Idyllic Thoughts

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.