Idyllic Thoughts

Freewill. God. A discussion that's been around for ages and around the world where people have taken the liberty to think. I believed in the co-existence of 'freewill' and god. But now I have my doubts. In Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna to think over his words and then take action as he believes appropriate. To listen to others' words, and then do what we feel is right - it is Freewill. But the consequences of what we do, which we cannot foresee or control… what of them? If we have no control over the results, how does freewill liberate us?

The toughest lesson I have not yet learnt from life is 'Karmanyevadhikaraste maa phaleshu kadaachana.' It's quite easy to understand, but very very difficult to follow. I try to follow it every day and fail. Human mind being what it is, it's hard not to expect at the least kindness in reciprocation of my duty which I believe I do towards all humans around me. Is my expectation wrong in today's world? May be it is wrong - either in Krishna's world or mine.

The reaction of writers towards the so-called growing 'intolerance' in the country was quite predictable. These 'intellectuals' who have for years passively fed on the fodder of political awards and rewards are going hungry now. This anger is just a result of that hunger. I sit and think, what is intellect? Writers may be great intellectuals and their works may be masterpieces. But, after all, they too are mere humans. Their intellect is selective. They think in one possible direction and block out other possibilities. They too are biased. But what surprised and disappointed me were the words of Narayana Murthy. He says minorities are living in fear in India under Modi. I see around me and find every commoner, belonging to every religion in India, living in peace and harmony. At the lower economic level, there doesn't exist any religious fanacy. A poor Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Parsi, Buddhist or Jain is just a poor person and his aim is to live and feed himself

Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan once defined Hinduism as "nothing more than the belief that truth is many-sided and different views contain different aspects of truth that no one could fully express." Truth. How can truth be truth if it has many sides and many aspects? May be there are many things which we cannot see, perceive or feel. Who knows all sides of the truth? Surely no one among us, though we believe we do. This misplaced belief that we are wise may have made us blind to the various sides of the truth regarding every aspect of our lives and beyond it. We are surrounded by mythology, traditions, folklore. Do these mask the original truth? Or do they really guide us towards the truth with hints and clues? No one can tell after all these centuries of a parallel universe with myths possibly clouding truth, intentionally or otherwise.

I am reading 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' by Harriet Stowe. Reading may not be the right word. I am drowning in it. I can see why this book literally brought a revolution in the Americas. It is a book for those ostriches who paint a rosy picture of America in their drawing rooms and extol the virtues of equality and fraternity, which they feel is not found in India due to its caste system. Both caste system and slavery are evils in themselves; the fact is people who thought themselves civilised and the rest of the world not so, should realise that civilisation does not exist in etiquette, dress and propriety in speech and manner, but in humanity, tolerance and kindness towards other humans. That is where some mighty kingdoms fell. Don't you agree?

"Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes." Thomas Moore says it well. In the last three years, I have seen more than my share of death. I have seen the anguish it brings to the near ones, and the remorse. I have also seen dedication and love, which remained steadfastly even in the face of death. I just wonder. Why should we be born only to die some day? And with death vanishes our whole life, its experiences, cherished dreams, lofty thoughts and the wisdom from our mistakes. What is the use of it all?

My evening began on a sad note: I was hungry and wanted to eat Maggi. I then searched high and low for that elusive pack, which was the last one in our pantry, and probably in our town. Finally, I found it sitting snugly in the fridge, looking forlorn and lonely. I took it up and reluctantly poured its contents into boiling water, for my hunger had got the better of me. Then I set up the empty packet on the kitchen slab as a memento of a lost Maggian era. The cooked noodles was savoured slowly and reverentially, no one in the family willing to end it first. Now it has the place of a relic in all hearts, reminding us of the times when the snack made our evenings tastier and helped our mothers fill the bellies of their ever-hungry kids. 

I am the Princess of Gaffes. Once an unthought or unintended word or sentence springs out of my mouth seeking hospitable ears, I chase it vainly finally falling flat on my face, adding one more hair-line crack on my wafer-thin ego. Since childhood, my versatile tongue would decide that it will start working at the oddest of times, in the oddest of situations, rendering any apology or salvaging the ruins of my self-respect impossible. That's why I chose silence. It has brought me a sort of respectability among my peers, a studious countenance and a whispered rumour that I am intelligent and knowledgeable. I have borne these untruths with magnanimity and a silent satisfaction that can be often seen on the faces of bad actors who perch high on collective praises from fans whose grey cells can be counted on fingertips. 

If a destitute person, with no kingdom, no palace, no princely robes, no wife and no children, had wandered in search of life, sat beneath a tree and realised that desire is the root of all ills, would he have become a Buddha? May be. May be not. It took a Siddhartha to become a Buddha.  May be there are many Buddhas around us, a destitute or a prince, who bring awakening in others and light up their lives.

My country has been studied, interpreted, discussed and judged. Whenever I read something about India, I ask myself, 'Has this person, whether Indian or outsider, really understood my country?' I haven't yet arrived at an answer. Is it that difficult to understand a people? May be. May be not. Many 'celebrated' writers and thinkers have arrived at conflicting conclusions, and most of them are right in their viewpoint, but only in parts. No one has been able to comprehend the potpourri of contradictions that is India, wholly. And then there are some who have fallen headlong into the muck of prejudice against India -- the weight of a prejudice they themselves lugged along even as they set foot in the country for the first time and emptied here. They are helped in the offloading by some of our own. Our cotton-clad, agenda-pushing men & women go abroad, attend seminars, charity balls, write columns in 'first world' newspapers, and drown the voices of t

A happy man passed away ! That's what I felt as I watched the news of Dr. Abdul Kalam's death on TV. Many news channels aired his interviews, interactions with students and lectures. The one common thing that could be seen in all these videos was his childlike smile and quick wit. His eyes looked happy. His whole demeanour showed he was happy. Wherever I looked, I could no longer see a celebrated scientist, a thoughtful teacher or an illustrious President of this country. I could see only a happy man and a patriot. RIP to the man who made me want to take up basic science and dream of being a scientist. 

Names. Surnames. Initials. The 'A's and 'B's and 'C's of X and Y and Z. Aren't we all quite proud of ourselves, our parents and grandparents? It does feel funny to read a wedding card where by the time you finish negotiating the initials and surnames, you would have quite rightly forgotten the bride and groom's names. It happens to everybody that we go to a marriage and look clueless when somebody asks the name of the bride or groom. Wouldn't it be easier on the mind, tongue and the ego if we were just known by our names? Wouldn't there be zero ego in such a case?

Which great writer lived in the cities to write? Kuvempu lived in Mysore, which was and is quite unlike Bangalore; Poornachandra Tejaswi stayed in the middle of nowhere; D.R. Bendre was in Dharwad; Shivaram Karanth in Kota; Vaidehi in Kundapur and Manipal... After all, how can the concrete jungle seen from one's window inspire us or take us to our own dream land? How can honking replace the twitter of birds? How can smog represent the cool breeze that slips stealthily between trees carrying the scent of the woods? It is amidst nature that our fantasy takes flight.

The world looks so beautiful and crystal clear in this rain. Not even the angry roar of a thunder can disturb its beauty and I have, as usual, fallen in love with nature again. Then, how can I write? After all, sorrow is the inspiration for great writing. Isn't it? As Shelley said (or wrote), "Our sweetest songs are those that tell of our saddest thought." No.I'm not asking for sorrow and I don't hanker to write great literature. I just want to write what I feel, and connect with emotionally. May be that's why I'm unable to spin out reams of articles.I don't know.

There is something cozy and crazy about rain, thunder, lightning raging outside while we sit in the relative comfort of our homes watching the sky open up. On Monday, it was pouring cats & dogs and I went to an old stone temple (unlike the modern ones designed in tiles giving them a bathroom-like feel) where rain water was gushing in. Yet it felt good to circumambulate the sanctum in the rain, matching our tread to the beats of thunder, listening to the pitter-patter of rain drops on the roof and later, sitting there silently wondering about the ultimate question that every human being asks within oneself -- is there god? And finally, giving up and walking home, satisfied with the answer I see reflected in the faces of the believers present at the temple.

When I was a journalist, Mysore hosted an army recruitment rally and while preparing the news item, I got to see the photographs of the youth who had come to join the army. From one glance it could be seen that they were from the economically backward section of the society. They had come there with a hope to aid their families financially. Most would return unemployed from such recruitment rallies, unable to pass the physical fitness tests and other criteria. And those who get selected, would return laden with the hope that now, their families would eat three square meals a day. It is heart-breaking and thought-provoking when the peace-keeping forces including the military, para-military and the police forces face serious problems in extreme weather & inhospitable conditions. Do such circumstances lead the personnel to take the extreme step? Today, I read that one CRPF soldier commits suicide every three days ! About 6,000 soldiers left CRPF in 2014, while 4,186 left in 2013. Ev

Ask any woman who wears the quintessential attire of the sub-continent -- the saree -- about it and she will look at you scornfully and let out a hmmph! which conceals a long, resigned and tiresome tale of draping the 'six yard (now down to five-and-a-half) wonder' as the blissfully ignorant call it. At first glance, it seems so easy. A long cloth draped around us ! So simple, yet so graceful. Only those who have battled with the stubborn beauty knows how it has defeated them time and again. They are aware that a saree has an independent mind of its own and looks upon its possessors with contempt. As they are smiling confidently that they have successfully pinned the pleats, a naughty one will slip out of their grasp bringing tears to the eyes. Successfully dazzling others with a saree is by no means a lesser feat, which teenage girls, newly introduced to the saree, will be well aware of as are older women with even half a century experience. 

It is 16th January, 2015. It will be 16th February, 16th March... soon. What is a date, month or a year to me? Nothing but a jumble of numbers and words in my mind. They have absolutely no significance to me. They come and go, uninvited and uncherished; forgotten soon in the melee of life. The mornings, afternoons and the nights are a blur within each other. Only the evenings are mine, for thoughts, dreams and frustrations. And the serene hour in the early morning when I water the plants and they seem to wait for me eagerly, nodding with content after their thirst is quenched.

Children often learn how NOT to live by looking at their parents. And when they become parents, in an effort to NOT be like 'their' parents, they in turn teach their kids how NOT to live. 

In the film 'PK,' the alien says in his planet, there is no language since they don't need it as they communicate with each other thru mind. Don't we need language to think, to speak in our minds and even to feel? I tried and failed.