Astitva Aur Arth

Chaya Khel

2010-11-15T19:04:00.000-08:00

छाया खेल

(Shadow Play)

"What an absolute mess, this morning has been. It started with me being rudely woken up by the harsh sound of metal clanging against metal. Each clanging sound seemed to resonate with my throbbing head, as I struggled to open my eyes. Already things seemed very strange. For one, I wasn't on my usual, soft bed. I groped around for my glasses, but all that my hands picked up, was the dirt from an unfamiliar, cold, stony floor. I tried another direction, and to my horror, discovered that I had grabbed some body's foot. No sooner had I retracted my hands in alarm, than a brusque voice rang out, 'behind you.' That was enough to jolt me awake, this time fully. As I put on my glasses, I began to take in my surroundings, completely and utterly bewildered. That same horrendous, metallic sound, and this time I traced the source. An impatient figure, rod in hand, commanded 'You, coat wale. Up. Inspector saab is waiting.' What the. I racked my brains, frantically trying to find an answer to my predicament, but none was forthcoming. I wasn't at my fastest, either. I did remember taking a couple of drinks at the party last night, which wasn't is any way unusual, but, other than this and the head-splitting techno music, I couldn't remember much else. 'You are lucky that I am letting you go. Take your belongings and get out of my sight.' Thankfully, I had enough of my wits about me to not open my mouth. I just nodded along, signed where I was told to, collected my wallet (which, except for a ten rupee note, had been emptied), and stumbled outside, into the blinding sun.

It took me a while to recalibrate my senses, and get my bearings straight. 'Safdarjung bus stop', read the barely legible sign-board across the road. hmm. With ten Rupees in the pocket, there was little choice but to the take the bus back home. I sat at the bus stop for a very long time, but there was not a single bus in sight. A taxi stopped by, and the driver generously offered to drop me home for "only" twice the usual fare. "Saab, the other taxis are looting passengers by asking more than thrice the fare!" Of course, as one usually does in such situations, I ignored him. But soon it all made sense, for, during the week, the papers had been speculating about a strike by the bus cleaners. And that confounded day, had to be today. The taxi driver could care less about my indifference, after all, his services were in high demand now. And so, two rupees went in giving you a call, Pankaj, and six more in the tea that has been keeping me company. Now, I am paisaless, and at your mercy."

"Well Sheshadri, you've landed in a quite a pickle, I must say! What madness drove you to sneak into this party? I'll bet that you were after one of your "exclusive scoops", weren't you? Hah, while you may grin away your sixteen pairs, I'll have you know that Aanchal has been calling me practically every hour since last night, when you went missing. What am I to tell her? That her unpredictable boyfriend was trying to infiltrate a rave? Oh, the lies you force me to say, if only I could have a buck for each one of them. And no, I am not curious to know why you were arrested, or how you got let off the very next morning. I am sure you will use the incident to paint a fascinating, but untrue story on the 'human condition' in one of your Monday-leisure columns."

"I don't understand why she has to know everything, and be kept constantly updated. But what need is there to explain to you, Pankaj? You remember her well from our college years, she wasn't at all like this. Carefree, reckless, and most of all, with such a refreshing sense of adventure. All that is now a thing of the past. Maybe it is the drudgery of corporate life that has beaten her down? Who knows."

"With a predictability such as yours, I wouldn't blame her for being anxious. A simple thing like your cellphone, Sheshadri. More often than not, somebody from your office picks it up when I call, saying that you're on a tea break."

"That cussed phone is the bane of my existence. I often get nostalgic about the pre-cellphone days, oh such carefree days, nobody knew where you were, or if you were alive! If it weren't for Aanchal, I'd have chucked it long back. You know, while growing up we used to have a dog called Sonu. Sonu used to hate the collar, but had figured out that there was no chance of her being taken out for a walk without it. I think I understand how the poor mutt felt."

"Wait a second! Is it Sonu that was the inspiration to your poem that appeared in last week's column? Written from a mongrel's point-of-view?"

"Yes! Who else?"

"Lovely, I particularly liked the ending ..

'a descendant of Sirius, owned by none / with a mutton chop, I am won!' "

"I'm happy you liked it. How is your poetry coming along?"

"Well, you know how it is these days. The market for Hindi poetry isn't much, and one can't make a living off it for sure. Say Sheshadri, don't mind my asking, but are things okay between Aanchal and you?"

"I don't know how to answer that question, Pankaj. What does 'okay' mean? Some things are, while some aren't. What amazes me, is that in the midst of everything, somehow, the miracle of music hasn't left her. When she sings, she is transported into another dimension altogether, and by consequence, all those fortunate enough to be in audience. How can it be, that this elevating spark doesn't ignite the rest of her into a harmonious existence? This Pankaj, this, is her deepest paradox; through music she is able to touch those lofty heights of expression and emotion, that indescribable world where, as Goethe put it, 'the music begins where words end'; and, when the music does end, it isn't love that one finds, instead, a continuation of her obsession with work."

"I think, I see where you're heading .. "

"You do?"

"Yes. After all, in your accounting, you left out two rupees, didn't you? If I may venture a guess, a call to Vandana?"

"You know me too well, Pankaj! Yes, Vandana. She is that breath of fresh air that has made me revisit that illusive concept of what one calls love."

"Must you intellectualize even this? Why not smell the flower instead of trying to peel its petals apart? Heavens, I'm doing it too! Getting back to your earlier point about this apparent paradox. I think that the ability for creating great art can exist irrespective of other aspects of one's personality. Take Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, for instance. It is said that he often throws tantrums and even refuses to sing if deprived of his liquor. Yet, once he gets started, the music that flows, and the passion with which it flows, is simply superlative. So in a way, his spirits elevate yours! If you ask me, it is quite a waste of energy to try to reconcile these incongruent aspects of his."

"You make a fair point. I suppose it is better to leave some things alone. Now Pankaj, if you don't mind, all this chatter, especially after a very uncomfortable last night, has left me famished. And Bhabhi must be hungry as well, no? We can chat about Vandana, later."

And so, Sheshadri mounted Pankaj's trusted Bajaj Chetak and soon the two of them were driving back to Pankaj's place. The bus strike meant that the traffic was sparse, and driving through the shaded, wide streets of New Delhi was pleasurable for once. Sheshadri closed his eyes and soaked in the crisp, winter air as they leisurely drove on. Already his headache had lessened, and he was beginning to feel drowsy. As chance would have it, Pankaj needed to fill petrol in the scooter, and they pulled into a petrol pump. While Pankaj waited in line for the attendant to fill his Chetak, Sheshadri found a tree in the garden adjoining the pump, and flopped down at its base. The sound of the leaves rustling in the cool winter breeze had a soporific effect on him, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

He dreamt that the seas had risen at an alarming rate, and that the Deccan plateau was already underwater, and his neighbourhood in Dhaulakuan, was among the few places that was still above water. Hundreds, nay thousands, had perished in the rising waters, but he had been enterprising enough to build a decent sized boat that could take about fifty people, and construction was completed just as the waters began to drown his house. He found it odd that he felt no sadness watching his house disappear, or that no body he knew was on the boat. But this was no time for idle sentimentality, with limited food and water they needed to find higher ground, and soon. To his pleasant surprise, he spotted a flotilla of boats not too far away. As night fell, this motley bunch of survivors deliberated on a course of action, and figured that their best bet would be to head East. Eight hundred kilometres away were the foothills of the Himalayas, and the only hope for higher ground. Hours turned into days and after what seemed like an eternity, land was spotted - they had reached the Shivaliks. Nobody had any idea of how long they had been sailing because all their electronic gadgets had run out of battery power. But what's this? The mountains seemed to be full of people, buildings, and markets! It was most peculiar. The boat was docked and as people began aimlessly wandering around the shore, he decided to head in the direction of the market. No sooner had he reached the market, than he stood dumbfounded, staring at an electronic billboard with burgundy lights that read "Happy New Year 3010". Whisky Tango Foxtrot! Dazed, he walked into an alley of shops, but there was virtually nothing in the shops that he recognised. Maybe it was really 3010, he thought, and chuckled. And then, another bizarre turn of events unfurled. As he stepped out of a shop, he saw a familiar signboard, that of his high school. In a more reasonable time and place, he could have found his way to the school from the signboard with his eyes closed. And so, in spite of the high degree of absurdity that reigned all around, he recalled the route, and not before long, found himself in front of his familiar school. As he walked through the school, he realised that it had been converted into some sort of a student hostel. He thought, that if it were really a thousand years into the future, human beings would look somewhat different. But no, the only thing that seemed a bit amiss, was the closely cropped haircut that everybody seemed to support. He saw an open door, and cautiously walked in, half fearing being vaporised by a proton gun. It is good that he had a strong heart, for another shock was in store. The girl sitting in the room was none other than Vandana, staring at a blackboard that had a polynomial equation of some sort written on it. Well, looked identical to Vandana, at least, for this "Vandana" showed no signs of recognition when he entered the room and took a seat. After staring at her for a full ten minutes he asked if it was really 3010. She looked at him quizzically, and simply nodded her head. He had always thought that in a thousand years, human beings would have some sort of super powers and would teleport from place to place. But here it seemed as though they were a bunch of bald-headed math geeks. How disappointing. At least he had his hair, he thought, touching his head just to be sure. He plucked up his courage and asked her what she was doing. She seemed able to read more than the immediate question on his mind, and said "It is indeed a thousand years since your time. Yet, I know not, how you are still alive, or how you got here. We are very similar to you, except for one small difference - we can intuit the coefficients of curve fitting polynomials, we don't have to calculate them." And then, without warning, she grabbed his shoulders and began to shake him. He tried to get away, but she had a vice-like grip on him.

As he opened his eyes, he saw that Pankaj was trying to shake him awake : "If you've had your beauty sleep, shall we get going?" And so, the two of them were on the road once again, and not before long, reached Pankaj's house.

It was the first time that Sheshadri has entered the house since Bharati's accident last month that had left her paralysed. To see a lively, energetic person such as Bharati go from being perfectly healthy, to what seemed like a vegetative state was too much for Sheshadri to bear at first. As they entered the small house, Pankaj motioned in the direction of the bedroom. "Why don't you go in, and see if she is awake? I'll start heating the food in the meanwhile."

Gingerly parting the tattered lace curtains, Sheshadri took a deep breath and entered the room. As he stood at the foot of the bed, gazing at the calm, serene face of Bharati as she slept soundly in the late morning, he was filled with a tremendous sense of respect at the phenomenal strength that Pankaj had shown, and the dignity with which he handled matters in this last month. He knew that they were not the wealthy sorts, who could afford a round-the-clock nurse, and so, Pankaj worked tirelessly night and day to take care of his precious wife. Taking his eyes off her, his gaze explored the bare, yet functional room, moving over a few photographs from their wedding on the wall, a couple of water colour paintings that Bharati had done in a previous life, and finally resting on the lime green curtains that gracefully fluttered in the breeze from the window. A few shafts of sunlight illuminated the bottom of the curtains, and produced a beautiful play of shadows on the roughly textured floor below. He watched mesmerised, becoming acutely aware of his own cowardice in not being part of her rehabilitation, and contrasting at the same time with the trivial worries in his life, was filled with a much needed sense of perspective. As he prepared to leave, he noticed a little notebook that lay on the bed near her feet. He recognised Pankaj's tiny, meticulous handwriting and couldn't help but read the poem scribbled on the page ..

रात की गाढ़ी दलदल में

झील बनी नैनो-तले

निकली जिससे नमकीन धारा

और बरसी बूंद बूंद

टप टप, टप टप

किया नम गाल और तकिया

सुलझा तो कुछ भी ना

हुआ मन कुछ हल्का

Moments like these made him feel like a sack of potatoes; heavy and afraid of the bottom coming undone, but he also understood that for Pankaj's sake, he mustn't break down in front of him, there would be plenty of time for that later on. He paid his obeisance to Bharati by gently touching her feet, and joined Pankaj in the kitchen, just as he finished decanting the coffee.

"She seems to be asleep. I can hang around if you want to feed her first."

"No, its fine, I usually feed her around noon. As you can imagine, the lack of exercise has reduced her appetite considerably. Come now, have the parathas before they get cold."

"You know Pankaj, I am really sorry that I wasn't around earlier. Truth is, I was terrified. Only today, when I saw her, did I realise how selfish I had been."

"Look, its all right, I can understand. I hope I'll see you around more often now?"

"For sure. What do the doctors say?"

"They say that the brain scans seem to show improvement, that she might be able to speak in a few weeks time. Every now and then when I feed her, she smiles at me, ever so slightly. That one precious smile is her only window to the outside world through which she peers and reassures me, that she will be okay."

Smiling, Sheshadri gobbled down his first real meal of the day as Pankaj watched amused. The coffee was strong, as he usually made it, and slowly but surely, Sheshadri felt as though the rain clouds were parting, and he felt distinctly clearer in his head. He suddenly remembered his dream.

"When I dozed off in the garden, I had the most peculiar dream. At first I thought I was saving the world, but later on I reached this strange, futuristic land, and ran into Vandana! She didn't recognise me, though. I think the dream was a sign. Do you believe in such things?"

"Why not? After all, one has to keep oneself amused, right!"

"There's the trademark non-committal answer that Pankaj can be counted upon to produce! All right, I can see that I have eaten up a considerable part of your morning, and that you have more important work to do. I shall go amuse myself now, if you don't mind."

And with that, Pankaj bid good bye and walked the half kilometre to Vandana's college. It was past lunch, and a quiet period in the afternoon with no scheduled lectures. As he reached the threshold of her office, he heard voices intensely discussing something academic. So he took a seat, and waited for her to be free. Not much had changed in the anteroom in the past few years, he observed. Books seemed to be stacked in no apparent order, and a glass cabinet was stuffed with handwritten papers. It always amazed him how she was able to find what she needed in no time. He noticed something new on the top of the cabinet, beside a photograph of her son and her, a small plaque that congratulated her on "25 years of dedicated service." Wow, he thought, its been that long!

Presently, her visitor left, and after knocking on the door, Sheshadri made his entry.

"Hello Sheshadri, I am glad you called me earlier, I was originally planning on spending the afternoon in a theatre workshop."

"Writing screenplays these days, are we?"

"Haha, not there yet. A Greek professor of drama is visiting us these days, and I am hoping to get an easy introduction to Greek tragedy from him. After all, their ancients were masters of the game!"

"Why not just pick up a book and start reading right away?"

"Well Sheshadri, I am already doing that. But, I think that the sense of cultural and historical context that one gains from somebody who's rooted in that tradition, can lead to a much deeper understanding of a literary piece."

"I see. In that case, maybe I should come by later?"

"Not to worry, he is here for a few weeks and will be giving the same workshop later in the week. I'll catch it then. How are things with you?"

"Okay, I guess. I got some new ideas for next week's column."

"Nice! You have to give your first and foremost fan some hints now, I can't wait till next week!"

"I managed, don't ask how, to get into a party last night. It wasn't any ordinary party, and I am convinced that the cheapest pair of shoes at the party were costlier than my entire attire put together."

"Didn't you stand out, then?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I was disguised as a waiter, after all. My grandmother always warned me against loose women late at night, but at this party the word "loose" had no meaning, and everybody seemed to be either downing shots, or smoking pot, and a few loonies doing both. But, that's not the interesting part."

"Then?"

"I overheard lots of very interesting conversations, some arguments, and even witnessed a few fist fights! All in the name of love, as Atlantic Starr once sang. One thought led to another, and finally I got thinking about how arbitrary the distinctions between what we consider to be personal and private, are."

"Like lines drawn in sand?"

"My thoughts exactly!"

"So, how do 'we' draw these lines?"

"I'm yet to figure that. Maybe it has something to do with the sense of comfort that one feels with the other? And since this will vary with each person, the end result is a line that looks all sorts of wiggly."

"Wiggles in sand! That's what you should title the piece."

"I like the sound of it. Good, at least I have something to start with."

"Glad I could be of help. Will you have some coffee? I have it around this time, its the only way I can stay awake through the afternoon."

Sheshadri nodded, stopping just short of telling her about his inexplicable night in the lock-up. Vandana went over to the coffee machine, started the drip, and stood by the window. The view from her office was beautiful, and rather unusual for the concrete jungle that was increasingly becoming of Delhi. Only a matter of time, she thought, before the old forts get replaced by shopping malls. Sheshadri joined her at the window. The two had spent countless evenings looking out of the window, chatting about nothing in particular, listening to music, and coming up with conspiracy theories for current events. She enjoyed the boy's company, his fresh ideas, and his remarkable ability to tie himself in knots by trying to understand life through the prism of abstract concepts. She liked how things were left undefined between them, and could care less for the conspicuous stares that she would receive from people when he was around. As they had coffee, they discussed the bus strike and if somehow the ISI was behind it all.

And so, the entire afternoon went by in such idle chatter. Through out, he consciously avoided bringing up Aanchal. Not that she didn't know about her, but he thought it best to not muddle the waters in his head. Some things, he must resolve on his own, he thought, as he took her leave. As he strolled down the college grounds, the intoxicating smell of water on dry soil hit his nostrils. Sure enough, the gardener was watering the rose beds in front of him. White winter roses, his favourite. In the distance, some students were playing ultimate-frisbee, an old couple was strolling leisurely, and a young boy was teasing his dog. Life was okay after all, he thought. As he stood tossing pebbles into the pond, he reflected on something that Vandana had said about relationships, in her typical theatrical style;

"Its like a little skit. The first character is Love. After a while, Pleasure makes an appearance, and the two become synonymous for a while. Then, for some unknown reason, Love exits without cue, stage right. Now the rot begins, as Pleasure feels incomplete without Love. What follows, is a Bollywood musical of sentimentality and self-pity, whose eventual end is rather forgettable."

At dusk

2010-03-01T16:12:00.000-08:00

In her shadow at dusk

discreetly I walk

her pace is leisurely,

and footsteps light

Her Egyptian perfume

trails in her wake

conjuring jasmines

of the night yet to come

The evening breeze

twirls around
her delicate fingers
and carries

her tales to me

She turns into her garden

and I patiently peer
through glass panes
A lamp's soft glow

illuminates her face

as she gathers

the evening's purchase

ripe tomatoes and green beans

dinner will soon be made.

Spring Mischief

2010-02-26T19:35:00.001-08:00

Spring has come, mischief laden,

the dandelions elbow each other,

as they sway in the crisp breeze.

The squirrels run up trees,

then run down for no reason,

hide nuts from one another,

then forget their burrows.

Markovian, they truly are.

The crow on the roof ledge,

screeches aimlessly, and

trips just as it takes flight.

Its all too funny, and I

just too jobless.

A musical evening

2010-02-10T15:42:00.001-08:00

1

I witnessed a rain drop fall
from the heavens,
to the soft earth
Fleeting existence
infinite vulnerability,
that rain drop was I

2

Sitting under my shade
with the gushing river
keeping drone,
your sitar played
As you elaborated,
I disintegrated
into bits immensely tiny
What mischievous melody
floated in the wind
only you and the river knew
The wind,
drunk in your music
teased my leaves at first
They shivered in delight
then in fright, until
in surrender complete
Riding on this wind
each note swirled around
like the beads on the skirt
of a whirling dervish
You left me no choice
all that was untrue
had to be shed,
and as my leaves
fell at your feet,
the pretty birds
took flight, for
disguised as mischief
your melody was
the song of my soul
Leaves and birds come,
only to go
But you and I
and our music
in this twilight hour
shall be forever

--
[Update: Also published in Caltech's Totem 2010]

Thunder claps and trees

2010-01-18T13:10:00.000-08:00

[Update: Also published in Caltech's Totem 2010.]

A tall leafy tree
is what I wish to be
with feet on the ground
and thoughts in the abound
a gentle breeze makes me fickle
as I shed my leaves in his tickle
my lover though, is the rain storm
I sense his arrival with winds strong
powerless, delirious, oblivious, I sway
finally I can take no more of this foreplay
wet is my bosom and joyful my dissolution

Deccan Queen

2009-11-04T16:18:00.000-08:00

Life in Bombay was hard and who would know it better than him, having spent each night on a different footpath. When it rained, it usually got better, at least pandu on his midnight beat wouldn't bother to evict him from the park bench that was his for the night. The worst of course came around Diwali time, when some rascal would invariably plant a dada bomb under his bench. But overall he was happy with life. He would often look at the match-box apartments all around him and wonder how people could stand to live in the same place for more than a day. Other times, he would be found on marine-drive, just after sunset. Oblivious to all around him, he'd be lost in the riddle he'd invented for himself, namely, what would happen if the colours blue and green were swapped with each other. Green ocean, blue trees. And peacocks only mildly confused. And that's when it hit him, that he should visit the peacock bay in Pune. Granted it was inside the campus of the national defence academy, but the universe always seemed to conspire favourably in his wild peacock chases. Visions of dancing peacocks he could control no longer and before he knew it, he had made his way to VT station and into the general compartment of the Deccan Queen where no ticket collector dare ventured. Besides, he didn't have a rupee on him, and so the thought of buying a ticket never crossed his mind.

It was soon time for the Deccan Queen to begin its journey to Pune. The motions had to be gone through as they found their way to his seat. A warm tiffin box silently exchanges hands. One last embrace and wet cheeks touch. Shifty eyes meet, and avert as the engine sounds the departure whistle. She doesn't look back while walking slowly down the platform. The train pulls out and the rain plitter-platters on the roof, little rivulets of water rush down the window in ever changing paths, scattering the city lights as they flow. Fascinating, till they disappear into the gutter below. The inexplicable, yet inevitable had happened and emptiness lay ahead. Soon, the train began pulling into the hills and disappeared into the dark tunnels. He sat in the train door with his legs dangling carelessly outside. A homeless man lay asleep on the floor next to him. United by the rhythms of the train, they were together in solitude.

He thought his mind was going to explode from the sheer weight of memory. Memories of a past that held in its grip the dream of a future without fear, but was not to be. Memories of a love, that was no more. That night in the forest. The woods resounding with the piercing sound of the bansuri. Suddenly all around him lose the power of speech. Stand still, and play their parts mute. He shrieks into the pitch dark sky, turning to her for an answer that she herself doesn't know: Why? Why, he screams, when I can be all you want? He, who has long lost a measure of himself. She, who doesn't know what she wants, but knows who she doesn't. What can be worse, than to be denied resolution? Not by design, but by inability. Life's bitter ironies; she who had brought out the softest in him also inflicted the maximum cruelty, leaving a large gaping wound.

Hearing his shriek, the homeless fellow woke up with a start, and the two who were united in solitude not too long ago, were now one in alarm. His pleasant peacock filled dreams were suddenly cut short by this young boy, who, it seemed, wanted to be all that somebody else, a girl no doubt, wanted. How absurd, he thought. Well, only one way to nip this absurdity in its bud: out came the shoe whose sole had a hole and down it came, whack!, on the head of the boy with a hole in his soul. "You rich people never satisfied go home to mummy and let me sleep in peace!" It is often thought that such moments are ripe for epiphanies. What is not so well known, is that our epiphanies are often reflections of what lies beneath the veneer of our consciousness. And so, our hole-in-the-soul boy whose vision was clouded by the black smoke of immense self-obsession invented an epiphany that only somebody wallowing in self-pity could, that of jumping off the train to end it all. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he summoned up the courage to stand up at the bogey door and face the darkness that was rushing past. Liberation, any moment now! And that's when the grinding sound of train-wheels coming to an untimely halt shattered the darkness.

It was just his rotten luck to be thwarted, for somebody had pulled the chain just as the train was nearing Khandala station! With a heavy feeling, he got down from the bogey and walked up to the platform and found his way to the nearest tea stall. Maybe the hot tea will clear up his head, he thought. With the steaming cup in hand, he sat down on the empty seat on the bench behind the tea stall and was soon lost in reverie. It took him a while to realise that the girl sitting next to him was sobbing. And the sadhu sitting next to her seemed to be deep in meditation. And sitting next to the sadhu was the same bum who had whacked him on the head. He quickly averted his gaze from the bum, lest he strike again. How incredible, he thought, the bench was verily a microcosm for the world itself!

The girl had clearly been crying for a while, for the kajal around her eyes had been smudged to the point where she could pass of as a Gothic rock-star. Maybe she had also been planning to jump off the train? He offered her his handkerchief without a word and she was only too glad to have it. He waited for her to dry her eyes (and ruin his kerchief). "I have just run away from home." So she wasn't even on the train. Maybe she misses mummy already. Shh, don't say it out loud, the bum is sitting not too far off. "Nobody understands me at home. They all want me to be something else. Why can't I just be me?" The bum who had been listening to all of this burst out laughing and nearly fell off the bench. Having caught the undivided attention of the others on the bench (and a now-startled dog that was sleeping under the bench) on account of his little antic, he exclaimed "He wants to be somebody else and she wants to be herself. What's more, you both seem equally miserable!" Turning to the sadhu,

"O learned sage of the Sahyadaris

won't you explain these dichotomies?"

The sadhu appeared to reflect for a while.
"It is through contact with the six senses that is born desire, repulsion and subsequent attachment."
"Six?"
"The mind, of course! You could be 'watching' something or 'listening' to someone without anything registering. The faculty of the mind is involved, be it through a combination of memory, cognition or intelligence, in interpreting the various inputs that come by way of the sense organs."
"Haha, if that is so, then just by living in this world, we are bound to be attached to it, in some way or the other!"
"Clever, my friend. While it may seem that way at first, it might be possible to prevent attachment by being aware of the mind in its quest for identity."
"What's wrong with having a sense of identity?"
"Like with most things, there is nothing inherently right or wrong in possessing a sense of identity. I merely made a statement of fact, that the mind tends to be in a perpetual quest for identity and meaning. Astitva aur arth. Take our two companions this evening, for instance. Isn't their state of despair on account of a veiled quest for identity? Both want to be something. What, isn't very important. What is common, is the desire for an identity that seems genuine. And you can see where it has brought them."

By this time, hole-in-the-soul had earphones plugged in, and kajal-smudge had fished out her Ayn Rand novel. "Well?" asked the sadhu. Hole-in-the-sole got up, finished his last gulp of tea, and as he began to walk back to the train, said "Well, I am off to find them peacocks. As for what you just said, its probably best to quote Confucius;

Not teach ripe person: waste of person

Teach not ripe person: waste of words."

==
[Inspired by some, whose paths crossed. And one Kirli.]

The Poet

2009-08-24T09:26:00.001-07:00

So poet, you think you're a mystic?
With oars of words and boats of paper
you navigate the gentle waters
churning them this way and that

But deep waters run silent and
I wonder if your oars can reach
the depths that a tiny pebble does

But who am I to say,
for Laozi says it better
Those who know do not say,
those who say do not know.

--
[Update: Also published in the Montreal Serai.]

Imagine

2009-08-16T15:10:00.001-07:00

Imagine no possessions,
its easy if you have a grand piano
Imagine no attachments,
its easy if you have no one.

Ode to a parlour

2009-07-26T14:34:00.000-07:00

Privy I am to secrets many
given succour to travellers weary,
comfort to couples horny,
and in my bosom heavy
soaked tears plenty,
in my embrace come equally
rear-ends ugly and pretty,
Nay, not cupid, nor clergy
merely the humble guest-room bed.

Who's bad

2009-06-29T15:26:00.001-07:00

Its Paul, said Ma as the telephone's ring broke the monotony of the dreary afternoon. I had been staring at my geography homework for a while now, trying to draw India's map from memory. What a pointless exercise, I grumbled to Ma. Its not like I'm going to be invited to a round table with Mountbatten, Nehru and Jinnah to redraw the map of the subcontinent. Blank stare. If an esoteric skill such as map drawing from memory gives one extra marks on the unit test, it is good enough reason to learn, nay master, that skill. With this premise as the centre piece of her philosophy towards education, I, the overachieving only-child of my middle-class parents had reached sixth standard, effortlessly blowing away any competition with a nonchalance that had made me the apotheosis of all the school teachers.

Paul on the other hand, could care less about such mundane things as academics and school debates. Tall, dark and mischievous, he was easily the coolest person to be seen with, much to Ma's consternation. Baba I tell you, he's not good influence. I'd nod obediently, while wondering about the next dose of enlightenment coming my way thanks to the guru. Paul was single-handedly responsible for raising the level of conciousness among the members of our cricket club. After all, he had explained, in no uncertain terms, what was really implied in the innocuously titled chapter in our science textbook "Life Processes - Part 2". Part one was about birds and bees, so take a wild guess about part two. Of course, when you are twelve, he-who-reveals-the-secret-of-life is the undisputed leader of the gang. And so, the leader's approval of anything was like the Midas touch, it was instantly transformed into the cool and desirable.

Imagine my immense sense of satisfaction when Paul held up my latest acquisition, the cassette cover of Michael Jackson's album "Bad" and congratulated me on my fine taste. Acquiring the cassette was no trivial task. It required convincing father that I really needed it, in spite of his gruff declarations that one couldn't make out if "its" voice was male or female. While I was still contemplating my next move, one of his music videos appeared on MTV and much to my horror, involved one of his crotch-grabbing dance-moves. Instant failure, I figured, as I drowned my face behind my hands. With an air of resignation I went to bed. But as they say, its always good to demolish one's expectations, for after that, there is only one way: up. Lo and behold, the next morning as Ma was fixing my school uniform, she placed in a matter-of-factly manner, a fifty rupee note in my pocket. Go buy your cassette. Aha, sweet victory!

In any case, Paul sounded serious on the phone. I was to meet him by the library as soon as I could. I grabbed my cricket bat and dashed out. It was nearly five and time for cricket anyway. Cricket was always a safe excuse, while telling Ma that I was meeting Paul usually involved a few tedious questions. And so, two boys and a cricket bat are poring over the newspaper and only one has a clue as to what was happening. Soon, it was clear. MJ was accused of child-abuse. I had no idea what those two words in conjunction meant. But seeing Paul's expressions, I gathered it was something grave. Tricksters, out for cheap publicity, he declared. I agreed. Most unfair. Not surprisingly, Dad got wind of this as well which led him to state emphatically at the dinner table: I knew there was something fishy about "it".

Be that as it may, Paul and I decided that it was futile to spend any time reading about the scam that was being perpetrated against our hero and just to be safe, moved our MJ fan network underground. A single ring on the telephone meant that a MJ video was on the telly. We watched his videos repeatedly, till we were comfortable with our rendition of his famous moonwalk (which was a big hit at any dance party!). Dad could never understand our fascination with the man. To me, the magic of MJ wasn't just about his music. Hell, I couldn't even decipher most of his lyrics, what with his heavily accented American English. But more than just his catchy, foot-tapping tunes, the real treat was to see his extravagant videos, his awesome screen and stage presence and his outlandish dance moves: one moment he is gyrating like John Travolta, by the next breath he is gesturing like Audrey Hepburn and finally he has launched into a bizzarre anatomy-defying moon walk. You would be forgiven for forgetting to breathe. And it was in this defiant, genre-crossing, supremely energetic dance, that we saw mirrored our own sense of teenage rebellion.

Void

2009-06-05T14:02:00.000-07:00

One must be careful of words. Imprecise creatures they are, and often do they convey a false sense of agreement with intent and experience. If we willing to scrape below the surface, what will we get when the meaning of "void" is probed? At a first, obvious level, it points to the absence of some physical entity, be it an interstitial defect in a crystal, the loss of some item or the death of a living being. Of course, the deeper the personal connection with the entity, the more acute the perception of the void. It seems ironic; void, a synonym for something that isn't, needs for its meaning, the a-priori existence of something that was (for instance, would you feel a void at the passing of a person who you didn't know existed?). At this point, we're in a fix. If we suspect that there is any deeper meaning to void-ness, we will have to abandon the physical domain. No sooner have we done this, we are clueless in a pathless, abstract, Platonic world. So, is our quest entirely hopeless? Probably, but here is an illuminating analogy nonetheless. If we are to believe Hubble and our present knowledge of the origin and expansion of the universe, all of what we know exists was a single point at the very beginning of the creation of the universe. That single point, infinitely small and weightless "contained" all of existence (that was yet to "be"). Shunya or zero, is also a concept that has literally no measure (yes, one does run into the problem of defining something in terms of itself!). One might argue that it is a stretch of the word (however, words are imprecise, right?), but "void", at a deeper level can allude to this concept of no-measure or shunya. It should now be of little surprise that the concept of a point is Platonic (and hence non-physical).

Fireworks

2009-05-23T16:51:00.000-07:00

Look at yourself in the mirror. Sans judging. Look at the fluid motion with which the maid rolls the chapatis. An inconspicuous flick with the corner of her sari, wiping the sweat off her brow. Thinking of her child, wondering what he/she might be thinking at that very moment. Mother walking across the hall. A picture frame catches the edge of her eye. Memories triggered. Maybe it was too hot when that picture was taken. You're standing mute, watching. You see a curtain flutter on a chance breeze. Reminds you of your grandmother's house. A crow sits on the window sill. Hungry. You remember being woken up late in the morning by a raucous crow. A cloth being embroidered with no apparent pattern. Memories, glimpses, emotions, thoughts, hopes, dreams being woven in the cloth, some recognisable and some not. A cloth, or an allegory for life itself? No rights or wrongs. Just threads of varied colours, thickness and weaves in different patterns. Look around you. All the things you've collected. That bag. That camera. The bangles that sparkled much in the shop. The used bus ticket. The concert ticket stub. What would you try if you knew you couldn't fail? Its a hot afternoon. Sitting silently under the fan. Just being. What is to be done in life? Education, degrees .. to what end? To help myself? others? Maybe accomplish both at the same time. hmm, clever. Why does the maid sit on the floor and eat, and I on the table? Is this me writing my life, or me writing somebody else's life? Or is the question irrelevant and the reader and writer, one? Love. Maybe you've experienced it, maybe you haven't. Heard much about it. Dimly aware that there must be something profound about it? There is. No driving directions though. A sea gull plunges into the calm blue ocean in search of a fish. Imagine a day without speech. Your father stroking your hair as you drift off to sleep. All the world's a stage and some are too afraid to laugh. A dark night sky. Dark as dark can be. Not even the moon. The fuzzy milky way now comes into focus. A comet's bright streak appears across the heavens.

City Life

2009-05-10T20:38:00.000-07:00

The plane cruised effortlessly through the endless sky. It was that magical time after sunset, where the concepts of day and night held little meaning and creation was at the cusp of expression. A dense, brilliant orange glow just above the ocean rapidly transformed through shades of yellow and green, into the limitless blue that enveloped all of existence. Meanwhile nameless cities tucked away in the folds of mountains and clouds drifted by, vanishing in the blink of the eye. Soon, we touch down and the madness of city life is upon us, once again. City life hides away from us much that is subtle. The profound sunset that had demanded our attention but a few minutes ago, fades into a distant memory (It will revisit in a moment of unexpected reverie). In the meanwhile, we live in a light bulb. A light bulb whose bright, burning filament veils all that is mysterious and romantic.

Words

2008-12-12T14:33:00.000-08:00

I recently came across this beautiful speech delivered by one Subroto Bagchi to the graduating batch of IIM Bangalore in 2006.

I have been thinking these last few day about just such speeches. Say, it so happens that one day society takes note of you. Takes note because your work has made a tangible difference to the lives of those people who might not even be known to you. And so you find yourself in front of a graduating batch of bright, excited students, raring to enter the real world. You narrate experiences that shaped the course of your life. In all likelihood, they will be full of insights you gained during your childhood and college years, not in an advanced class on micro-economics or nano-photonics at whatever post graduate college you went to. Some might remember your speech. Some might not. Some may forward it to their friends. One person's insights become another's anecdotes. Till one day, somebody has an epiphany of their own; that their insights have similar roots as the ones narrated in the many "Interesting fwds" that came their way!

Just what is it, that transforms words of inspiration into inspiring words?

Post-madness

2008-12-01T23:48:00.000-08:00

After unarguably the most dramatic terrorist event in India's history, people in India, Pakistan and the world over are trying to make sense of what just happened. I mention these three geographical entities separately, because each has their own official stance on the matter, that not surprisingly, differs from each other's. In the initial shock of the event, all three voices speak in near unity; horror, sorrow and solidarity. No sooner has the shock subsided does each one return to their official stance, which has more to do with posing for the gallery than building peace, at the same time furiously working out mechanisms to deal with such terror if and when an encore presents itself. Harder questions that deal with trying to understand the root causes of extremism are brushed under the carpet. In such times, fear, both real and manufactured, make people more willing to give up a part of their individual liberties. It is a trap that the Indian people can very easily fall into when faced with the new found bravado that the government is displaying. Yes, it is a display. The Indian and Pakistani governments are talking to each other through the media, which makes it into a collection of monologues, rather than a dialogue. In rhetoric of this nature, the first casualty is hope. The hope for stable and lasting peace. The Indian establishment is posturing with an excessive use of quotation marks. India will take up strongly with our "neighbours" that the use of their territory for launching attacks on us will not be tolerated and that there would be a "cost" if "suitable" measures are not taken by them. The media, ever ready to ponce on sensational material, is not to be left behind. Any "evidence" the government presents is lapped up all to willingly and judgements implicating the same "neighbour" are passed instantaneously. With a chilling soundtrack softly playing in the background, I might add. Fear, manufactured. The official Pakistani government line so far has been fairly restrained and should be appreciated. Its media, leaves much to be desired, however. From what I have seen so far, people floating conspiracy theories about the attack being conducted by Indian authorities themselves are given liberal airtime. Of course, I must admit that in the last few days, I've followed the Indian media in a lot more detail than Pakistan's. I do not know the extent of the Pakistani connection in this whole episode. I only "know" what the media puts in front of me, but I'm not willing to suspend my critical faculty on account of the enormity of the tragedy. But one thing I do realise is that if the two governments are serious about trying to remove extremism from their societies, trials and monologues through the media must come to an end.

And no, the US need not play baby sitter. Or big brother.

Define and refine

2008-11-27T21:25:00.000-08:00

The vanity of it all.
Sharply defined likes and dislikes.
Refined over time, apparently.
Decide.
Your complicated ideas,
or the infinitely complex person?

again

2008-11-27T13:05:00.000-08:00

Again. AGAIN.
Heroic tales will be told
brave souls will be remembered and honoured.
After the hows
we'll run around like headless chicken asking why.
Is the solution stricter laws?
an armed policeman on every square foot of our land?
No, no, NO.
Spare a thought for the man in uniform who goes in, knowing that there is every chance he won't survive.
For whom or what does he willingly risk his life?
Is the Home minister, who announces on live TV the number and arrival time of commandos, worthy of the brave soldier's sacrifice?
Is the media team, that consciously decides to air such information in real time, worthy of the brave soldier's sacrifice?
My head is splitting, and my blood boils.
Again. AGAIN.

Cross roads

2008-09-30T15:19:00.000-07:00

Life, is a journey. When we are little, our parents teach us the ropes of how to walk it and walk a part of the way with us. Then, one fine day, just as the child graduates from his/her infallible tricycle to an unstable bicycle, we're on our own. Just the magic of being on our own and making our own decisions is inspiration enough to get us started. We want to prove ourselves and sometimes believe that we are the epitome of creation, such is the audacity of youth. Soon enough, we come upon cross roads and realise that our beloved path, now branches into many different directions. We become dimly aware of similar situations our parents had faced while we were still making sand castles on the beach. Some of these paths eventually converge, some have a better view, some are dead ends, some have company, some don't, and so on. The bewildering diversity of life becomes a part of our concious experience. As it usually happens, our initial decisions are made with the help of our parents and friends and the burden of a particular choice being made doesn't rest heavily on our shoulders. Things begin to get complicated further along the way. We find ourselves increasingly alone as we are forced to choose one path over the other. Some invoke God to help in the decision making. Some invent purpose and derive their choices from this invented purpose. Some declare the entire journey to be absurd and contemplate on suicide being the only non-trivial question. Some find that there is no meaning to existence at all and the business of decision making, futile. Some go where inertia takes them. Its like looking down a kaleidoscope.

Monsoon, come she will.

2008-06-06T01:21:00.000-07:00

Her journey has been long, yet she isn't tired. The old and the young await her arrival with bated breath. The young ones look upon her coming as the jail break they needed from the shackles of the dreary summer, already a distant memory; the old feel a return to innocence and reminisce the days of their youth. In the hustling-bustling city where life never seems to stops there is one moment which holds everybody grounded and breathless. The air, heavy and still, is ripe with the scent of her arrival, now imminent. The usually noisy avian residents of the telephone wires are quiet, the way school children become when faced with the towering persona of their principal. As though sullied by the rush of her chariot, the clouds are dark, rendering Apollo into a mortal, helpless spectator. She sheds her first tear drop, the first of countless. And all of creation rejoices.

कबीर का एक दोहा ..

2008-05-06T23:58:00.000-07:00

रंगी को नारंगी कहे
बने दूध को खोया
चलती को गाडी कहे
देख कबीरा रोया

याद

2008-01-18T16:37:00.000-08:00

कहता है कवि
जीवन है बहती नदी

न जाने कब वक़्त ने बांध बांधा
हुआ है आलम आज कुछ ऐसा

लेती है रूप वर्तमान की आशाये
अब केवल अतीत के प्रतिबिम्ब मे

The Speaking Tree

2007-12-07T22:56:00.000-08:00

O Poet, the realm of words is yours!
So eloquently you express,
the beauty and essence of my being.
Thy glorious words stir many,
yet pride I show none.
Never do I hide,
although you seek to possess.
Freely I give,
never a citation I ask.
O Man, won't you learn from me?

Relatively speaking ..

2007-12-01T12:39:00.000-08:00

Said Schwarzschild, as he strapped on a rocket,
heading towards a black hole, "It'll never get me!".
Snickered Eddington, till he couldn't see him any more.
And then he snickered some more.

To a dear friend

2007-11-30T13:15:00.000-08:00

Complaints, I have none
Yet, what I see makes me ache.
A mind fragmented
distraught, conflicted and heavy.

Come away!
forget thy petty self for once..
watch the rain drop fall from the heavens
and splash into nothingness..
behold the little turtle's earnest effort
as he crawls into lands untrodden..

Mistake not the word with what is,
come away my friend, come away.

Innocence

2007-11-30T13:00:00.000-08:00

.. came uninvited, and left without leaving a note ..

Blip

2007-11-30T11:54:00.000-08:00

An ephemeral life we have,
and an interesting bit of complexity therein!
Mesmerised you are by dualities,
over it will be by the next bat of the eyelid!

Blue skies!

2007-10-25T18:42:00.000-07:00

Recently, the Optical Society of America opened a chapter at Caltech and organized an outreach program to give demonstrations in optics to girl scouts, roughly in classes 6-9. So one particularly warm afternoon (thanks to the greenhouse effect stemming from the fires in Southern California) we set out to an elementary school in neighbouring Alhambra. It was a rather odd configuration that we came across: four of us "teachers", four girl scout organisers and two students!

One of the demonstrations involved explaining why the sky appears blue during the day and reddish during sunset time. The organisers had a "manual" that outlined explanations of the demos. This had some rather misleading analogies, such as "energetic photons travel shorter distances, much as if you were to start running very fast, you would tire out sooner." Instead of dwelling further on these so called explanations, I thought of attempting a simpler explanation.

If one were to imagine a large, tranquil body of water such as a lake which has a little wooden post sticking out in the middle. Now think of two scenarios. In both of them, there are (plane) waves travelling in the water toward the post.
In the first case you have waves of long wavelengths (distance between consecutive peaks (or valleys) of a wave) that don't really "see" the post since each wave is much longer than the size of the post and so carry on almost unhindered past the post.
In the second case you have waves of shorter wavelengths (comparable with the size of the post) and thus get disturbed (scatter) appreciably and spread out after hitting the post. Qualitatively, this explains why shorter wavelengths scatter more than longer wavelengths.

Thus, during most of the day time, the blue components of sunlight (short wavelengths) scatter more and "spread" out, giving the sky the blue colour. Analogously, during sunset time, the blue wavelengths scatter all right, but since the sun's rays have to travel through a thicker layer of atmosphere to reach us now , these scattered blue wavelengths eventually get absorbed (loosing energy after multiple scattering events). What remains are the red wavelengths; ergo, the sky appears reddish at sunset.

The technical explanation of the same involves something known as Rayleigh scattering where the scattering cross section has a strong wavelength dependence ( wavelength^{-4} ) which implies that shorter (blue) wavelengths get scattered more than longer (red) wavelengths. This originated from the Tyndall effect . Here, if one shone light through a transparent glass of water mixed with a little milk and observed it straight-on from the opposite side, one would observe a slightly reddened colour, while if one observed the water from the side, one would see a slight blueish tinge to the light. (This effect was formalised by Lord Rayleigh soon after.) Contrary to popular belief, the scattering that causes the colours of the sky are due to the scattering of light by Oxygen and Nitrogen molecules, not dust particles, something Einstein calculated in 1911.

What I like about the waves in the water analogy is that it doesn't needlessly invoke the particle nature of light (I can't think of an explanation of this effect thinking of light as a particle) & it gives an intuitive sense of the wavelength dependence of scattering.

ps: This, I couldn't resist: Said the young man to the sunset, where are my blues ?!

Ustad

2006-08-22T11:24:00.000-07:00

From a news report:
Varanasi: Thousands bid an emotional farewell to shehnai maestro Ustad Bismillah Khan whose mortal remains were laid to rest at the Karbala-Fatamaan burial ground in Varanasi.
Men of the 1/11 Gorkha battalion lowered their muffled weapons as a mark of respect to the departed soul. The troops saluted the Bharat Ratna awardee by firing 36 blank rounds in the air even as buglers paid the Last Post. Before the burial, a majlis was held at the grounds in which prayers were offered for the peace of the departed soul. The burial, incidentally, took place under a neem tree just by the side of the place where Khan Saheb used to sit and play the shehnai during the 5th and 8th day of Moharram. Earlier, in the evening, people had queued up all along the two-kilometre road through which he had gone to express his 'Aasu Ka Nazrana' by playing shehnai during the 5th and 8th day of Moharra

---

Oh life, who are you? You blow through the passages of the shehnai in glorious rhythm. Your tune ushers in the nation's independence, your melody brings men and women together in wedlock. A neem tree was your companion for many years, and while the world was still waking up to your genius, the leaves of the neem were dancing in an unchained melody. Now that you are in some other world, the tree grieves, much as the parents who left you long ago would have. With every riffle shot, the neem tree cries tears of leaves, for its loyal son is no more. As is said; "अपने ही पानी मे घुल जाना बर्फ का मुकद्दर होता है।"

If it weren't for CNN-IBN ...

2006-07-13T23:20:00.000-07:00

Ref: http://clients.ibnlive.com/features/mumatt/

This kind, charitable news agency, an Indian version of CNN, very graciously offers to donate 1 Rupee for every "e-candle" that is lit on their website to the relief of victims of "Terrible Tuesday." So although they seemed to be very moved by the tragedy and this that, and have some money to offer to its victims, it wants you to log on to their site, provide them with your name, email and phone no., and only then will it donate this huge sum of money.

Mr. Rajdeep Sardesai and CNN-IBN, kindly go to hell.

"Not in this incarnation"

2006-04-29T17:57:00.000-07:00

Ras leela comes to an end. Presently, hot samosas are being sold outside. The westerners form a single line and patiently wait their turn. Little groups of people are scattered across the courtyard, each discussing some aspect of the dance and their interpretation. Soon, the line is no more and an old man with shaking hands comes over to the table and says, "So, which part of India are you from?"

"Serampore, Calcutta."

"Wonderful! Have you heard of Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri? I've been an indirect disciple of his for many years. Both me and my wife. It has been an absolute blessing to have known about him and to have read his teachings."

"Indeed. You surely would have heard of his disciple, Swami Paramhansa Yogananda. Especially in this part of the world."

"But of course!"

"So, what all parts of India have you traveled to?"

There followed an odd silence.With a far off look in his old eyes, he said "I've not been to India. Atleast not in this incarnation." The far off look transformed into a warm smile. One that demanded understanding. "During one of my meditation sessions I realized that I was once a temple dancer in North India, not too far from Benaras. And this was a long long time ago, around 300 years in the past.

The irony, beauty and subtlety of fate, my child. In this life I've been designing spacecraft for NASA.

Someday, maybe, I will go back to where I belong."

European hypocrisy?

2006-03-03T14:53:00.000-08:00

Two issues in the recent past, very similar in essence, bring out this instance of what I perceive to be European hypocrisy. The first, being the publication of the controversial cartoons by the Danish newspaper. The second, being the arrest & imprisonment of the British author David Irving for denying the Holocaust. At the very outset let me put the required disclaimer: The emphasis of this piece is about the dual standards as I see being displayed, and not about the merits of the individual cases. At the core of all of this is freedom of expression, which must be absolute in scope for it to make sense, because, it is very likely that an opinion I express is likely to offend some random person at some random place on this globe. Now if I were to be take into account all such possibilities, I'm not likely to have much to say. Hence, this freedom must be absolute.

A minor digression. This does beg the question though, if the freedom comes with a responsibility. In my humble opinion, the water gets too muddy for any meaningful & objective rules to govern this freedom, for it to make any sense. And it would end up contradicting the very freedom that I talk about. One could argue that this would allow fundamentalists/extremists to deliver inflammatory/communal speeches etc. But, look at it this way, putting such people in jail is not going to prevent supporters/followers of the cause from doing what they want to anyway. In fact, there is even the danger of the action of punishment backfiring. So, if people wish to make "inflammatory" speeches, let them! However, if and as and when they break the law, they should be dealt with appropriately. That would be the responsibility of the state.

So getting back to the main point. Since the argument presented in favor of the publication of the cartoons is freedom of expression, how different is it when Mr. Irving does it? He chooses to deny the Holocaust. If you don't agree with him, don't listen to him or read his books. Him denying facts would only prove his delusion, and doesn't change a thing. Agreed that most of Europe and the world at large feels very deeply about the Holocaust (and rightly so), well, so do Muslims about the depiction of their most divine. One puts state before religion, the other, religion before state. And both societies exist, and for them to co-exist, each has to be tolerant of the other. (In this context, a friend of mine remarked that Europe has learnt more about the Islamic world than the other way around.) Having said all this, doesn't the whole issue smack of double standards?

ps: Read Amit Varma's brilliant take on the cartoon row here.

Lakeside @ iitb

2006-02-05T18:42:00.000-08:00

.. those timeless times at iit bombay..