The last time I wrote about the naughty nature of time when it stands us at an intersection, I was thinking two-dimensional. Along comes a comment from Citric Acid, that perhaps it was my folly — not considering the third plane. It gave rise to an interesting, though tangential discussion about choice, consciousness and such. It has been ages since there has been real conversation on any of my posts; I tend to travel the path that the tangent etches.

So be it. Sequels, as we all know, don’t do too well.

But, barrenness.

Often evokes images of sand dunes continuing their recursive sine-waves to the end of the horizon. Almost makes you thirsty. You, comfortable in your living room watching the TV while sipping iced-tea, notwithstanding. A desert is, however, not the epitome of barrenness. You have to see arable land in summer, deprived of irrigation to know barrenness.

My two-dimensional thinking stood wondering, on such a ground, perhaps, when I wrote that post. Parts of me scattered all over the intersection of the three dimensions — knowing only two. Therefore the question, perchance. How was I in situ in a time that hadn’t come? Why was I there when I wasn’t there, as yet? What trick of time was playing that I couldn’t decipher? What was it, that made my sight turn a little bit left, looking back? Citric’s comment was useful. I was, perhaps watching it from a depth (or a height) — the third dimension. The perspective was confounding. The experience was surreal. A plane equally barren.

I wrote a poem that was never inked.

I imagined that fork on the road. In the deepest recesses of my mind. The road was a brown blur, really. It was all barren land. Irregular honeycombs of dry and parched land could never constitute or define or direct paths. Infinite paths emerged from the point that I stood. Yet, diagonals and perpendiculars was all that could see and seek and choose. I missed the third dimension. Maybe, even the fourth. I could make 360deg turn and there would be barren emptiness pouring in my eyes. With each degree, one road was possible — almost one for everyday of my life. And in all those possible choices — I considered only the perpendicularly-geometric two.

Emptiness, I have therefore come to believe, is an oxymoron. Because somewhere in the crack of that irregular honeycomb, somewhere in the third, or the eleventh degree of a turn…

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One day you come close to it.

Sometime ago, a decision would have taken you along a different road, off the default path. We choose possible futures that way, with decisions. And along this road we would have toiled our way towards the destination — the same one if we had stayed on the path and not taken the diversion.

One day you come close to your destination. You don’t reach it, you come close to it and see what could have been, if you had stayed the original path. The destination is not yours, yet. You see your fellow traveller at the destination, he, who stayed the original path. A whirlpool of questions and regrets envelope you. As the giddiness subsides, you go back to the day you chose the left fork in the road. It seems like a longer walk. It seems, you have to walk much more to get to the same place that you see now.

How can the same destination be further away from you can see it in front of you?

Am I using time to measure the distance? And if I don’t measure the distance in time, and use miles and kilometres to measure it — have I taken a longer route? And if that is true, how do I still see it here? Why have I not reached it? Why does it elude me?

You know your destination lies further ahead. Perhaps this is just a way of letting you know what lies ahead, when you eventually get there. A bit of providential intervention for your motivation, perhaps. Perhaps, a question for you; a glimpse of what lies ahead — a chance to confirm if your intended destination is the same; if you would like to recalibrate your expectations; your ambitions; your desires.

That envelope of a whirlpool will now be your constant companion. And you will walk away from your destination and walk with more vigour towards it.

It is one thing to experience the remnants of a dying art form. Yet another to hear a warrior-artist present a view of his practice.

In the days of yore, Kalarippayattu was practised to protect the king and the land; now, it is practised to protect the art; protect itself.

~ Unni, Kalarippayattu Warrior, Kerala Kalari Centre, (Sargakshethra School of Dance), Thekkady, KL, India

More Photos

Of all the (mostly green) things that we could have osmosed in Kerala, this was a welcome sight of colour beyond the shades of green. And for someone who cannot help but be fascinated by the philosophy of swords, guns and the sword-bearer, this was a walk for a kid through a chocolate factory on an eat-as-much-as-you-can day!

For just one reason, I think I’ll wait till God calls me to his country for good. It is otherwise a beautiful country, but for now I am happy at the departure gate at Kochi airport. The “Gods” of Kerala don’t favour all. More later.

There is this new thing about regrets.

Seems it is politically incorrect to drag regrets around and with you. No one is asking, but if they did, I’d say being politically correct is politically incorrect. Talk of circular references. Judges in comedy shows are striking down every joke, comperes of the award function for the largest film industry offered more disclaimers than politically incorrect digs. There are degrees of being PC, what works for one doesn’t, for another. But we aren’t talking of being PC.

Regrettably.

We are talking about regrets, which people don’t like to have anymore. Ask any self-respecting yuppie, (s)he doesn’t have regrets. Seems we are genetically evolving to take everything in our stride and face life as it comes. We don’t become wishful anymore; wistful anymore.

I watched Trishul, the other day.
Did a quiz on Facebook about going back in time
Have been listening to Marathi Theatre music
Was in Glastonbury last month
Seeing Jazz places in my dream
Saw photos of Mumbai in the seventies

Not that it was in my control, but I regret not being young in the late-sixties and early-seventies.

Something’s the matter, this is an incomplete post.

Good things come out of sacrifice. Toil. Perspiration and hard work. What use; an easy life, what use; lack of struggle. In fact they even insist that a good artist is born only out of pain. Only those that have seen pain, experienced it — become good artists.

Endure, you must, else there is no glory.

Then someone finds out — there is nobody to fight against; nothing to fight against. No one disagrees, nothing is a hindrance. What we are doing is right and everything seems to be in order.

“This is your mind playing games; this is the invisible enemy!”, they cry! Your mind is your own enemy. You have to bring the enemy to the fore. You have to fight. For nothing is gained in an easy life. Doctrine.

So we fight. We toil, we believe we are fighting something, what it is, we may see if and when we kill it; overcome it. We make things difficult and pat each other for every difficult step we take, recognising the hard work we do, against ourselves, the invisible enemy.

We sacrifice.

I sacrificed too. Sixteen drafts before I wrote this one. Sixteen posts of possible expression were converted to a state of nothingness by this cruel index finger of mine that clicked the “yes” without as much a second thought.

This was a difficult post. And I am getting there.

The cover of the book had a gravity-defying bicycle climbing a modern building’s wall. A vertical image. The title of the book said - Guts! It was a gift from a friend, a few years ago. Like the book, its message was now obscure under a six-month layer of dust.

It was designated as the book of answers for today, yet it failed to deliver on that promise.

After a while ‘guts’ doesn’t mean anything. I haven’t seen a brave person, for a while now. I have seen acts of bravado - I have seen fists shaken in empty air displacing innocent air molecules from their state of inertia. I have seen caustic words build a wall between two peoples who were otherwise merged in a single swirl of rainbow colour

There is a small difference in the spelling; there is great difference between brave and bravado. And in that one moment, it is easy to miss that huge difference.

I haven’t seen a brave person, for a while now.

A feeling overwhelms you. It is an otherwise ordinary experience, however, your own perceptions about it, the expectancy, excitement around it is overwhelming. You start putting it all in words - as if that makes it more real. Nothing does. Nothing equals the original experience.

It’s great to be back home.

Every birthday brings an end to a year of events. The memory scrapbook becomes thicker. The blank pages seem to lessen. When really young, a birthday is a celebration of growing older; when older, it is the dread of growing older.

Each year, a number begins to subtly suggest expected behaviour; a social norm of how we ought to. Most of us are often trapped in this norm and make conscious changes in all that we do. Dress, talk, smile, laugh, sit, walk, food, drink, and such. More often than not, when we see a stranger and for whatever reason we need to guess the stranger’s age, we will, without obviously knowing it, determine age using factors beyond the sagging skin or the white hair. The make-up as it were. There is more than just taut skin which gives away (or hides) true age.

Age, the wise have said, is what is in your head and what you want it to be. If you want to be 25, you can be 25 all your life if you choose to be. The body may slowly choose to grow old faster than your mind, yet your true age will be only a factor of how old you really want to be.

I have seen people getting older faster than they should; young, lively people full of energy, sapped because they need to grow old. Sober, it is also called (not related to sobriety related to the drink).

Some are friends
Some are old
I feel left behind
A few are younger
I feel old
We are all the same age
We are generations apart
Separated by a few years

What will happen on your next birthday? Will you succumb the question of, “how old are you?”