Inquisitive

Two Buffaloes and I

I look at the world. I look, distancing myself, so that somehow in that looking I might see the world as a microcosm of the universe, and thus identify myself with the universe and see my being, fragile, defective, transient, incomplete and fore-doomed, in relation to it. But no matter how far my mind and perception soar, the ultimate limit of physical detachment remains the length of the umbilical cord which ties me to a life, environment, conditions, of which I am no longer a part, and with which I have no pending business. What am I doing then? Why am I not releasing myself from the life-sustaining bond which at the same time strangles me, binding me to environmental attitudes which are alien to me, and situations with which I cannot cope.

The car stopped with a jerk, as two buffaloes were holding a quiet conference in the middle of the road. They looked at the car with benevolence as it did not appear to pose any threat to them.

I was so curious about what was going on in the minds of the buffaloes that I wanted to give my mind in exchange for theirs. But then, I knew it would be a disaster for them, if not an act of acute cruelty, so I let the thought pass and resumed wondering what I was doing here, now, with possible tomorrows, and thereafter, and how long . . .

Enlightenment, so-called or otherwise

I received an email asking:

What do you think about the so called enlightened people – Osho, Ramana Maharishi, …. (list becomes dubios)..? Do you think there are altered states of consciousness where the ‘existential angst’ and ‘metaphysical uncertainties’ vanish and a state of tranquility and certainty prevails?

My reply:

‘Existential angst’ and ‘metaphysical uncertainties’ vanish, or do not even exist, in ignorance. Tranquility does not require certainty to prevail. Absence of extraordinary consciousness and sensibility to one's environment is good enough for quietude.

From the earliest times to the end of mankind, there would be some who would earnestly want to understand life, and therefore, death, and unavoidably, the meaning of the in-between. For some of these men, it becomes an earnest endeavour, which they pursue with questionable and differing results. Some, taking advantage of the prevailing gullibility and need for anchors among fellow human beings, for not comprehending life and its purport, make it their vocation to pander half-baked views; most of those in this so-called 'enlightened' profession are exploitative charlatans.

Very few, very very few indeed, can understand life in terms of absolutes, in terms of relativity and connectivity. And out of their own intrinsic honesty, they find only meaninglessness, so much so that they lose motivation to spread their message, because even that would be meaningless and futile.

Awakening

NIGHT IS
DARKNESS OF IGNORANCE
WHICH THE CYNICAL REASON
WIPES
ON THE SHORES OF MIND

TO SHOW
SUDDEN BLAZING FLASHES
OF EPHEMERAL
ENLIGHTENMENT

TO PLUNGE
AGAIN DEEPER
THE TREMULOUS SPIRIT
INTO DARKER RECESSES
WHICH ONLY THE TRANSIENT FIRE REVEALS

AND THUS TO MAKE EVERY
INTERMITTENT PHASE OF IGNORANCE
MORE UNFULFILLED THAN THE ONE BEFORE
EVERY DURATION OF SORROWFUL
HELPLESSLY INTERIM
AWAKENING

Former Pakistani cricket captain and current politician Imran Khan was being interviewed on NDTV. He was asked, "Do you think President Bush is a terrorist?" He replied, "President Bush is not smart enough to be a terrorist."

See also pieces that I have written on Gandhi and Nehru.

More on Indian Infrastructure

Modern Wiring installations in India, by Marcus Farrell (received by email). And beneath the photographs, a repeat of my earlier post on Indian infrastructure.





My earlier post on Indian infrastructure, from June 2006:

Infrastructure, Indian-Style

Some foreigners once asked me about the state of Indian infrastructure. I took them for a drive, and passed a trade fair where a politician's cutout, some 60 feet tall, was shaking precariously in the wind. I parked the car and took my guests behind the cutout, which was supported by crooked scaffolding of casuarina poles, held together with carelessly tied coir. I grandly announced to my guests, "This is India's infrastructure."

Don't ask me whether they were impressed or depressed.

(AP/NASA Photograph) The picture shows part of Saturn, taken from the Cassini spacecraft, and, whether you want to believe or not, the only place known to man which has life on it; for better or worse, but endangered. Can you spot the Earth in the picture? It is the tiny prick of light on the lower rim of Saturn.

On that dot lie our hopes, our lives and deaths, joys and sorrows, vanities and beliefs; as well as plants and animals, with life in them, but not in their own control; and lifeless, for depredation, most of the elements that mankind knows about, in the form of rocks, rivers, and towards its core, minerals and fossils. In short, in that dot is everything that we know but cannot keep peace with. This photoraph was taken with the help of a telescope. Saturn can be seen from Earth with the naked eye. From Saturn, the Earth cannot be seen unaided. (...to be concluded)

A Rose

Extinction: metaphysically or frivolously

herd mentality creates leadership;
with leadership there is organisation;
organisation is progressive;
progress leads to affluence;
affluence, to greed;
greed in the guise of avarice
is destructive, malevolant;
from which extinction is only proximate.


without herd mentality there is dignity;
with dignity there is equality;
equality leads to individuality;
individuality is opposed
to consensus and unanimity
on the path to progress;
progress leads to development;
development leads to inequality;
inequality degrades and diminishes
individual dignity,
bringing anarchy, in turn;
anarchy leads to regression, repression, revolt,
even war,
whence perdition.

Being Cyrus

If Homi Adajania is telling the truth in saying that Being Cyrus is his own original story, he has done an excellent job of writing a plot which flows effortlessly, without straining one's credulity. It is very tightly narrated even if, and probably because of, its having its origin in western concepts of approach and narration. All the actors have responded to his vision perfectly, but the most unsurpassed among them is Saif Ali Khan.

The choice of using the English language was sensible, because otherwise it would not have looked plausible, because of the alien idiom.

If there were awards for non-stereotyped films, as distinct from those which garner awards with predictable monopoly, this is one film which should get plenty, including one for economy in length - the film is only 90 minutes long - where most vacuous stories have no end in sight.

The film's one misfortune, of course, is that in this country with the reign of endless galaxies of Khans (there does not seem to be room enough in that group for Saif Ali) and the like, I do not know the extent of notice this masterpiece has attracted; on the other hand, in western countries, despite the fact that it is a masterly film, its treatment, including the kind of acting which it proffers, would be so familiar that the film would be liked, but perhaps not considered worthy of awards.

I do not know the extent to which my view of this film would be acceptable, but no one would dispute that Adajania's first film has been very 'courageous.'

On Seeing Shyam Benegal's 'Nishant' (End of Night)

My recollection of seeing this film - in 1979 - of my reaction and the way I discussed the film with people who looked to me for my analysis, was that it was of course very well made; but apart from that it was heady stuff for men, even as it was very disturbing to the sensitivity of people in search of fairness and justice; people who despair at the inequitable equation in human sexuality. There was much more that was analysed, but the factor that made me write this poem was the surreptitious eroticism disguised as hedonism of the film. And, perhaps very subjectively, I wanted to portray woman as stronger and man as a wimp. (I always felt that Satyajit Ray instinctively portrayed women as always stronger than men, and conveyed it in many films, especially Kapurush Mapurush (Bad man Great Man).)

NIGHT
RETURNS
YOU TO ME

AND
LOATHFUL OF MY VENALITY
AND FOUL REEKING BREATH
ATTENDANT UPON MY ALCOHOL-
INDUCED SWAGGER

IN VAINGLORY
OF THE MUTE SURRENDER
OF YOUR BODY
OBFUSCATED BY DARKNESS

THAT I VICIOUSLY ASSAULT
WITH RAGEFUL LUST
SURREPTITIOUSLY ACCUMULATED
OVER THE IDLE
DAYTIME MEANDERING OF MIND

YOU TAKE MY SEED SILENTLY
ANONYMOUSLY
RESIGNED TO YOUR FECUNDITY

WHEN QUICKLY DRAINED I LIE LIMP
CURLED UP LIKE A PETULANT CHILD BY YOUR SIDE
HOLDING YOU WEAKLY
VANQUISHED BY YOUR UNSPOKEN CONTEMPT

FEARFUL OF DAWN
WHEN I LOSE YOU
AS YOU AVENGE YOUR NOCTURNAL RAVISHMENT
BY BEING BLIND TO MY BEING
DURING THE EXCRUCIATINGLY ENDLESS PASSAGE OF DAY

FICKLE AND COWARDLY I WAIT AGAIN
FOR THE DARKNESS
AS PROUD AND INSCRUTABLE
YOU RULE THE DAY

Fissure

Creation

Waif

Genesis

When I took this picture, I called it Genesis, beause I intended it to look like an encapsulated fetus. I used a portion of tissue paper, to make it look like a fetus, human, animal, aquatic, terrestrial. Somehow, at the time of one of my exhibitions, somebody changed the name to Anaconda, and the reviewers loved the name, so the name stuck. But when the picture is seen by people at home, I tell them that my name for it is Genesis.

Pattern

A PATTERN IS
EVEN IF
ASSYMETRICAL
INTRINSICALLY
AN ORDER
IN CHAOS

LIKE A VAGABOND
BREEZE
PLAYING UPON
THE RESPONSIVE
STRINGS OF A
CARESS-HUNGRY LEAF
TO EXPLODE
INTO RAPTUROUS FRAGMENTS OF AN
UNFORGETTABLE
SYMPHONY

In 1995 the wife of the head of the British Council at that time asked if she could ‘borrow’ this poem. St Mary’s church, in the Fort, was celebrating its 315th anniversary, and she felt that the poem expressed a lot about the way that different communities / countries / beliefs formed a beautiful pattern. At the ceremony, the poem was read out in English, Tamil, Spanish, Russian, and French, by Consuls from countries which had representatives here in Chennai. I have no idea why this poem, which has no connection with god, religion or any kind of spiritualism, should first be chosen with such earnestness for recitation, and then, meet with such an emotional response and applause. But here it is, for your reaction and edification.


(St. Mary’s church, not my photograph)

Fissures, yet Forebearance, Life

The word 'life' in its various translations and dialects and meanings is known only to us, mankind, as far as we know, in the whole universe. The other forms of life that we know, that we co-exist with, plants and animals, do not know the word in any language or dialect. They do not know that they were born, that they exist, and that they would perish.

At seven billion-plus, does it make us lonely? Mostly, honestly, no: because most of human life and experience is devoid of loneliness and purposelessness in the vastness of the universe, with no reference point of any permanence. For some, the caprice is unbearable, and doubly so because the sense of futility of this irrelevant, indeterminate, uncontrolled exercise springs from knowledge. But then, knowledge is held, at least ostensibly, in high esteem, and therefore should be rewarding, and not flagellating. Interestingly, perhaps, respect for knowledge is only hypothetical and unreal. Most people wilfully or unconsciously externalise it, and go about the business of living, incurious, unquesting. (See also my poem Knowledge.)

One of the more cardinal things that we retained when the process of evolution brought us about as conscious beings was herd mentality from our animal forebears. I do because somebody does, who does because somebody else does, who does because I do, and so on, the act of living. (see also my poem At the Airport.)

Knowledge

After 60 years of searching for truth or its meaning, I have a strange feeling that I have arrived at a crossroad: to learn more, I have to unlearn first what I have learned, or think that I have learned. All this has the sound of profundity. The problem is that I do not even know the meaning of it.

Is it possible that this is the point, the crossroad, where you stop your search.

Perhaps it means that knowledge is not knowable, and therefore not a destination. It is probably only a path which ends in a labyrinth which has no exit.

Thirty-five years ago I established an axiom: "knowledge is acquired by doubting." The problem is that when, if, all is known, the process of doubting must persist. This being the case, it is pointless to acquire knowledge to start with, because at the point of total knowledge there would exist only total doubt. The observation made above is probably affirmation and vindication of this dilemma.

Read my poem Knowledge.

TWO DOGS

THE TRAFFIC CAME TO A SCREECHING HALT
A LAME BEGGAR RAN FOR HIS LIFE
THE INDOLENT POLICEMAN STOPPED PICKING HIS NOSE
TO PUFF FRANTICALLY AT HIS WHISTLE
AND HUMAN VOICES MINGLED TO MAKE
A CACAPHONY OUT OF HONKING HORNS

AS TWO DOGS
ONE NEEDLESSLY FOLLOWING ANOTHER
CROSSED THE BUSY ROAD
IN SEARCH OF THEIR TAILS
TO WAG FROM THE OTHER SIDE

IN MOCK AMUSEMENT
AT THE UNCIVILISED NOISE
AND FUROR OF HUMAN ENTERPRISE

Knowing the Self

Among us human beings, who is supposed to know most about oneself: the self, or the person as seen by others. Interesting question. Naturally, one must know about oneself the most that is knowable; others simply and understandably not being privy to it. On the other hand, one's perception of himself or herself, if not shared by others, is totally invalid, and rejected. Societally, the way one is perceived, and not the way one is, or thinks one is, is the ultimate arbiter and judge. This is yet another paradox; one of those on which paradoxes thrive. Paradox, as paradox; is there anything more paradoxical.


The above is a good example of paradox; go on: try and figure it out. Ad infinitum.

Doing and Being Good

Sakaale uthhiya aami mone mone boli
Saara din aami jeno bhaalo hoye choli
Aadesh korenja mor gurujone
Aami jeno sheyi kaaj kori bhaalo mone

At break of day I (regularly, reverentially) tell myself
That the whole day I should act only exemplarily (well-mannered, virtuous, lofty acts)
Whatever my elders desire of me (order me, advise me)
Those tasks I will do most willingly (diligently, perseveringly)

The Bengali verse above has a permanent residence in my psyche for the past 50 years. I probably wrote it when I was 10 or 11; it is also possible that I heard it, or read it somewhere. I don't know the authorship. For all one knows, it can be also Tagore; but that is immaterial.

As I write these lines today, and open them up to anyone in the world who cares to look at them, I ask: How simple, how gentle, how little do those lines demand or expect. How much innocence and beauty and goodwill to the world we live in is contained in those innocuous lines. And yet, how much of it can be practised. Most importantly, how much did I practise. Honestly, a lot. But was it worth it; once again: Honestly, no. It has eroded me, left me vastly frightened and abraded, so much so that even a touch intended to soothe hurts. But despite that, I would like it to remain part of me, both its sound and intent, till my last breath.

Sunday

SUNDAY

AND NOT ONLY
BECAUSE THERE
IS TOO MUCH OF
SUN … AND I
DO NOT KNOW WHAT
TO DO …

THE BIRD CATCHES MY FANCY AND
INTENTLY BUT VACANTLY THE CLOUDS
BUT THERE ARE NO CLOUDS HOWEVER
AS I WAS SAYING THREE FACES OR
WERE THERE TWO I DO NOT KNOW
BUT WHY BOTHER ESPECIALLY BECAUSE
THREE IS ONLY TWO PLUS ONE WHAT
DO I MEAN BY THAT ANYWAY IT IS
ALL IRRELEVANT IN THE PRESENT
CONTEXT WHICH IS PRECISELY A BIRD
IN A CAGE SO WHAT A CAGE IS A
CAGE IS A CAGE AND NO MORE UNLESS
IT GROWS THAT REMINDS ME ABOUT
INCREMIN AND YOU KNOW GOODNESS
GROWCIOUS HA HA HA DO YOU GET
THE PHOTO HOW VERY STUPID I
MEAN NOT THE AD NOR THE BALCONY
AS THE BIRD IS NOT THERE BECAUSE
IT IS IN THE CAGE WHICH HAS GROWN
SO LARGE THAT THE BIRD IS NOT EVEN
VISIBLE IN IT THERE IT IS NOW
NEAR THE EQUATOR FOR THE CAGE HAS
LATITUDES PLATITUDES AND ALL THE
DIFFERENT ATTITUDES AND THERE IT
IS THERE IT IS I RECOGNISE THE
BIRD BECAUSE IT IS STILLED AND
HAS A FAMILIAR FACE EVEN IF
FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTEMPT

IT IS SUNDAY
PERHAPS ONLY BECAUSE THERE IS
SO MUCH OF SUN
AND I STILL DO
NOT KNOW WHAT
TO DO

Rain Rain

RAIN, RAIN
I MUST BE REALLY PARCHED
SCORCHED AND BARREN
EVEN MORE THAN THE EARTH
WHICH YOU CRUELLY CONSUMMATE

TO WELCOME
RAPTUROUSLY
YOUR ADVENT,...(read the full poem here)

The Price Of Truth

Relentlessly Being Under My Own Duress
I No Longer Know
If I Am My Protector
Or Executioner

Breathless Revisited

I had earlier posted the Hindi lyrics of the song Breathless, with a promise to provide English translation for non-Hindi readers. Before I could do so, a friend did me the favour of translating it and sending it to me. I am posting it below, for those of you who would be interested in the song, its music, and Javed Akhtar's lyrics.

Breathless

by Javed Akhtar, music composed and sung by Shankar Mahadevan
English translation by Bhashwati Sengupta

Koi jo mila to mujhe aisa lagta tha
jaise meri saari duniya main geeton ki rut
aur rangon ki barkha hai khushbu ki aandhi hai
mahki hui si ab saari fizaayen hain
bahki hui si ab saari hawaayen hain
khoyi hui si ab saari dishaayen hain
badli hui se ab saari adaayen hain

when I met her
it felt like
my whole world
is awash with the
season of songs and
showers of colour
storms of scents
the spheres turned fragrant
the breezes drunken
the directions went wandering
my gestures/ actions transformed

jaagi ummengein hain, dhadak raha ahi dil
sapnon main toofaan hain, hoton pe nagme hain
aakhon main sapne hain, sapnon main beete hue
se vo saare lamhe hain
jab koi aaya tha, jazron pe chhaya tha
dil main samaya tha, kaise main bataun tumhe

my heart beat with
my roused hopes
my turbulent dreams
my lips move in song
my eyes are dream filled
and my dreams hold
those past moments
when she arrived
to take over my feelings
and nestle in my heart


kaise use paaya tha, pyaarey sey chehre pe bikhri jo zulfein
to aisa lagta tha jaise kohre ke peechhe
ek os main dhula hua phool khila hai jaise
badal main ik chaand chhupa hai
aur jhaank raha hai jaise raat ke parde main
ek savera hai roshan roshan aakhon main
sapnon ka saagar jismain prem sitaron ki chaadar
jaise jhalak rahi hai
lahron lahron baat kare to jaise moti barse
jaise kahin chandi ki payal goonjey
jaise kahin sheeshe main jaam girey
aur chhann se tootey jaise koi chhip ke sitaar bajaye
jaise koi chaandni raat main gaye
jaise koi hole se paas bulaye

how can I describe to you
that beloved face
hidden in her tresses
like a dew washed blossom
behind a pall of fog /mist
like the moon behind the clouds
peering through the curtain of night
like a morn bright and brilliant
her eyes an ocean of dreams
that held a sparkling spread
of stars of love
each wave of her words
a shower of pearls
the echo of silver anklets
wine spilling breaking into a goblet
like hidden hands stroking
musical strings
like a song serenading
a moonlit night
like a soft
whisper that beckons

kaisi meethi baatain thee
vo kaisi mulakaatein thee
vo jab maine jaana tha
jazron se kaise pighalte hain dil
aur aarzoo paati hai kaise manzil
aur kaise utarta hai chaand jameen par
kaise kabhi lagta hai swarg agar hai
to bas hai yahin par

how sweet those words
how strange those encounters
when i learnt
how emotions melt the heart
how quests find the sought
how the moon alights on land
how earth at times may contain
the splendour of heaven

usne bulaya mujhe, aur samjhaya mujhe
hum jo mile hain, hamain aise hi milna tha
gul jo khile hain, unhe aise hi khilna tha
janmo ke bandhan, janmo ke rishtey hain
jab bhi hum janme to hum yun hi milte hain
kaanon main mere jaise, shahed sa ghulne lage
khwaabon ke dar jaise aakhon main khulne lage
khwaabon ki duniya bhi kitni haseen aur
kaisi rangeen thee khwaabon ki duniya
jo kahne ko thee par kahin bhi nahi thee

how she drew me near
to tell me
we were destined to meet
as flowers to bloom
these ties are forever
eternal our bond
each life time
has brought us together
her words like honey
filled my ears
held open in my eyes
the gates of a
many hued world
that existed
but was nowhere

khwaab jo toote mere, aakh jo khuli meri
hosh jo aaya mujhe
maine dekha maine jaana
vo jo kabhi aaya tha, nazron pe chhaya tha
dil main samaya tha, ja bhi chuka hai
aur dil mera ab hai tanha tanha
na to koi armaan hai, na koi tamanna hai
aur na koi sapna hai
ab jo mere din aur ab jo meri ratain hain
unmain sirf aansoon hain
unmain seif dard ki ranj ki batain hain
aur pharyaadein hain
mera ab bhi koi nahi main hoon aur khoye
hue pyaar ki yaadein hain (3)

when my dream lay shattered
when my eyes fell open
i found i saw
the one that had come
to light up my sight
to dwell in my being
is gone from me
bereft sits my soul
abandoned my heart
no hope remains
no longings linger
no one to call mine
drenched in tears
my days and nights
hold laments and pain
and my lone self
and memories
of my lost love


___________________________________________________________




when I met her
it felt like
my whole world
is awash with the
season of songs and
showers of colour
storms of scents
the spheres turned fragrant
the breezes drunken
the directions went wandering
my gestures/ actions transformed
my heart beat with
my roused hopes
my turbulent dreams
my lips move in song
my eyes are dream filled
and my dreams hold
those past moments
when she arrived
to take over my feelings
and nestle in my heart
how can I describe to you
that beloved face
hidden in her tresses
like a dew washed blossom
behind a pall of fog /mist
like the moon behind the clouds
peering through the curtain of night
like a morn bright and brilliant
her eyes an ocean of dreams
that held a sparkling spread
of stars of love
each wave of her words
a shower of pearls
the echo of silver anklets
wine spilling breaking into a goblet
like hidden hands stroking
musical strings
like a song serenading
a moonlit night
like a soft
whisper that beckons
how sweet those words
how strange those encounters
when i learnt
how emotions melt the heart
how quests find the sought
how the moon alights on land
how earth at times may contain
the splendour of heaven
how she drew me near
to tell me that
we were destined to meet
as flowers to bloom
these ties are forever
eternal our bond
each life time
has brought us together
her words like honey
filled my ears
held open in my eyes
the gates of a
many hued world
that existed
but was nowhere
when my dream lay shattered
when my eyes fell open
i found i saw
the one that had come
to light up my sight
to dwell in my being
is gone from me
bereft sits my soul
abandoned my heart
no hope remains
no longings linger
no one to call mine
drenched in tears
my days and nights hold
laments and pain and
my lone self
and memories
of my lost love

Prehistoric or Futuristic

Prehistoric or Futuristic?

Both:

Prehistoric because it is full of curiosity and wonderment in comprehending life and the fascination of discovery;

Futuristic because of bewilderment at having lost everything as the cost of knowledge.

Maya

Shankaracharya was walking through a field near a village. Nearby, a farmer was ploughing his land. Elated at seeing such a great personage, he ran towards Shankaracharya to pay obeisance. Falling at his feet he asked, "O great one, tell me the secret of life." Impatient to leave, Shankaracharya replied, "It is all an illusion. There is nothing that is real," and began to walk away.

A buffalo from the field, seeing its master go towards Shankaracharya, also began to run towards him. Mistaking the buffalo's approach as an impending attack, Shankaracharya ran as fast as he could, hit a tree, and all but fainted, huffing and puffing.

The farmer controlled his buffalo and went to Shankaracharya with folded hands, and offered apologies and prayers. Then, most humbly, he asked "My lord, what happened? May I be pardoned for the impertinence of asking: Why did you run, and in the process injure yourself and make yourself breathless? The buffalo meant you no harm." Shankaracharya replied, "Idiot, what are you talking about?"

The farmer, completely out of his wits, looked at Shankaracharya and asked, "What, Sir? What are you saying? Did you not run, and risk injury to yourself? I assure you, Sir, the buffalo meant no harm."

Shankaracharya said, "You fool, I did not run, I have not injured myself, and what buffalo are you talking about? What you think you saw was an illusion. No such thing happened." Saying that, he left the farmer and the rest of mankind in perpetual bewilderment.

Perspectives

Perspectives are eternally in flux. They are never constant. They vary in a continuum as far as human beings are concerned, depending upon their circumstance, disposition, aptitude, success or failure. Perspectives have no reality because ultimately they do not have a constant point of reference. Large can be small, rich can be poor, poor can be richer than the poorer. Beauty or absence of it, or the measure of it, vary, and therefore appreciation or rejection.

Our sun is the largest object as far as we are concerned, in terms of our knowledge of its distance, volume, its contents, its emanations. Actually, we are products entirely of whatever the sun ejected, which became our building material. And yet, this very sun is scientifically accepted as a mediocre star in our own galaxy (not to mention some stars in our neighbouring galaxies which might almost occupy the major portion of their galaxies themselves), which is supposed to have a billion stars, far larger and presumably more complex and fascinating than our own, even if hazardous to any form of life.

Watching a football match from the ground, our vision encompasses the running, kicking, players, spectators, noises they make, goal-keepers prone to being lost in their own thoughts; but the same vision alters so completely if you get into a helicopter and hover over the playground. Then you see the village. You see a woman, unaware of the football game, buying vegetables. You see a man smoking hookah and watching over a child crawling towards a well, etc.

From my childhood, altering perspectives of objects and events has been a continually fascinating saga. One verse in Gujarati (I think that the full name of the writer contained Govardhandas and something, but I can be wrong), which, therefore, I cannot forget reads:

Mota Nana Vadhu Motama, To Nana Pann Mota
Vyomdeep Ravi Nabhbindu To Ghar Divda Sa Khota

Large Is Small In Larger, So Then Small Is Also Large (in smaller)
If The Enormous Light From The Sun,
From Which The Glow Of The Firmament Comes,
Is But A Small Dot, Then Why Not Appreciate
The Tiny Lamp At Home

The idea of the simile being that the sun is so large, yet so small in the sky; the wick of the lamp in the home is so small, yet it lights up the house.

So then, what is the difference: eternally shifting, drifting, teasing, evasive perspectives.

For those of us humans who are aware and sensitive to the issue of perspective, the phenomenon is bringing a shift in our perception of ourselves, our lives, and our place in the enormity of schemes. We are suddenly as small as ants, or worse, less than atomic particles; or, most of all, non-existent as far as the larger perspective is concerned. I feel very foolish for taking myself seriously. I feel vain, that I had an idealism and I wanted to improve the world, if not the universe. Have I made any ripple, posting these ruminations onto this website, even in my own house, let alone in my colony, city or elsewhere. Had I not written, the world would not have suffered any kind of affliction or deprivation. So then comes my theory that man's ability to survive in this world is in direct proportion to his ability for self-deceit. By that count, I am deceiving myself, and existing, although maimed by this knowledge. Look what consciousness of perspective does and can do.










Illustration of perspectives from Worlds Within Worlds: A Journey Into the Unknown by Michael Marten, John Chesterman, John May and John Trux. (Each of the first four pictures is enlarged one hundred times the area of the preceding one. The other pictures are in increments of ten.)

HEAT, HATE

In school once, when I was a child, the teacher asked that we write a two-standard-notebook-size-page essay on anything that we liked. This assignment was given to us, not out of tutorial compulsions, but because the teacher was moonlighting after our early-morning charity school hours, and therefore wanted to take a nap. I won the contest, the remarkable thing about it being, I did not write my work in two pages. It was as follows:

HEAT, HATE

I hate to hate, but heat makes me hate. Therefore I hate heat, even though, I repeat, I hate to hate.

Is it, one can wonder, a coincidence that both words, HATE and HEAT, are made up of the same letters? Are they Spoonered relatives?

Well, the point I am trying to make is, I still hate to hate, but heat makes me hate, and therefore I hate heat, and there is just no end to it anywhere in this country, air conditioning notwithstanding, except in the hills. And I do not like to hate. So I am doubly heated.

My parents always told me that I had a higher temperature than was normal. Having had me examined by doctors, experts and charlatans, they contended with pride that I was a very warm person. That has caused another problem: I am a great target for mosquitoes. People who know me claim that I am a mosquito magnet. If there were one mosquito on the North Pole, frozen or in torpor, it would have to wake up and target me.

See my picture below, and find out whether it is effective or not.

On Photography as Art and Expression

Recognition of photography as an art form has been, contrary to logic and expectation, slow and gradual even though now implicit in international proclamations at various forums. That such acceptance is not ungrudging and somehow leaves an unexplained feeling of lingering doubt is a stupendous anachronism.


My pictures are composed by establishing an emotional rapport with the subject. While I do not scoff at the profusion of possibilities for variants with mechanical, chemical and electronic aids having limitless scope, my personal preoccupation has been with the aesthetic. This obsession has limited me to the gentle, rueful, poetic and melancholy and distanced me from the larger segment of reality.


I am as much wearied of comprehension as of incomprehension. One thread, however, which binds the many lives I have lived and lost is an obsession to communicate, somehow, anyhow. I feel obliged to explain everything, including why the unexplainable is unexplainable, the easiest way of doing so being by talking incessantly.


If these pictures and words speak to you, then more words by me would only be in surfeit; on the other hand, if they do not tell you anything, then anything more that I say would be dismally worthless, compounding what is probably already an imposition.


I invite you to pry into my search for comprehension and beauty -- and into my discovery, alas, of the perpetual futility of the existence of life itself, especially the conscious form of human life, which has the ability to know its futility, but by and large succeeds in burying that knowledge deep in the recesses of its subconscious. As far as is known, humans are the only creatures conscious of their being, and constant seekers of subterfuges to escape the unbearable burden of this consciousness: that they are, that they exist.


Through these photographs and poems, as I sing to you of life, love, and loneliness, perhaps you will talk back to me.

Visit an abbreviated version of my gallery - colour and black and white, on my website.

The Ice House, Its History and Heritage

I received a query from someone of Indian descent, now living in the United States. She wanted to know whether I could give her any information about the history of the Ice House, which had at one time belonged to an ancestor. She wanted to be able to tell her children about their proud heritage. Here is my reply:

If at all, most people's interest in Ice House is either because it was indeed an ice house in a sultry countryside, or because of the spirituality it acquired due to Vivekanand's visit there, as well as his supposed stay for a considerable period.

Yours is one of the rare interests, in the genealogy of ownership, and curiosity about the extent of pride you can proffer to your children and your mother, whom you will bring to Madras.

Well, first, the matter of your greatest interest: The founding and owning of the building at different stages in the history of British Raj is somewhat obscure. Different claims are made by different writers or researchers. One more cogent is as follows: one Mr. Frederick Tudor is credited with importing ice for his compatriots from America and therefore requiring storage facilities, which he built in Calcutta, Bombay and Madras.

How ice could come from half a globe away, travelling at 10 mph in ships, and be stored to serve the 'Burra Sahibs' with chhota or 'burra' pegs, would be in the annals of so many things that happened in man's evolution, which now would seem a mystery or miracle.

Tudor supposedly ran his business in Madras from 1842 until around1880. The business collapsed, because ice began to be made, again by British invention (Indians abhorred inventing anything), locally, by what was called the steam process.

One Mr. Biligiri Iyengar, affluent practitioner at Madras High Court, purchased the Ice House and added circular verandahs and windows to convert it into a residence.

The Ice House was renamed Castle Kernan, in honour of Mr. Iyengar's friend, who was then a Justice of repute at the Madras High Court. Mr. Iyengar, apart from staying in the building himself with his family, also provided shelter to poor and educationally backward students. Aside from its original fame as Ice House, the building acquired renown once again during Swami Vivekanand's stay there (Feb 6-14, 1897). Biligiri Iyengar became one of his staunchest devotees, and thus it transpired that Swami Vivekanand happened to stay there with his Western and indigenous devotees.

In 1917, the Government acquired the House, which was then called Marine Mansion. This can be found in an obscure marble tablet somewhere on the building. From 1922 to 1941, the building was used as a hostel for teachers and students. The Ice House, renamed Castle Kernan, was re-renamed the Ice House by an enactment by the Government of Tamil Nadu in 1963. Today, the Ice House is known as Vivekanandar Illam, which is the result of continuous application by the Ramakrishna Math since the visit of the Master, which the government, out of procrastination, finally accorded on 6 Feb 1997, and handed over management to the Math on lease, to set up a permanent exhibition on Swami Vivekananda and Indian cultural heritage.

The story can be completed in 3 to 4 pages more, from all the sources, including the Goverment archives, which are available, or have some interest. But since your inquiry is in connection with your family's ties and connection to that building, I think I have dealt with it sufficiently. You will have to find, in your great-grandfather, either on your maternal or paternal side, a connecting link with Mr. Biligiri Iyengar, since I do not believe you will be able to trace anything with Justice Kernan or Frederick Tudor, or the various successive Swamijis belonging to Ramakrishna Math, who variously or together lorded over the building, which I can assure you was very uncomfortable since it was not properly ventilated -- on purpose, in order to preserve the ice.

For more information, recommended reading: Madras Discovered by S. Muthiah; Madras: The Architectural Heritage by K. Kalpana and Frank Schiffer; Vivekanandar Illam

(the picture comes from padalis)

ESP or make-believe?

Someone dear to us recently wrote us a sentimental and nostalgic letter, and asked if I believed in ESP; and if not, how I would explain it. My response, which was a quick riposte, and therefore brief, follows:

Among mankind's myriad varieties of wishful thinking, one is the notion of extra-sensory perception. The universe being never static, infinite accidents, or if you will, coincidences are continuously occurring. It is unavoidable that some of these events establish unity in the lives or minds of people - which is to say that inevitably similarities in thought or event can not only occur simultaneously in different spaces and times, but also among people who are connected, by relationship or at least by acquaintance. When such a thing happens, we like to consider it meaningful, and therefore special, attributing to it some higher motive or purpose, while in actuality it is, plain and simple coincidence, with the difference that it occurred between two known people.

Scientifically, it is provable that, except by coincidence, similar notions cannot be transmitted by the cosmos, unless they are activated by the scientific, deliberate, use of mechanisms dependent on electricity, magnetism, etc. I can expand on it, but I do not want to tire you. If you have questions within what I have stated, please feel free to ask.

Aging Badly

In old age, waiting for youth is an endless wait. The end comes, mercifully, sooner.

A Cool Picture for a Hot Day

At a time when the Indian plains are seething and writhing with heat, staring at this picture, which I took years ago in Bangalore, may cool you off a little, as it did me and my guests.

Externalise, Stand By, Let Life Pass You By

“To avoid bewilderment, dejection, unhappiness and incomprehension in conducting the act of living an imperfect life in an imperfect world, externalise your feelings,” he pontificated.

“But if I externalise my feelings, that means that I might not be able to feel happiness either, because I would not be able to feel anything internally, right?” I said.

“Yes, true. But then, since you have externalised your feelings, you won’t mind not feeling happiness, because not enjoying would also be externalised. You see the point, don’t you?” His eyes glinted.

“Well, sounds very good. How do I go about it? I continually feel that I am chewing all my internal organs because of my total maladjustment. So I would find a release. Now, pray tell me, how do I start to learn and practise externalising my feelings?”

“You have a problem there. We are all products of our environment. If you do not know how to externalise, or your system does not do it automatically in self-preservation, then it cannot be learned by you at this point in life. So you are condemned to suffer not only this deficiency in your system, but also the knowledge of it.”


I actually know people who externalise their feelings; a few whose bodies externalise the effects of wear and tear – remarkable. They make suitable societal statements, and demonstrate expressions, without actually experiencing them or feeling them. I envy them, and since I cannot externalise, my envy adds to my overall misery.

My Poem: A Priest Pleading With Me: Religion Simply an Organised Form of Superstition

This is my own poem about religion, creating an imaginary dialogue where a priest pleads with me to validate him and the necessity of god, even if he was missing or did not exist. (Larger versions of the photographs can be seen on my website:

WHY DOUBT
AND GRUDGE ME
THE SMALL PRICE
I SELL HIM AT
IN CONCOCTED PARTS


I AM YOUR CONNECTION
TO GOD
AND I REPRESENT YOU
TO HIM
IN RETURN TO PANDER HIS INVIDIOUS
WRATH AND RETRIBUTION
I DISTRIBUTE RELIGION
AND SUPERSTITION

HOW DOES IT MATTER
IF BOTH ARE THE SAME
SO LONG AS THEY GIVE YOU
FEAR FROM WHICH TO ESCAPE WITH HOPE
ENSHRINED IN A POLICY
REDEEMABLE CONVENIENTLY
AFTER DEATH
ON A CERTAIN COMMISSION
ENSURING MY EMPLOYMENT

WHY REASON
AGAINST THIS MYTHOLOGY
AND SEEK OSTRACISM?

HAVE FAITH IN
THE TERROR OF DISBELIEF
AND BELIEVE
IN SURRENDER
TO THE DETRIMENT
OF NOTHING
BUT THE TRUTH --

ADMIT:
DO NOT YOU AND I
NEED GOD
MORE?

Infrastructure, Indian-Style

Some foreigners once asked me about the state of Indian infrastructure. I took them for a drive, and passed a trade fair where a politician's cutout, some 60 feet tall, was shaking precariously in the wind. I parked the car and took my guests behind the cutout, which was supported by crooked scaffolding of casuarina poles, held together with carelessly tied coir. I grandly announced to my guests, "This is India's infrastructure."

Don't ask me whether they were impressed or depressed.

Javed Akhtar, A. R. Rahman, Great Lyric, Great Music

Both Urdu and English were written by Javed Akhtar for the film 1947, Earth, and were set to music with great sensitivity and tenderness by A. R. Rahman:

The English version:

My Lord, O God

My lord, O God why in Thy world
Is there hate and killing?

Whilst Thou are so large hearted
Why is the human heart so petty?

Why are there borders at every step?
If the whole earth belongs to Thee
If the earth moves around the sun
Why is there such darkness?
Why is the garment of this world
Stained by the blood of man?

Screams echo all around
Who will listen to words of love?
Dreams shatter every moment
Who will gather the splinters?
Why are there locks on every heart?
Why is there rust on every lock?

My lord, O God why in Thy world
Is there hate and killing?
Whilst Thou are so large-hearted
Why is the human heart so petty?

The Urdu version:

Ishwar Alllah

Ishwar allah tere jahaan men
Nafrat kyun hai jang hai kyun
Tera dil to itna bada hai
Insaan ka dil tang hai kyun

Qadam qadam par sarhad kyun hai
Saari zameen jo teri hai
Suraj ke phere karti hai
Phir kyun itni andheri hai
Is duniya ke daaman par
Insaan ke lahu ka rang hai kyun

Gunj rahi hain kitni chikhen
Pyaar ki baaten kaun sune
Tut rahe hain kitne sapne
Inke tukre kaun chune
Dil ke darwaazon par taale
Taalon par ye zang hai kyun

Ishwar allah tere jahaan men
Nafrat kyun hai jang hai kyun
Tera dil to itna bada hai
Insaan ka dil tang hai kyun