rabindranath Tagore.

I wonder if the lady got home

There were tomatoes rolling down the dusty street. The weather was redolent of promises of rain. We stopped to take a look.


A lady clutched at her sari, her head between her knees, on the ground. Lurching in the mud, she threw her slippers, one after the other, at the judgmental onlookers. Vegetables from her shopping bag was cast about.

"I showed you my face no!" She screamed at the dust.

She lunged for a garbage bag nearby, and made her whimsy fly rubbish out of the bag. Her eyes rolled, her tongue lolled, her mind clutching for her absent son?

Pining for raging distraction, she grasped fistfuls of dry dusty mud, and flinged it over herself.

People formed a circle. We walked towards our car.


It was dusty, so we rolled up the windows and turned on the AC. We played some jazz music for cathartic release.

I wonder if the lady got home tonight.

Taandava

There are moments when I wish to dance. Strike a pose like nataraja, have the world at my feet, hold it in suspended animation in the light of my third eye. Cut across the buttery everyday with lucid reasonery. 

And then there are moments when I realise that the world is a colony of many millions of sentient and conscious individuals, with emotions and thoughts beyond the scope of my rhyme and reason; of trillions of cause-effect chains that is beyond my capacity to remotely fathom, let alone affect. To believe I can affect anything substantially by craning my brow is but ridiculous storytelling.

The realisation of helplessness is sweet. Like apple pie. The first bite is melancholy. But soon, the wisdom of taste and contentment take over.

Okay macha, you keep your holographic universe, black holes, and hindutva. I'll love. Yes thank you bye bye sound horn please.

Writing

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
Ernest Hemingway

Yeah, right.


It has been almost a year now since I began "research" in philosophy, towards writing a thesis. The R-word has ever since been constantly evading me.

For months now, as I sit down to right, nothing happens. It's like a constipated straining. I try to squeeze out the last drops of the literary teabag by winding the string around, and I get the bitter theanine aftertaste. Like old coffee dregs at the bottom of the pot.

It is anguish to consider that perhaps until a year or two back, I would have struck a chord with Hemingway. Words, sentences, and verses used to bleed.

They're all but choked now, and this ain't no writers block.

It started as a skeptical attack of every word that I typed. What meaning did it have? To what end did it serve? It sounds beautiful, but isn't it too patriarchal? It went on, leading me away from verse close to the heart, and towards reasoned propositions, and conclusions that hung on the premises. Slowly the cancer spread to stem the bleed. And incapacitatedly, I realised that carefully inferred arguments could only take you so far, even in the matters of reason.

Today, I ask, is this clot a denouement, or is it a rising action? Could I hope for a peripeteia?

V was kind enough to point me to a post on how to write, written for students of philosophy, by a early career philosopher. The post has gotten me nodding, and encouraged to pick up a few hints. I hope to experiment, and I shall report the results of my experiment. Until then, ciao.

Savner Deg!

I miss the days we had together in Norway and Bangalore, and of course the moments we enjoyed together in Hyderabad. I miss the random rambling, the night time walks, the music we made and I miss your love.

I remember the evenings, at the kiosk, the afternoons at the CSA office, the camps we went on, and the dinner dates (I don't have to correct myself, you know what I mean). The romali rotis, the chilli chicken ( yes, those days where you were not a vegetarian), and the numerous conversations. They were happy days. They were days where you could go on, and on, and on and not feel weighed down. Yes, there were tiring times, but the energy we shared rejuvenated me. Do you remember, the 2am walks around college?. The walks down S.G.Palya?. Sultry days,indeed.

Do you remember the Hoskote incident, and the time when we waited at Sagar Apollo, for a surgery to be completed on someone who was a service warrior, the time where we were scared for his life, does that strike your memory?

The times where you helped me when I was in hospital, buying my medicines, feeding me curd rice, holding me, loving me, for those moments, I am ever so grateful. A memory comes to my mind of cleaning up your puke at the volunteers room, just Mathews and I, cleaning away, and somehow there was no resentment or disgust, but just love my friend, just love. We were like one unit, alike in so many ways, but different in other ways, and those differences held us, and still holds us together as well.

My friend, do you remember the time, when we got onto a air-plane, and flew away, miles and miles away, to a land so foreign, to a place so new and yet we survived those ten months, through rain and sun, through warm and cold, through -40 weather and of course getting our testicles frozen in brazen sea baths. The numerous bars of chocolate we ate, the jazz we tripped on, and darling, do you remember the rather hippie experiment of trying to hitch-hike from Trondheim to Inderoy? The petrol stations we stood at, waving our thumbs like idiots, but still having hope that some kind soul will offer us a lift, but no, that didn't happen. However that village we saw, with houses painted with shades of pink, blue, purple, orange and green?. Man, I loved that.

Our trip rundt omkring Bergen?. The bus rides, the ice creams, Greek themed nights, sword fights, good food, great people around, walking on hot coal, Fana, Bomlo, Voss, Aasane and so much more. Wow! We did some serious travelling.The lovely lady who kept us for one night, at her home, the talks we delivered, the nights we spent working on presentations, they are all very sweet memories. I remember I did jump out of a window at Fana, and seriously sprained my right ankle. However I guess, I walked on it, till it got better. Good times ey?

Skiing, visiting Marita, going to watch Therese play, swimming, chilling out with Ellemari,bugging Blossom when she showed up, and so much more, that we got up to in that span of ten months. Such beautiful memories, gorgeous moments. All with you. I cannot avoid mentioning, the regular ranting about ' ahem' you know who I am talking about, and the cookery sessions with the occasional flaring of tempers. All, nice times to think about. In retrospect, they only made the bond stronger.

We flew back, to Incredible India, shaved off beards, trimmed our hair, and got back to adapting to a system, we were honoured at honours, and grappled with expectations people had of us. We lived together that year, trying to play house, cooking for three months, and I believe we did well. I remember you making my bed for me as I was lazy. I still laugh thinking about my five minute shower sessions and your forty five minute shower sessions, and the regular haggling for Auto-rickshaws in the morning and I even remember riding double to college on my bicycle.Aunty Ma, Fudgy Ma, the hurriedly gulped down milk, and bleary eyed nights, trying to get on with studies, to meet deadlines and to get by. We did well, my friend. We did ourselves justice.

2011 came, and we parted ways. But, our hearts never parted, our bones never separated. We are still one, still bound together in friendship and love. We met after that, in Bangalore and in Hyderabad. We hugged, made platonic love, we discovered Atta Galatta, we cooked and we sang. Sigh, such beautiful,surreal moments of joy.

Jai guru deva...om...

Snakkes Snart Kjaere Venn!:) Klem!

again?

Starglow peers at me from a distance, and asks me, "Why didn't you study biology?"

Spectres of blue, water flowing down my skin, and neon lights remind me that life is but Act III of a Shakespearean tragedy, on repeat. Minus the catharsis.

The timbers of the palisade are shaken; bolts, nails, and wedges falling out, as a fire devours.

And inside, deep deep inside, a babe plays with lotus petals in a blue pond of water and tears. "Nothing's gonna change my world" an echo hums. Looks up with its pretty, innocent eyes, stares at me. "Hi".

Could I rip out my heart, chop it up, and serve it to you on a sizzling platter? With some tabasco perhaps?

Drown in the blue pond, and be born again?


sarveshām svastir bhavatu
sarveshām shantir bhavatu
sarveshām poornam bhavatu
sarveshām mangalam bhavatu

sarve bhavantu sukhinah
sarve santu nirāmayāh
sarve bhadrāni pashyantu
mā kashchidh dukh bhāg-bhavet