Idyllic Thoughts

Five years of marriage. I feel as if I have breezed through it. I am filled with wonder as to when days turned into weeks, months... I see now that it is all about understanding another person, thus understanding yourself. My hubby is my clearest mirror. He makes me see facets of myself which were earlier invisible to me.

The phrase that bridges have to be built between people and not walls has now become a cliche and everybody uses it ad nauseum. But I feel different. I believe building bridges across relationships won't bring people together; because a bridge always keeps two shores apart from each other just like a wall. The only consolation is that there is communication between two shores which is not possible thru a wall.

I was talking about freewill sometime ago. As I began reading Ayn Rand's 'Atlas Shrugged' again, I found this: “ That which you call your soul or spirit is your consciousness, and that which you call ‘ free will ’ is your mind ’ s freedom to think or not, the only will you have, your only freedom, the choice that controls all the choices you make and determines your life and your character. ” 

We fear the society and live by its rules, sacrificing our true self. How will the world be if there is no society? I believe we are seeing it in several countries. The disintegration of society in its true sense. Not many are aware of who their neighbours are, nor do they care to know; let alone worry about what they will think about us. This disintegration of societal form of life will slowly create a chasm in human relations. But it has its good point: when people stop being self-conscious, they become truly free -- to follow their dreams, to follow their passions, to LIVE their life. 

What is unfair to us, may be fair to somebody else. What may hurt us, may bring a smile on somebody else's face. What is truth to us, may be untruth to somebody else.

Bob Dylan says no one is free, even the birds are chained to the sky. Reading it, I thought, wow what an imagination ! And we are chained to ourselves.

ತುಂಬ ದಿನಗಳ ನಂತರ ನಿನ್ನೆ ರಾತ್ರಿ ಕರೆಂಟ್ ಹೋಯಿತು. ಅದರ ಅನ್ವೇಷಣೆಯಾದ ಮೇಲೆ ಕತ್ತಲು ಅನ್ನುವ concept ಬಹುಶ ಕಣ್ಮರೆಯಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕರೆಂಟ್ ಹೋದರೂ ಹೊರಗೆ ನಿಂತರೆ ಕತ್ತಲ ಆಕಾಶದ ತುಂಬೆಲ್ಲ ಅದರ ಬೆಳಕಿನ ಹಾಸು. ನಿನ್ನೆ ಮಾತ್ರ ಕಾಡಿನ ಮಧ್ಯೆ ಮಾತ್ರ ಸಿಗುವ ಕಗ್ಗತ್ತಲು. ಸುಮ್ಮನೆ ತಲೆಗೆ ಕೈಯಾನಿಸಿಕೊಂಡು ಕೂತವಳಿಗೆ ಅಜ್ಜನ ಮನೆಯ ಕತ್ತಲ ನೆನಪು. ಟಿವಿ ಬರುವ ಮುಂಚೆ ಕರೆಂಟ್ ಇದ್ದರೂ, ಹೋದರೂ ರಾತ್ರಿ ಊಟ ಆದ ಕೂಡಲೇ ನಮ್ಮ ಆಟ ಶುರು. ರಾಮ ಪಗಡೆ, ಕೃಷ್ಣ ಪಗಡೆ, ಚೆನ್ನೆಮಣೆ, ಮಕ್ಕಳಾಡುವ ಕಳ್ಳ-ಕೋತಿ ಇಸ್ಪೀಟು... ವಯಸ್ಸಾಗಿ ಮಗುವಂತಾಗಿದ್ದ ಅಜ್ಜ ನಮ್ಮ ಗುರು. ನಾವು ಸೋತಾಗೆಲ್ಲ ಅವರ ನಗು. ನಾವು ಗೆದ್ದರೆ, ಅವರಿಂದ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಆಟಕ್ಕೆ ಪಂಥಾಹ್ವಾನ. ಅವರು ಗೆಲ್ಲುವವರೆಗೂ. ದೊಡ್ಡವರ ರಗಳೆಗೆ ಮಲಗಲು ಓಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆವು. ಆಗಿನ ಕಗ್ಗತ್ತಲ ರಾತ್ರಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹೆದರಿಕೆಗೆ ಸೆಖೆಯಲ್ಲೂ ಹೊದ್ದುಕೊಂಡ ಹೊದಿಕೆಯ ಘಮ. ಹೊರಗಿಂದ ಸುತ್ತುವರಿದ ಕಾಡಿನ ಚಿತ್ರ-ವಿಚಿತ್ರ ಸದ್ದುಗಳು. ಮೇಲೆ ಹೆಂಚಿನ ಸಂದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಆಗೀಗ ಹರಿದಾಡುವ ಹಾವಿನ ಸದ್ದು. ಆದರೂ ಖುಷಿ. 

ಮಳೆಯ ನಡುವೆ ಇಣುಕುವ ಸೂರ್ಯನನ್ನು ಹಿಡಿದಿಟ್ಟುಕೊಳ್ಳುವ ಆಸೆ. ಕೈತಪ್ಪಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ ಎಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾಯವಾಗ್ತಾನೋ ಅನ್ನೋ ಆತಂಕ. ಮನೆಯ ಒಳಗೆಲ್ಲ ಸೂರ್ಯ ಬರೋದು ಹೇಗೆ? ಅವನ ಬೆಳಕನ್ನು ಬೊಗಸೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ತುಂಬಿ ತಂದು ಮನೆಯ ಕೋಣೆಗಳಲ್ಲಿ, ಕವಾಟುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ, ಬಾಗಿಲ ಕತ್ತಲ ಸಂದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ, ಅಟ್ಟದಲ್ಲಿ, ಎಲ್ಲೆಲ್ಲಿ ಅವನಿಗೆ ಪ್ರವೇಶ ನಿಷಿದ್ಧವೋ ಅಲ್ಲೆಲ್ಲ ಚೆಲ್ಲಬೇಕು. ಮನೆಯೊಳಗೆ, ಮನಸ್ಸಿನೊಳಗೆ. 

Most writers believe that their piece is perfect, a literary gem. They think editing it is like merciless cutting of a flawless diamond by a gem-challenged idiot. I remembered such instances from my editing times when I was re-reading and enjoying an article 'Writers and Editors' by Michael Kingsley. Those slogging behind a computer to make sense of write-ups sent to the paper know the uphill task ahead of them. We would be subject to entreaties, threats of I-will-tell-the -Chief Editor-if-you-cut-a-letter, give-take cases like I-have-given-your-paper-this-big-an-ad-so-you-have-to-publish-my-news-as-it-is, sieving and discarding the chaff and collecting grains of publishable words which were few... When they send 500 words, and we reduce it to 30 words, imagine their ire. That's what every newspaper office has to deal with.

The world may or may not have been borne on the shoulders by Atlas, according to Greek mythology. But in modern times, it surely is the onus of a piece of paper to bear the whole world on its shoulders -- money. I'm sure this statement of mine needs no elaboration. I see opinions bought, countries crippled, kingdoms crumbled and men broken -- all because of that piece of paper. Why? Isn't life more important? 

I like the devil in me, for she hits the bull's eye of truth and makes me watch it when all I wish to do is hide from it. But I love the angel in me, for she tells me wisely to ignore that bull's eye of truth if, by uttering it, I am bound to cut the fine, silken threads of friendship/relationship.

Why have I stopped writing columns or anything serious? I had been giving so many excuses to myself over the years. One fine day, I sat down to think. And I realised. I don't write because I no longer give a damn to what happens in this world, to this world. I don't care. And the day I start caring, may be I'll start writing. The words that I write, the words that people read, where will they disappear later? Obviously to the oblivion. Even if it was otherwise, I still don't care.

We have a basic necessity to worship or look up to something. May be that's how god was born. Love was born. And today I feel may be that's why all countries needed national flags which would go on to become the ultimate symbols of our patriotism. It is heartening to see our flag fluttering in the breeze, symbolising our sovereignty. We cannot bear to see any disrespect towards our flag and national anthem. We are all slumbering patriots at heart and all we need to wake up is a look at our flag, high up on the sky floating freely reminding us of freedom and its value.

Global village. This term may connect continents divided by sea, countries, remote regions and far-off villages. But it has also reduced the world to one big road. A road which has no beginning, no end. We travel, travel and travel. We reach places at half the time we took some years ago. We save time. We save money. But... A few years ago, our journey to faraway places took hours and sometimes days. We got the feel of each town or city on the way as we passed through. We knew the shops, restaurants, the way people dressed and the way they behaved. Some townspeople were mild and polite, while some others were rude. Some were straight-forward while others were cunning. We even guessed which town they came from by their body language and behaviour. It was fun. We got to taste each city's unique food as our vehicle or bus stopped for break. I was quite fond of the yummy-smelling dosa in Shimoga or Maddur vada or goli baje in Dakshina Kannada. Now, if we wish for those scenes an

Jean Jacques Rousseau said, "Freedom is the power to choose our own chains." And we are efficiently hanging ourselves with it. Churchill reportedly said that Indians were not fit to rule but only to be ruled; that all Indian leaders will be of low calibre and men of straw... with sweet tongues and silly hearts. I do not know whether he really said them. But we are hell-bent on bringing his 'prediction' to fruition. As a commoner, I do not like to switch on the TV to watch news or to read a newspaper. It's chaos out there and there is peace only in remaining ignorant of what's happening in the country. Every political party or individual is hurling stones at another. In the melee, no one knows who is the stone-thrower and who is the victim. Maturity of a nation is in knowing how to build a bridge with those chains.

ಪತ್ರಕರ್ತರಾದವರಿಗೆಲ್ಲ ಉಸಿರು ಬಿಗಿ ಹಿಡಿದು ತಮ್ಮ ಕೆಲಸವನ್ನು ಅತಿ ಕಡಿಮೆ ತಪ್ಪುಗಳೊಂದಿಗೆ, ಡೆಡ್ಲೈನ್ ಒಳಗೆ ಮುಗಿಸುವ ಕಲೆ ರಕ್ತಗತವಾಗಿರುತ್ತದೆ. ನಿಮಿಷಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಸೂಕ್ತ, ಚೆಂದದ ತಲೆಬರಹಕ್ಕಾಗಿ ತಮ್ಮ ತಲೆಯನ್ನೆಲ್ಲ ಖರ್ಚು ಮಾಡುವ ಅಭ್ಯಾಸವೂ ಆಗಿರುತ್ತದೆ. ಒತ್ತಡದ ಜತೆ ತಮ್ಮ ದಕ್ಷತೆಯನ್ನು ಅಡಿಗಡಿಗೂ ಸಾಬೀತು ಮಾಡಬೇಕಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಅದಕ್ಕೇ ನನಗೆ ಅನ್ನಿಸೋದು, ನಮ್ಮ ಎಲ್ಲಾ ರಾಜಕಾರಣಿಗಳು ಕಡ್ಡಾಯವಾಗಿ ಎರಡು ವರ್ಷ ಮಾಧ್ಯಮ ಕ್ಷೇತ್ರದಲ್ಲಿ ಬೆವರು ಹರಿಸಬೇಕು. ಹೇಗೆ ಕೆಲವು ದೇಶಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಯುವಜನತೆ ಕಡ್ಡಾಯವಾಗಿ ಸೇನೆ ಸೇರುತ್ತಾರೋ, ಹಾಗೆ ನಮ್ಮ ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಸೇನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಸೇವೆ ಸಲ್ಲಿಸಬೇಕು; ರಾಜಕೀಯಕ್ಕೆ ಇಳಿಯುವವರು ಕಡ್ಡಾಯವಾಗಿ ಮಾಧ್ಯಮದಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲಸ ಮಾಡಬೇಕು. ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಅಭ್ಯಾಸವಾದ ದಕ್ಷತೆ ಮತ್ತು ಕಠಿಣ ಶ್ರಮ ಮುಂದೆ ಅವರ ಕೆಲಸಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ತಾನಾಗಿಯೇ ಕಾಣುತ್ತದೆ.  

Reading about OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder for novices) in the Outlook, I was reminded of my own obsessions and the embarrassment it caused me and my family when I was young. I would wash my hands every time I touched something. Then I smelled them to check if they were clean. It was a habit which I tried to shake off after getting many scoldings from mom. I always had to step on an even number of tiles or pour even number of pails containing water into the bucket. I had to touch an object with both hands equal number of times. There were many such habits which made my life miserable. Though I have managed to shake some off, they manage to peep surreptitiously every now and then. 

I was looking at the posters at a movie hall last week. And I regretted it. Any woman (most women) would have. There was a life size poster of a so-called comedy movie with the buttocks of women filling the top. On the bottom of the poster was spread the curvaceous 'heroine' of the film in a two-piece. I don't like to be patronising or censuring, but as a woman I felt ashamed to be anywhere near the poster. Some young boys were taking photos of the poster and were discussing god-knows-what, all the while sniggering among themselves. Making adult films and calling them comedy, minting money by commodifying women... As long as there is a demand, there will be a supply, even in surplus. And they call themselves actors of mainstream cinema. Feminist activists don't bother to speak up in these cases, because they call it freedom of expression.

An old saying among the explorers of the Americas says, "It is not life that matters, but the journey." But who among us enjoys the journey? We are busy deciding when, in a future date, we should be happy, that we have pushed to the back of our mind the truth that "now" we should be happy. Now, or that moment never comes. Life is just a collection of moments, which includes this moment. If we think we'll be happy after shifting to 'our' new house or driving 'our' new car or walking on the streets of Paris or along the Thames bridge, it's just a never-ending story. 

Just finished reading 'Zahir' by Paulo Coelho. He says, Zahir (obsession) is something which, once touched or seen, can never be forgotten, and which gradually so fills our thoughts that we are driven to madness. I have a private zahir and I believe most of us do. We may not always be driven to madness, but it does regurgitate in our minds all our lives. It does not let some sleep in peace and often becomes the reason for man pushing his boundaries.

In the lives of each of us, as we look back and review them in retrospect, there are certain desert wastes from which memory winces like some tired traveller faced with a dreary stretch of road.                                                                                                                                                                  --- P.G. Wodehouse  Looking back, I can clearly see the futility of our words, actions, emotions and despair when they have the power to change nothing. In fact, as Wodehouse says, my memory winces as it looks back and turns away quickly, to avoid recalling the days of sorrow, humiliations and frustration. Lucky are those whose memories are filled with laughter and contentment.

Until now, I refuted the very idea of a universal truth. It was my belief that all truth is relative. But today I'm sure I have an observation nearing a universal truth. We often believe that no one else around us suffers as we do; that our trials and tribulations are unique, our grief is singular. This belief is universal, in all cultures and in all countries. Unfortunately, we remain ignorant of the fact that lakhs across the world are walking the same path as us, may be worse. Perhaps, it's because we rejoice in self-pity. 

Yesterday, I was sitting next to a girl in the city bus. She was, as all youngsters do perpetually, listening to songs on her cell phone. One of the song videos had a hero in a mythological garb striding towards three voluptuous heroines dancing, standing manly while they gyrated around him. Then he sat on a throne and they slithered on the floor in front of him. Where are the women activists who scream every time something worth screaming about happens? What about protecting the dignity of women onscreen? Do heroines exist only to grab the attention of the machoistic hero and feel grateful? I felt ashamed.

I haven't watched the idiot box even once in about four months. I find the recluse quite enjoyable and peaceful. Who cares about the opinions of some people which often amounts to no result in the end? Who cares about stories which have neither logic nor an end? Who cares about sleazy dances and boring songs, predictable insults passing off as comedy? If I want to know what is happening to the world, I go to newspapers and internet.  

For some, the world is their oyster. For a few, their oyster is their world. It is interesting to see how some manage to live their entire lives under the blissful shade of ignorance -- unaware of the everyday fight to survive in the real world. To feed, to breathe and to live with dignity without compromising on one's values. I wish each such person would for once peep out, step out and test the waters just to realise that life is indeed worth living; with a smile in their eyes and bounce in their steps.