I Think, Therefore I am.. Just Bored

It becomes a fine morning when I'm actually looking forward to something. Alex Hitchins (The Hitch) says to the.. ahem.. Eva Mendes character," Start each day as if it were on purpose." (I think?) My mind seems strangely oblivious to the underlying principle involved here and my thought (which I now refer to as the Wandering Eye of Mordor), at a single moment in time seems to drive itself to 'understand' stuff than actually experience them. 

The questions of 'why' and 'how' which were instrumental in the survival and accomplishments of  our species, while elevates your attitude towards life, might not fare as well as efficient instruments in the actual living of it. In fact, the more you understand something, the more it seems to squeeze out every bit of wonder and excitement which might have given you a laugh or a passing smile. I'm now looking at the things I thought I knew in different ways to see if the theory is sound. For eg., the saying 'Ignorance is bliss' seems to have taken a more endearing shade of inviting blue now. 

As I'm writing this I realize that I'm trying to dissect and understand this state of sublime discontent as well, and I see it fit to stop now and let the feeling wash over me and make me feel like a 'real boy'.

To Prove an Identity

Thoughts move in random jumps of linear paradigms, tirelessly exhibiting the futility in their magnificent attempts to produce even surface ripples in the calm, colorless waters of the seas that fill the depths of my being. Deep currents of anguish and revulsion that run beneath them, bringing transient life to my sensory plains and uncharted islands born of untapped colors and unfinished sentiment.

What is it that I seek? I do not know. Perhaps I do not even seek the hope filled answers that may quell my fears and infectious concerns of continued purposes and potentialities of actions. The possibility of floods of relational emotions do seem to wantonly water the scorched earth of these forsaken lands in elusively desirous fashion though. And that in turn keeps the salty, intoxicating breezes blowing through the tangling vines of knowing that adorn the subtle spheres of my formless existence.

"What am I" seems to be getting a rather loud question these days and so I content myself by nagging the fickle mental facility with the contagious clusters of exclusionary arguments that provide short bursts of relief to the disease that spreads though my false soul.

And after having gone on for so long, it seems I have circled back to that first of realizations one finds enveloping the newborn self after the first waves of light and sound birth it in lucidity.

I  AM  NOT  YOU.

Happy Birthday Lil' Sis! All Hail the Awesomeness! :D (part 2)

Another pic she's not fond of.. :D

So now for the tales of silliness as promised.. Again, in fact more than before, I'm stuck with my dilemma of choices - too many tales of ridiculous behavior (and the database gets updated every other week or so :D).

The only thing that makes sense is to go with one of those childhood memories that seem to make me smile even now, almost two decades later.

And She Kicks Off!

The year is 1995 (I think). Malu had bad milk teeth as a kid ('chocolate pallu' as we called it) and so it was inevitable that a dentist was going to have his hands full when the time came to get one of them out by force. And so one day we found ourselves (the little thunder, mom and me) in a busy and flourishing dental clinic in town on an appointment which had been hard to get. We had of course underplayed the procedure with the usual crap about "it will be over in a sec" and "no you won't feel a thing").

After a lengthy wait, we were inside the actual room with the big chair and all the equipment propped around it and I could see Malu's eyes open wide - first in amazement and curiosity, and then grow narrow in rising suspicion as to the nature of this painless, practically pleasurable procedure that had a nurse and a doctor in a white coat standing around a bunch of sharp instruments with weird, plastered smiles.

The good dentist man, old and experienced in the art of selling his craft to little kiddies began his well rehearsed speech about the ice cream awaiting her once they were done and how the big chair in the middle of the completely innocent and irrelevant shiny metal equipment was the most comfortable piece of furniture this side of the Himalayas.

The speech got the round rascal in the chair eventually and I watched in growing excitement (never got to watch one before) as she lay back on the leather seat though she refused to keep her head down and watched the two professionals in now certain distrust. The old medicine man tried to explain to her how the head was vital to the procedure and the rest of the chair was just there for the patient. The moment she put her head down, the old one moved in for the kill with his smile growing wider and the nurse moved to the side to assist with the bloodshed as and when necessary.

The usual protests from the patient then followed about how maybe we should head back and give the old string to the door handle method another try. The dentist having heard a thousand of these before kept going with his soothing tone and after the introduction to a few fancy gizmos, slowly unveiled the main attraction of the day - the huge syringe casually aimed at her mouth. It was at this time that it occurred to small wonder that the eventual painlessness might involve a possible stab in the mouth. The doctor however, assumed that the silence in the room meant his salesmanship had now taken effect and leaned in.

For a few seconds, things moved in slow mo.. the doctor smiled even wider and Malu's mouth began closing tighter. Then there was a general shuffle and the doctor's pleasant expression began transforming in to what could be described as a combination of shock, surprise and the reluctance to cry. And Malu's face, for a brief second, changed in to one of triumph. The nurse stood there scanning her mind for protocols to follow at this point.

It was the first and last time I witnessed what a kick to the crotch from a healthy and desperate five year old's chubby leg could do to a weathered and wise practitioner of medicine in good standing. The dentist now took a step back and tried to stand as straight as possible without actually grabbing his groin in pain. I still salute him for managing to keep some version of a smile on his face though his eyes told a different, more heartbreaking story.

The victorious soldier decided now was the time to make a break for it and leaped out of the chair with the agility of a trained acrobat. The young nurse now had a tough decision to make - go help the doctor who was holding on to his dignity with all the strength his tired body could muster or chase the patient who had realized the room was more like a jungle gym than a clinical environment. The sharp woman came to the conclusion that her ethics and security of job lay in procuring the patient and proceeded to circle the chair. A woman in her thirties however can't match the zest of a kindergartner when it comes to a good game of "catch me if you can".

After a few minutes, the doctor, now in a more husky voice, suggested that perhaps we should go for alternate treatment, maybe a less invasive one - "After all, the child's welfare is what comes first," he added with tears in his eyes and new found benevolence on his wrinkled face.

I don't remember how exactly the tooth came out in the end but the event left its mark in my memory. We left the clinic rather hurriedly and mom tried to explain to Malu how the ice cream only came to her if the tooth had come out and was not a mandatory bonus from a visit to the dentist.

This is just one of the things I remember about the angel/devil that's my baby sister and how she responded to the various events and things in her life. Now at 23, she's perhaps the kindest, smartest, talented, most responsible and definitely the funniest person I know.

So happy birthday baby girl! And many many happy returns to you.. :D

Happy Birthday Lil' Sis! All Hail the Awesomeness! :D

Malu and me in Hyderabad (Nov, 2013)
(She hates this pic.. hehe..)

Ever since I published my 'Contemplation of a Chettan' post, I've had this idea (three guesses who put it there..) to write a piece on some of my fond memories with my little sister. What stopped me was indecisiveness as to what ones to choose.. Too many fun ones and too many dramatic ones to conclusively decide which ones to pen down on the interwebs..

But as tomorrow's her birthday I had a brainwave to include something that would tell lots about her without writing a book about the hilarity and ridiculous wonder that is my baby sister. And as all chettans must I thought should strike a balance between her brilliance and stunning stupidity at times (not really.. hehe.. more like naivety or innocence). One's duty as the sacred guardian of 'Creative Ways to Mock the Malu' must be held above all.. :D

So here are two stories that come to mind about the birthday girl about to celebrate her 23rd year on this planet and the years before on whatever planet she came from (irony follows..).

The Recognition of Intelligent Life :D

The year is 2001. As a busy, busy 14 year old doing important 14 year old stuff like laying around and bossing the other inhabitants of the house around in order to get over the fact that after a long time I was in the youngest batch in school.. and that too the rather intimidating theater that is 'senior' school (Our school was split into two branches at two locations at the time).

So the 10 year old who I occasionally bumped in to, on the busy route between the living room and the kitchen was an easy target. After being exiled in to the bedroom during my evening TV viewing hours she had become quite a voracious reader, among other interesting activities like unscrewing the ceiling fan in her mind (something she spent hours doing - her version of boredom meets meditation I suppose). So my plan of solitary laziness (which I was excelling in btw), was interrupted when she began asking me for suggestions on which books to read from our collection at home as they were 'grown up' books. After I guided her unceremoniously through Enid Blyton's various creations and then through your generic teen sleuths on the unforgiving quest for justice against conveniently idiotic villains she still kept bugging me every other day. So, finally, having had enough of  her insanely selfish quest to read books and improve her mind instead of staying quietly in the room and hearing me watch TV while unscrewing the fan with her mind, I decided to teach her a lesson.

The next time she came to me for a suggestion I led her straight to George Elliott's 'Mill on the Floss'. A book I had given up on, after trying three times to get through the first 20 pages (I'm a lazy reader too).

I also carefully planned a victory speech in my head when she would return flabbergasted by the amount of boredom in 'grown up' books. Two days later, her babyship approached me again for reading material.

I was about expound upon reading being a serious skill and drill in to her thick albeit small head that she should read books from the school library where she might find things suitable for her age.

"This is why I said I can't choose for you. My tastes are different from yours because I'm older and more in to this reading thing than you. You've just started. There are so many books out there. There is a development of tastes and intelligence when it comes to literature. The reason why you got bored with the one I gave you was because.."

"Oh I finished it. I liked it. Lots of human behavior to study and appreciate. Tell me more about this Thomas Hardy fellow. What's his work like?"

And there was born in my awareness, my intellectual and emotional peer and counterpart who fortunately for me lived about ten feet from my room.. :D

Tales of silliness to follow in part 2.. 

Me, myself and the Bhaktha..

So the feeling of devotion.. I'm not entirely sure what this means (that should tell you a lot about me right there), as I never really comprehended, emotionally, the tears that streamed down the face of my mother as she culminated her evening prayers (lalithaasahsranaama) and sat silently with her hands folded and eyes closed, her slow, rhythmic back and forth rocking to the tuned verses now ended.

Even as a child the most I could muster before the decorated idols was a feeling of respect and fear and a relatively temperamental "please help me" attitude. I remember closing my eyes and focusing intently to manifest within me a feeling of surrender and concluded my efforts contently when I could picture myself prostrating before a vague concept of divinity. This concept, for me, took various forms from various stories and scriptures and religions all through my life. While I intellectually relished the notion of 'one supreme being' that was formless and eternal and I dissected and prided over the idea of this essence being in me, I never ever felt 'joy' or 'hope' by virtue of this 'knowledge' (kevala jnana).

Today, as I listened to Jayasree Ma'am speak passionately (dispassionately(?)) about Advaitha and the realization of Aatman through a few verses from the 'Ashtraavakra Geetha', I found myself closing the book towards the end and looking around, to completely process what I was feeling. I looked to the pictures of Bhagavan Ramana Maharshi hanging on the walls and I felt something I hadn't felt before. I felt joy and love emanating from his eyes and I felt a surge of humility and what I'm assuming must be 'devotion'. To put it more simply, I wished I could touch his feet and sit quietly beside him. There was none of my natural need to 'understand' or 'make sense of by questioning'.

And I can honestly say I felt relief. 'I' had become irrelevant. There was just a lot of suffering and someone to perhaps help relieve it.

It  must be a tremendous state of bliss indeed to just 'be' or to experience 'is-ness' as Ma'am put it. No qualities, no attributes and no thoughts or words to adulterate the purity of it. Just 'being'. The world and its people and all its features that I manifested with and since my first 'thought' dissolving in to nothingness to reveal something that always was and always will be. The 'me' that was born 26 years ago and has laughed, cried, been hurt, has hurt others, has prided, has cheated, has despaired, been jealous and all other combinations of these 'vikaaraas' fading  in to oblivion to free me from 'me'.

God help me..  Ishwaro Rakshathu..  :)

A Confession of Needful Love

Dear ...,

I have no idea why I'm writing this. Its not an excuse or a pretext to say what I'm about to say. I really thought about it since I last saw you, and I came up with nothing. No good reason to tell you what I felt at that moment.. what I have been feeling since. That moment when you said those words.. calmly and without so much as taking a pause. Like you always do. I guess, that would be one of the things about you that made me stop and take stock of my heart, skipping a beat with each sound that left your lips.

You are not innocent. A word that can be casually thrown in with the many others that come to my spinning, aching mind when I think of you, but no.. I have to be honest with myself before I'm honest with you. There is a difference between innocence and purity.

And whether you will admit it or not, that's what you are. Pure. Not a hint of pretension or deception in a molecule of your being. Not a care as to whether the world that has been so cruel to you, took you in now. Now that you are beautiful and strong. Now that you are capable of saying no.. and yes. The world that didn't shelter you when you lost everything. Your childhood. Your sense of self.

I don't want to dwell on that. Not on paper, not in my thoughts. I must admit, it hurts me. Even as a vague fragmented piece of my imagination, it feels like someone is coldly carving in to my heart, the image of you shedding helpless tears. If only I had been there. To tell you that it would be okay. To hold you, to gently wipe away your tears. If you had let me, of course. I don't know. I like to think that you would have. It helps me cope, I suppose. Why do I feel so helpless even in my thoughts of you? How do you do this to me? How could you?

When you walked in to that room, carelessly running your fingers through your hair, unaware of the eyes moving to you, that stayed on you.. wanting.. feeling things, dismissive of their arrogance in thinking they could have you, did you see me? No, I suppose you couldn't have. Or maybe you wouldn't have. To you, I'm just one of many. Not in your world. Not deserving of your soulful glances. Your caring, affectionate words.

Why are you? It feels cruel to ask you that. I should be the happiest, luckiest person alive that you do. But know that it comes not out of selfish pride but out of a pitiful need to be with you, and knowing I never can. Forgetting for one carefree, naive second that I don't deserve you, I have to cower before the terrifying, soul crushing fact that you were meant for someone else. Do you hate me? Please tell me you do. Show me that much mercy. So that I can find comfort in the fact that it was never meant to be. And not despair in the heartbreak you have pushed me in to... unintentionally and unfeelingly.

No. It's not in you to do that. To be that. In spite of all that you are.. that they think you are. You know how to love. Maybe it's the one thing you do know well, without doubt or hesitant restraint. To love someone or something with the whole of your being. To be vulnerable. It is your most beautiful quality. To open yourself to joy, when you have known so much sadness. To actually, truly feel that you deserve to be happy. To be held and loved, like you are the only thing in this colorless, dreary world that exists.

I'm sorry, and will always be, that I took my eyes off of you. I couldn't put myself through that anymore. I knew you would be happy.. loved.. I hoped you would be. Or maybe it's the cowardice in me that speaks so confidently on your behalf.

I don't know who wrote you or who portrayed you. I don't want to. That would mean you.. or part of you would stop existing. To me.. you are real. Perhaps the only real person I have ever known. I refuse to let go of you. Don't I deserve that much at least?

Maybe one day, when I'm strong enough, I will watch you again. Watch you move, speak and sing in that deceptive voice that soothes my the wounds of my still healing heart. Maybe even watch you fall in love and then, struggling within my very wretched self, watch you be loved.. even if it's by someone else.

So, I guess this is goodbye.. for now. Thank you for coming in to my life. And then choosing to stay forever in my heart.

Yours lovingly,
A man in the dark.

Now.. to the guys..which fictional character came to your mind? Where they your first crush? Your first innocent, helpless love?

Colors of Omission

Bright colors yet to be painted everywhere.. the beige-grey walls of my spinning, humming prison cell screaming out to me, beckoning my senses in seductive whispers and commanding screams holding my transient glances hostage with their mocking bare surfaces. Cold, bland, flawed surfaces.....inviting the touch of my soft, poison stained fingertips, conniving creations that emerge in glorious insolence and bastard pride, vengefully magnificent now.. forgetting the cautious and careful movements of my trembling, cracked hands making them whole brick by brick, as the music of my languishing youth played sweet nothings from the hot, shiny light outside.. flickering flames of elusive smiles and spiteful tears burning away against the short, warm breezes of inadequacy and contempt as the walls came to life or birthed themselves in death - brick by brick.. by my drunk, wiry arms.. moving numb to the sway of my wet, drowning memories of slithering dissent against the snide, reproachful words of passionate love and sneering fury crawling out of the thin slits in the white masks of shadows that danced around me.. the glowing embers of my dark visions now ashen in the corners of my cell, lying smoldering and fuming with unsaid red, and breathless blue of careless kisses, fading green of naked envy.. silken brushes of cruel shards breaking away from thoughtless moments dipping in them, moist strands poised to paint the hopeful crevices with insidious desires..