Up in the Air

There’s too much of more. There’s a new fanatic in town, and her exposed argot has more words that end with -er.

Faster, smaller, thinner, longer. Sharper. And the sorts.

In Victor Hugo’s apt words, however, argot is the language of the dark; a language of misery.

Here’s a blurred photo.

It’s blurred. You cannot see much detail. There is hardly any specificity in the image. What does this mean for the image? Not for the photographer (that’s me, and I do not care much about what you think of me). Does it become a bad image because, alas, we cannot see the twist and the weave of the fibre that makes the thread that have revolted out of the binding Rexine?

A friend would take up this argument and talk of test cricket and the T20 format.

I’ll digress. If you don’t want to, skip the marked section.

<Start Digress>

I quit Flickr Pro and moved to 500px because it was a suggestion by a well known photographer. I hated it as soon as I saw the “top” photos. They just do not seem real to me. 500px is a muscle show of post-processing. Not that post-processing is bad. I use it all the time. I was looking for a word when I was discussing 500px with a friend. I didn’t find it then, I have it now.

Synthetic.

Over the years, the 500px platform went through a number of revisions and changes, growing together with technology and photographers, and keeping focus on the highest quality photos. Via 500px  (emphasis, mine)

500px offered a way to sell photographs, but I was not (and am not) interested in it, anyway. I’ve (mostly) quit 500px.

</End Digress> 

There is no doubt that our tastes are changing, our attention spans diminishing. We have lesser time for our friends and no time for ourselves. Enough research floating around to prove that. 2831215 is the phone number of the travel agent of my first company. This was when mobile phones didn’t exist. Now, I don’t even remember my fourth travel agent’s name. Hell, I don’t even remember if I use a travel agent anymore. I have to remind myself to add keywords to her address card. My choice of keywords defines what I will forget about her and what I might use to search for her. It’s exhausting, in a way. Her’e a worthwhile exercise – how many mobile numbers (of close friends or family) do you know by-heart?

I need to travel a bit. But I digress. (I should have warned you)

Adobe recently announced that the Creative Suite will now be cloud-based. To make the news worthwhile they included some super sharpening tools to the CS. (Now you know what triggered this post)

Apart from the irritating plugin that I *have* to use with browsers, I do not use any Adobe products because of their bloated sizes and prices. But this post is not about Adobe, at all. Software is a tool; it makes sense in a way that you use it. I find arguments about tools pointless. As long as you do your work well, the tool doesn’t matter. Hammer vs. Pestle. Mac vs. Win or Can vs. Nik. Same difference. 

This post is about simple questions.

How much sharper do we need our images to be? How slimmer should our phones be? How faster should our computers be? How much thinner should our laptops become?

And while the inanimates around us become more ‘-er’ and ‘-er’, what about us?

What ‘-er’ should we be striving for?

The Secret’s up in Smoke

I know something.

It’s a secret. So, obviously, I cannot tell you what I know. But it does bring me to the thought about how we deal about secrets, and, perhaps (and therefore) what makes us vulnerable.

I know folks who will take secrets to their grave; I know a few others who will blurt out what they know at first possible context that they can think of. One (of the many) classifications, in which we think about people, is how they manage secrets. I use the word ‘manage’ with some purpose. I could have easily said, ‘keep’ secrets.

I am not the person you want to confide, if you do not want anyone to know what you are up to. Especially, if what you confide in me is happy news. I am, perhaps, melancholic in a way. If I know something about you that is not worth sharing, I’ll take it to my grave. But we do have to deal with the aspect of “what is worth sharing” – is it how you see it or is it how I see it. There is a difference you know.

*-*

Flashback, circ. 1989.

A young healthy body is shivering. Guts are in short supply. I gather them as much as I can. I proceed. I gingerly walk up and inform my father that I smoke. The response is factually receptive (if that phrase means anything). He accepts my confession (my perspective) as a statement (his perspective).

“Good, you told me.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

“Anything else?”

I hover around and he has sensed that my bigger problem was not the confession (my perspective) but, something else.

“Please don’t tell Mom.”

“I won’t, for the sake of it, but if it come down to a conversation, I will tell her.”

I don’t know if you have ever experienced a feeling that the world is made of paper and it starts crumpling around you, but it was a similar experience. He didn’t say, “I have to tell her,” he said, ” I will tell her.”

I left the room; he did not look up from the paper that he was reading.

*-*

Of the things that people confide in us – there are things that are good, and there are things that are not so good. I am given to hold, protect and preserve secrets that don’t show folks in good light. I will, also hold, protect and preserve secrets that have not yet become the well-known truth. However, I have to find someone to share good news. If you want to suppress good news about you – I am not the person you should be speaking with. Never trust me with “good” secrets. I am, usually, unable to hold tight, the secrets that show the wonder of great people. Overall, that makes me a person who cannot keep secrets half the time.

There’s one more thing about how I deal with secrets. If it looks like someone is about to confide, I ask them to wait a moment. I tell them that by the fact that you (may) confide in me, my wife will know it. By choice or chance, but she will know it. Unless you agree to that, do not confide; I am better off not knowing. It’s my rule; it’s not my wife’s rule, so, perhaps you are better off confiding to her.

But it does all come back to the nature of secrets and their purpose. To tell someone something that they aren’t supposed to know in the first place, is the first violation of a “secret.” However, to tell something to someone, means that you want to be heard. Which, to my mind, violates the essence of a “secret.” Yet, secrets are exclusive bonds between people. Some secrets bind people for life. Even if none of them ever want to or need to “out” a secret. Whatever the relationship, secret-management defines a relationship. Venn diagrams, Sub-sets and Super-sets, is the one concept that I am very glad to have learned in school.  Are we vulnerable because we know something or because we do not know something? Do we seek secrets? Do we avoid them?

And, therefore, if more than one person knows that one thing, it is already not a secret, no?

PS: Here’s a secret for you; my Mom knew I smoked, long before I knew that she knew, that I smoked. That other secret, I am trying to hold back and ‘manage’ it for as long as I can. It’s a good secret. If I do hold back till the right time, perhaps I will be better at secret management.

How We Killed the Poets

Sometimes, I think, poets have all the fun.

Writers of prose have been called wordsmiths for a while now, but poets are the elite wordsmiths. If I were to use the controversial (and potentially politically incorrect) yet appropriate Indian terminology for them, I’d say, they were the Brahminical class on word-smithery.

Poetry employs lesser words, often violating grammar; yet has an impact more than that prose can.

I thought of a few beautiful poems that are the epitome of romance; they play now as I write this post, yet I think twice before posting them. These poems are from a few years ago. When times were different. In our new-found eyes, these poems may be anti-this or anti-that. They may be this-ist or that-ist. Did love change from the 70′s to the 2010′s? 

We live in difficult times.

Our words may be our own, but their meanings belong to those who want to extract directional meaning of them, so that they can use it for their own purpose. For, we have taken democracy to the extent that – it is easier to make meaning than ask for it. When we disagreed to disagree. There is much more in life that we have than we had a few years ago, yet we have less of everything.

Romance died soon after we stopped making poets. And we stopped making poets when we stopped reading and listening poetry. 

 

Like a barber’s chair that fits all buttocks

“A chair,” I said.

“We have many, but before we can sell you one, we need to know about you,” he said, as respectfully as his training could possibly permit.

“A comfortable one, is all I need.”

“Of course, sir. But you are still talking about the chair. We need to know more about you to show you what might be most appropriate.”

“I must say, I do not understand.”

He ushered me to the southern wall of the showroom. I thought, perhaps the comfortable chairs were kept there.

“You are new at this aren’t you?” he asked, in a manner that did not expect a response. I was not sure how I should have answered that question. I chose truth.

“No. I have bought chairs before.”

“I doubt it, sir. I believe you have seen many chairs and chose a few, but you have not bought a chair, ever. For those who have bought a chair, always qualify the chair. Executive, chairman, boardroom, and such.”

“I did say, comfortable, didn’t I? That should qualify as an appropriate and useful adjective.”

“That still qualifies the chair; it does not qualify who will sit in that chair.”

“How does that matter?”

“It matters the most, sir.”

“Ok, I’ll be sitting in the chair.”

He smiled, took me to a section of the showroom where there were many chairs. He invited to me to test some of them and pick one. I asked a few questions about the material of the chair. Some were flexible-nylon, some breathing-cotton and he mentioned some unpronounceable material; I realised that the difficulty in pronunciation was directly proportional to the cost of the chair. Then, there were features; lumbar support, swivelling, height adjusting, arm-rest-adjusting and such.

“This chair feels good,” I said.

“Good choice,” he responded with practiced professionalism.

“Wasn’t that difficult, was it?” I asked.

“No, sir.”

“Spit it out man. The sale’s done. What were you thinking all this while?”

“A chair sir, unlike other furniture is not just a piece of furniture. It has more meaning than its structure.”

“How come?”

“People take away things with them when they leave, but they never take away their chair. A chair therefore retains the value of the person who occupied it. But never the value of that person; but the meaning of what that person represents. A new person may occupy the chair and at that time; the chair transfers the received meaning to the new person. And so it proceeds. The actual chair may get replaced due to wear and tear, but the meaning remains. The chair becomes the icon for the person. In time, the person matters less and the chair matters more. If you follow politics, you will understand what I mean.”

I smiled, and said, “This is a personal chair; there are no people around me to make that meaning; I understand what you mean, but it may not apply to me.”

“There’s a sanctity to a chair by virtue of where it is; behind which desk it is.”

“Yes, I agree. The chair and the desk have more value than the person who occupies them right?”

“Yes, and more. I have sold chairs for many years. First-hand and second-hand. After a while some chairs become sad. They miss the first occupant who gave them their reason for being. Sometimes the second or the third occupant; anybody who gives meaning to that chair.”

“I’ll take this one, let’s finalise the price.”

Back home; nylon-sheathed chair with lumbar support is what I sit on, and think about the incident. At once, humans, by virtue of who they are, lend meaning and authority to the chair. Then, the chair takes over and lends that meaning to the human who then occupies it.

And we are confused about who deserves the respect; the chair for the received meaning, or the person for the transferred meaning.

PS: Title taken from “All’s Well that Ends Well,” Act II. Scene II, by William Shakespeare.

Sign/Post

It’s 23rd July. I update my Facebook status: A beautiful post finds a place in my head. Now to find the time.

Three people like the status; the post itself does not form, for a long and indeterminate while.

I am thinking of friends. Actually, I am thinking of their absence. The fact that I am thinking of their absence illuminates their presence. They are here, in my head or heart or whatever component, physical or spiritual – that makes them present before me. The make-believe is exhausting. I give up.

This post is not that beautiful post that found a place in my head that I mentioned on Facebook.

This is a different post. It is, I think, still a beautiful post.

-*-

Of the many men who have contributed in creating the most definitive art are the ones who never signed their work. There must have been one, of many like him, that contributed to the construction of the wondrous fort of Sindhudurg. Of the men and the women who worked tirelessly at this engineering feat not a single one is mentioned anywhere. Not one of them felt the need to carve his or her name for posterity.

The brave Marathas built this fort.

Every identity was engulfed in the single identity, in that one single statement. We know of the architect, for that is documented somewhere. We know of the administrator, for that is documented somewhere.

Not a single person who contributed to the erection of this fort is known; documented  - to be precise. Not one of them ever felt the need to document his contribution. Where art has now succumbed to the identity and the pathos of an artist, this is a glaring example of art for art’s sake. A fort? As art? You would be right to question the construction of a fort as art. I will not argue on that.

*

If forts don’t convince you enough, consider Madhubani paintings or Warli art (Not the one that your cousin sells commercially; the ones that were the original)

*

A few hundred years later, young men in gaudy shirts hopeful of participating in popular love or similar such, exhibiting a deep identity crisis, have a compulsion to use chalk or whatever means to carve or inscribe their identity on the stones that an unidentified artist slaved to compose a masterpiece.

While the ones who built the masterpiece never felt a need for recognition, those that visit have a craving to inscribe their identity on a heritage that they are wretched derivatives of. Fie on those wretched souls!

Graffiti psychology has been studied enough, so I shall not even begin to make an attempt to discuss that further. Feel free to Google.

-*-

My best friend and I have a talk about this. She says  that I have made a wonderful statement in saying, “Those that built it did not feel the need to express a personal identity; those that visit someone else’s creation feel the need to display their inadequate identities.”

We – and no surprises here – move to a discussion on contemporary art. I do not know for a fact, where the concept of a signature on a piece of art came from. The need to sign art is a need to express a human equivalent of the God-complex. “I created this”. In contemporary times, to my mind, it is like proprietary software vs. opens-source software. Signed and unsigned. Belongs and doesn’t belong. Those that want to posses art are not much different and the symbiotic relationship between the artist and the audience is perpetuated through the signature. You possess a traditional unsigned Warli and I possess a Souza. Of a few square feet of canvas, my pride is often reduced to the few square inches on the bottom right of the canvas.

Not so long ago, my father used own a seal. A red sealing wax bar, burnt – their crimson simmering droplets on the lip of the envelope and ‘sealed’ with a calligraphic press of his initials. Nothing is more personal than that. Nothing more one-to-one. Only the recipient can see what’s inside the envelope. History is witness of seals. The question therefore is; if signed art is as personal? Unlike the geometric casts of tribal women of Warli, whose representation is available to all of us? Is signed contemporary art available to the privileged few? Not really – we know that. They openly exhibit their expression with gay wanton yet sign it for an unknown exclusivity.

This post has no conclusion.

-*-

That post about friends; I don’t think it will ever get published.

Wax Has to Melt

We all have dreams.

Well, most of us do. I am not talking of those abstract blobs of irrationality that we usually cannot control when we are asleep. I am talking of those that we live when we are wide awake. The kind, when they are the most lucid when we are in a classroom where the lecturer wishes to be elsewhere as much as we do; or in a meeting where everyone except the person who has convened the meeting, knows that it’s a waste of time. What goes in our head during such events is a mash-up of dreams, thoughts, ideas, plans – and they seem to effortlessly slide on a plane which defines what we really want. And as tangible that plane is when we dream – soon after – it becomes an abstraction of nothingness as we are sucked into our deigned zombie-like activities.

Today is a special day – and my love-hate relationship with milestones notwithstanding, I am happy.

A year has passed after a certain event – and I am able to discriminate where I stand vis-à-vis where I thought I stood, once upon a time. This GPS-kind of activity has not been easy. Enough shock, hurt, pain has been encountered and endured before finding the absolute location of where I am. There has been much difficulty in letting go and even more difficulty in denying the questioning brightness of the truth that has harshly scalded my eyes. The asking heat, without malicious intent, asked me if I would confess that I was living in the wax-world a-la Indraprastha; I said I was not. I fought it for a year.

It’s slow, but I see the wax melting.

And those grandiose images of false comfort burned down to their bare element. The bright light smiled, I think, as if saying – I was always on your side, but I had to sit on the other side of the table – because you were gone for far too long, and lost to me. I would have preferred to sit with you and look together – but we were looking in different directions. Therefore, I had to confront you, said the wise light.

“I am glad, we can now look in the same direction.”

As I stand where I am bereft of the wax palace, I wonder. It must have been the light that, with its heat – melted the opaque walls so that I could see beyond.

It’s late now, and what I see is an even darkness. I stand where an impressive palace once stood. I see nothing of the grandeur that once made me believe I was king. I find myself on the top of a hill here, though. Alone. But I feel the breeze that the faraway sea brings and finds its way through the valleys to where I stand. It has a gentle sting. It does not matter that the wax structure is no more, because, soon, it will be morning. I know one thing: I will see more than I ever did.

And, I will see clearly.

On Inspiration

There isn’t much in this world, nowadays, that inspires.

I believe that I would have remained a “tourist photographer” if I wasn’t ever exposed to a few folks who have a very different, thoughtful, and a philosophical approach to photography. My photos would primarily be of centred objects, documentary proof of my presence and flat superimpositions of family and friends against touristy backdrops. Not that there is anything disparaging about such photographs, but I believe I wouldn’t have liked what I did, after a while.

I feel blessed to have discovered Candida Höfer, and of course all the students of the Bernd and Hilla Becher school. She is an oasis of inspiration in an otherwise monotonous desert. Candida Höfer continues to inspire me, after all these years.

Enjoy!

We Walk a Tightrope

She must have been eleven or twelve years old. Cyan-ish salwar and a short, but bright red Kurta. She carried an uneven pole to help her balance on the tightrope walk. I watched for a while, as I was leaving.

*

One of the great events that Mumbai is proud of, is the annual arts festival held at Kalaghoda, every year. My best friend is an artist, so we usually make it a point to visit the festival at least once while it is on. It is an amazing smorgasbord of art. Very smart and creative people from various places come there, every year. These are sensitive, aware, and emotional artists. The Kalaghoda Art Festival (KAF) features “burning” issues – environment, child-abuse, over-consumption, religion, support for local artisans, fusion music and the like.

*

Her father wore a bright blue lungi and kept an even beat going. I imagined, it helped her focus, in the din that this city is. I almost imagined her telling herself, just one more step, and then, again, just one more step. The rhythm of dad’s even beta resonated well with the girls chant, I thought. I played it in a few regional languages I know. It seemed to be in sync.

*

It is quite endearing to see artists represent their emotions of the socio-political issues that affect them. Large, scalar installations that demand of us, to make discrete sense of the abstractions of an already discrete problem. I am amused, sometimes, but I maintain the perspective. The taller and garishly-attention-seeking these installations are, I see lesser of art and I see more of personal, shrieking statements seeking recognition.

*

She and her father aren’t allowed in the conclave that exhibits registered and learned artists. Socially-acceptable art requires a certificate: institutional or commercial. Unfortunately they have neither. To my mind, every person in this city would be more appreciative of her tightrope walk: she epitomises the struggle of every man and woman in this city. In a single action she makes their abstract life discrete; in a single action from one end of the rope to the other she presents a performing art. Yet they are all blind to this abstraction.

*

Tomorrow’s blog and news had flowery reviews of the installation art about child abuse. I read it. I smiled. I put the paper away here and closed a tab there.

*

She asked of me, who had apparently noticed the presence of master art in her performance that was bereft of any intention except one – to survive for tonight’s dinner – what did you do? I told her, I am no different. I took your photograph, I also wrote a post (for what it is worth, it was about you). Beyond that, I did not do anything. Success, to me, unlike you is not about “just one more step” – my success is measured in the like count and positive graph on page view statistics.

*

Unfortunately, for both of us, I have become one of those that I criticise.

*

PS: Please resist the temptation for Mumbai-bashing.

Mr. Chow

I saw Slumdog Millionaire.

I saw the Hindi version. We were five of us. I and two others worked as waiters in a suburban restaurant & bar in Mumbai. The other two worked as lathe machine operators in a shop in a suburb closer to where I worked. How we know each other is complicated; I wouldn’t want you to be entangled in that complexity. We were friends — you could say that, and let it go. Like you, I know that trying and defining friends is quite a big deal. I see friends gather every night at the place that I work.

But, yes, I saw Slumdog Millionaire.

Between the protagonist and me, there is one difference. His difficult life is speckled with adventure. Mine has been “only” a difficult life. There is, obviously one more difference. He has ten million rupees. I don’t. But, you know, I could have been him. I have learned more about this world as I served beer and poured a soda in a whiskey glass. Quiz competitions require facts, not knowledge. Except, that I did not have the sense to apply for the programme. But when you start thinking about it, there are many differences between the hero of that film and me. We are quite different — but one thing binds us together – I could have easily won a quiz like that.

This is a long story. So feel free to pause, take the beer (or whatever your poison is) out of your fridge, make your drink, and give me a patient ear.

A few kilometres north of Dharwad, there’s a village called Byahatti. There’s a good chance you have never heard of it, and I don’t blame you. It is not known for anything that you would care about. I am from that place. Twenty-two years ago, I was born there on the outskirts of Byahatti. To a mother who loved me more than anything else and a father who I seldom saw. When I think back, I seemed to be the fulfilling future of their life; a hope, almost. Lot of things transpired, which I will exclude from this personal history. But for the sake continuity, let me say that I went to school till the seventh class, I can read some English and do some basic maths. I do not how it works in the schools in the city, but, because I couldn’t see the blackboard very well, my teacher thought I was never paying attention. Much later, much much later, I realised that I had a defect in my eyes. We had a rich guy in the place where we stayed – and liked helping us poor people. He had got a doctor from a place called Bombay, which I had read of only in textbooks, to our village and had all children examined. We were supposed to look through a glass and identify letters. I was scared, at first — I thought it was a school test — but later, I found out that the doctor did not mind if I got it wrong.

I am probably rambling now, but feel free to open the next bottle or fill up the next peg. I can do it for you, you know, I work as a waiter in a bar.

Coming back to the Slumdog, my education has been very similar to his. See I wait tables. Different people come to the place where I work. Few of them are nice – they talk to me. The others, they just want me to get their drinks. Most of them don’t bother that I am around. If I haven’t mentioned it before – I don’t obviously, appear as a smart person. So they keep speaking, I cannot but help overhear. I am enriched. When they drink a lot — and even if I don’t make any mistake — they shout at me. I become the punching bag of their suppressed emotion. The captain and the manager have to intervene, sometime.

It must be my face and me.

I am short, dark, have pouting lips and I wear a geeky glasses. I have heard these words and I know what they mean. How else do you think Slumdog Millionaire got there. Not all my customers are rough drunks. Some, actually take the time to speak with me. I wonder what the difference is between geeky and dorky. I should ask that regular who comes often. He speaks a lot about computers and technology.

He was at our bar today. And he seemed to be at ease. I knew today was the day when I could ask him few things. Then a friend came along — someone I had never seen before, with him. Yes, I know who he comes here with. I also know which of his friends come with him at what frequency and leave at what time. He is a constant and the others are variables. You can always predict the behaviour of constants, and after observing for a while, you can predict the behaviour of the variables. Some leave at an exact time. Some stay back, with pressure. Some, you can sense – want to be elsewhere.

He ordered his usual, for himself and his friend. I kept a tab on his table, he has always been a good customer and treats me with some respect, even if the respect is from a distance. Every half an hour or so, I was replenishing their beer. All was good and I was waiting for the moment to speak with him.

As I served them their last beer, I overheard him and his friend put up a wager. On me. Both of them challenged each other to blog a character sketch about me. I was standing a couple of feet away from their table. They agreed that they will have a common title to a post while they independently sketch my character, and then compare notes. At first, I felt like a piece of furniture being reviewed. They paid they bill, and went away.

It is 3:00AM now. For the last 4 hours I have forgotten about them. As I lay down on this thin blanket I wonder about them. Our regular, promised to write about me as soon as he got home. His friend needed some time. I know people write things on the Internet — I have no way of reading what they write. As I look to this dark ceiling, I wonder what they have thought and wondered about me. Did they take me at my “face” value? Was I consigned to be a dork? Or a geek? Not that I know the difference. How will they ever know about my life? Is my unwrinkled face able to tell a story of a lifetime? Do they know of my ambitions that have been diluted as much by the soda I serve to the guests here? Do they know my mother? Will they say how much she loved me? How much I miss being away from her? Aspirations? My wages? What will they write about? I wonder. I wonder. I shed a slow tear.

And then, I think it is just amusement for them. A way to indulge in an activity that allows them to be far away from writing a character sketch about themselves.

Perhaps, my apparently empty, mission-less, menial life is some sort of an inspiration for them. Perhaps they can fill their lives with my nothingness. As I thought of this, I smiled, turned to a side and slept well.

My life is worth more than I thought.

PS: Title of this post has been borrowed from Red Dust And Spanish Lace, the first single, “Mr. Chow”. The wager mentioned in this post is real. When the other blogger completes his version, it shall be linked. Both bloggers agreed on the title, so that we can keep our independent opinion about this character sketch.

Oh, Just a Conversation

It has been a while since someone has ever challenged my thinking, my thoughts. Along comes an old friend. We are separated by geography, but neither one of us gives a damn.

We spoke of the world we live in. We spoke of the world that will bind us to a way of living. We talked of revolutions that we need to cause, to ensure that this country’s promise lives true. It is so easy to be a rebel, with or without a cause. I can parade my slogan and make you slave to a cause by being a predator on the very emotions that you seek release from. I can penetrate your innermost sense of helplessness and be the icon of your most suppressed expression.

For the most of us, our call and support of the unstudied cause is our re-shares on Facebook and retweets on Twitter. Our understanding of the constitution of this country laid wayside, we are flag-bearers of an unknown colour or emblem, just a current flavour. Our dismay of a prevailing situation overcomes our sense of right. Our call is simple – an uproar. Only on the basis of an inherent outrage that we experience; yet feel completely neutered to act against it.

You see, convenience trumps right – hands down, every time they face each other. These are enemies. Staunch. They will never shake hands. A person I respect a lot, once told me: There are ethics, and then there are ethics, and then there are ethics. I suspect, he was on the side of righteousness, but he was warning me about convenience. I have yet to decipher the meaning of his statement – I believe it was multi-layered – but I hope to get there, someday.

We need to put things in perspective.

For  a millionth time – I am grateful for all my friends out there – irrespective of their ideology. They make me a better person.

Making Myself

An SMS (text message for the rest of you) made its way to my phone, today morning.

There is no such thing as a 'self-made man'
v r made up of 1000s of others
Evry1 who has evr done a kind deed for us
Or spoken 1 word of encouragement to us
Has entered in2 the make-up of our character and of our thots
Gud Mrng Dost  

It was a scary message at first sight.

I usually disregard the feel-good messages that pour in every morning. For one, I hate txtspk. Secondly, I doubt if most people really read and pay attention to the message before forwarding it to their address books – not friends – the address book. There is a difference. Where and when possible I often politely request to strike me off these motivational messages. There are a few exceptions, and therefore, this slightly frightening thought, landed in my phone’s inbox.

Men (and women) are self-made, no matter what. They may – slightly or hugely – be influenced by a few others or a thousand others, yet, they make of themselves by their own choice and by their own doing. No one makes anyone. The thought in the SMS above may resonate well for those who are self-less or self-denying, or even those who have a self-sacrificing, altruistic worldview. It does not, for me.

There is another side to this message that seems to be conveniently missing. It talks of the positive influence — what of the negatives? That should count in equal measure, shouldn’t it? So if a successful person is a product of the influence of a thousand others, what of the utter failure? Do we take ownership of failure but attribute our success to others? The very thought seems incongruous and just-crossing-the-border-of-ridiculous to me. We are influenced equally by the devil and divine that resides in the people who exert influence(s) in our lives. While the SMS itself doesn’t talk of the devil’s play, it is perhaps implied (attributing the common notion of success with the phrase, “self-made man”).

It is almost an inversion of a beautiful story from our childhood: The Brahmin and the Cow

I do not deny that we are influenced by others, that we learn from others, and that we are motivated by the encouraging feedback we get from them – which strengthens our resolve and therefore our character too, but to deny a human any credit (“there is no such thing”) in the developing his or her character is an extreme state.

When life takes a turn to the side of darkness, we are usually called upon to take responsibility for our actions and act to repair. When things brighten up, we should ask the same and take full responsibility for it.

To deny me my hand in my making is to deny my be-ing.

A Year in Posts

I have been tagged by Gauri. This tag comes after ages – tags on blogs are very yesterday – no one does that anymore. No one writes as much on their blogs anymore. I know I don’t.

While Gauri’s post asks for post from the month that set a tone; I am choosing to link to the 12 posts – I think that were very close to my heart in some way or the other for that month.

This tag, I must sadly admit, is quite easy to do. I have blogged between 3 – 7 posts every month, this year. I have put the number of posts against the month; describes the sorry state of affairs that my blog was in – all of this year.

January (5): The Prayer of Intention: Fresh from over-exposure at a spiritual retreat, this thought pounded me for a while. My sedimentary-rock-like beliefs were re-examined and reconsidered.

February (3): The Blog is Dead: While I have obviously written little this year, it didn’t seem natural to me. The thought kept nagging – and I ended up writing a lot about the blog itself. Perhaps it was some kind of divine therapy.

March (5): Shine: This post set a hint of a comeback, almost. I can’t say much about the post, except, it was a positive experience for me.

April (4): My Line about Myelin: Another post about blogging – well, not exactly – but about my writing. Inspired by Labi Siffre and Robert Genn, in a single breath…er…post.

May (3): The Warrior’s Dilemma: A personal dilemma. The photo made more sense than the post. Each gave the other some context. I am glad I take weird photos.

June (3): D-Day: About Blogging again – but this time – discovering the value of blogging. And of blogging for a while. Gathering the reminders of my life along the way. Interestingly, this post did not receive any comments. (Which became a theme in the months to follow)

July (7): Remains of the Day: 004: I had started this as a series that I would continue every month. If I had done it, this tag would have been easier. Some eye-opening stuff happened this month.

August (4): The Evening Before Knopfler’s Night: A beautiful post. Not many read it, and those who did, probably didn’t get it. That evening, not many folks came. I had him all to myself.

September (4): No Answers: As if it was possible, I was trying to make sense of a death.

October (7): The Purposive Ethos of an Artist: A well-written post, after a long time. Something not about blogging. I spent too much of time in this period with artists, I think.

November (3): The Birth of the Reader: Barthes-inspired and a personal belief that I have been dragging alone for a very long time. The human interference in art.

December (4): Against Extreme Moderation: I have no idea why this one did not get any response. As the year came to an end, the sense of being lost began to fade.

At the cost of duplicating those that Gauri has already tagged, I tag:

Shankari

Dharmabum

Det-res (Delivered!)

Girish (Delivered!)

AFJ (Delivered!)

Asuph

Let the games begin!

Gender Mathematics

A woman has to work twice as hard to prove she is half as good.

This (or something to that effect) is a soft-board pin-up I saw first on desk of a colleague, many years ago. I was amused at first on the mathematical play on the words of a socio-philosophical statement. I didn’t pay much attention to it after that for a long time. I think she removed that poster-let from her soft-board a few days later. I used to admire her work then, I still do, but unfortunately we don’t work together anymore.

I once thought of it when a friend and I were digging up old memories. I mentioned to him about that pin-up. I wondered if she was as good at her work because she actually tried doubly hard. If she did, the effort didn’t show. We didn’t know about that for sure; we were sure however that most of us who had the good fortune of working with her, respected her.

A few weeks ago, I heard this maxim again from yet another colleague whose work I have come to admire and respect. This time, it didn’t amuse me and I said that this quote was written by someone who was against women. There were back-and-forth defensive arguments from a couple of other female colleagues who had joined the ‘conversation’. It’s true, I was told, and I wouldn’t understand, because I was a man. Maybe its just me, but I felt a hint of accusation in that statement.

And that’s a premise in an argument that you can never beat, or at least, I haven’t found a counter argument for being a man.

Very recently I ended up working with three very smart and intelligent women. It was sheer pleasure working with them and be in the company of intelligence for a whole day. It was nothing short of inspiration. This misleading mathematical premise against women in the workplace has been doing the rounds in my head, since then.

Intelligence, creativity and knowledge is gender-agnostic. A workplace may not be, but environments should not affect the very basis of who you are.

And I can only feel anger and disgust at the person who coined that maxim. It may have been true for her situation and circumstance (and of course I am making the assumption that it was constructed by a woman, possibly in the inequality days). I do not know when this was written and under what circumstances. But this statement has done more damage, than it has helped women. To those who it applied to, it offered the sanctuary of covering oneself in a victim complex, but most of all it infected those who didn’t deserve this dogmatic aphorism. I know a few who escaped the clutches of this dragging thought; some did not.

And it’s to those I address this post.

Don’t. You don’t have to prove anything.

More: The Life of a Blog

Of the last ten posts on Gaizabonts, five are about blogging. This one is too. So, you could also score it as 6/11.

There has been an obvious drought of good posts on this blog for a while now; and it seems that writing about not writing on a blog is what you do when you aren’t writing very well about other things. You run the risk of converting your blog into a blog about blogs and blogging, but at least that’s a drizzle, if not a bountiful rainfall.

C’est la vie.

Mahendra added Skeptic Dope today, talking about the Influencer. It couldn’t have come at a better time and a better source. He is an influencer himself.

This post is just to explain his post better:

• The Continuing Death of a Blog, posted 30 Jun 2010, 1325hrs
• Post shared by Mahendra on Google Reader, 01 Jul 2010, 0954 hrs
• Mahendra’s Google shared Item, tweeted by @rawmeet, 01 Jul 2010, 1035hrs
• Post tweeted by Mahendra, 01 Jul 2010, 1050hrs

Usually, my posts get posted to Facebook and Twitter via Friendfeed, but for this instance, Friendfeed decided not to. No idea why.

And this is the result:

The Inflencer's Effect

The first arrow, is when I posted “Poet of the Moment (12 Jun)”, the second arrow is when I posted “The Continuing Death of a Blog (30 Jun)”. The next spike is when all this sharing and tweeting happened.

Quod Erat Demonstrandum.

The Burden of Faith

Paul Simon to the rescue again.

I had a conversation very recently (perhaps my previous post was heard by someone up there). It was not the casual conversation that one has over a beer or a coffee. It wasn’t even meant to be a conversation. It was meant to be a discussion.

I don’t remember who said it, but there’s someone in this world who doesn’t like the word discussion. He said, the word discussion has an element of friction to it. It rhymes, even, with concussion. I don’t like the word – discussion – either. But when you aren’t having a conversation, you have a discussion. I digress.

The discussion did turn out to be a conversation.

About faith.

I saw faith in a very different light. I saw it negatively.

It’s one thing to have faith in someone. That is a good sign of your being human; a good human. And I speak not of the blind faith that fogs our society and our vision, but simple faith. Faith for the sake of faith – non-transactional.

But isn’t there a flavour of faith that’s necessarily transactional? Why else, would we lose faith? We often hear ourselves telling ourselves how we do not have faith in things and people anymore.

We are careless and quick to make Gods and Demons of humans. We are quicker to make Demons of Gods, and Gods of Demons, when we discover that our faith has been betrayed — whether intentionally or not. Carrying such delicate faith is a burden. It becomes an imposition when it sprouts weeds of expectations. They are dense. They make it heavier. All movement now is bridled to protect this delicate burden. When someone has faith in you, it is useful to find out if you are carrying the weight of it or the value of it. Value is worth it. If it is weight, I’d drop it.

Proof
Some people gonna call you up
Tell you something that you already know
Proof
Sane people go crazy on you
Say ”No man, that was not
The deal we made
I got to go, I got to go”
Faith
Faith is an island in the setting sun
But proof, yes
Proof is the bottom line for everyone

Very few people in this world would ride a horse without reins. To have faith requires from us a lot more than having faith. It means riding a horse without reins, with faith.

Faith can move mountains, if bridled, however, it can also become a mountain.

PS: Blockquoted text in italics, from Proof, by Paul Simon

The Portal

Sometimes all you need is a point from where you can look out. When what’s in is disturbing, depressing and dissonant to your beliefs and values, all you need is a place from where you can look out.

For one, it allows you to ignore the dark of inside. And for another, it allows you to see all that is possible — whether in reality or in imagination.

And though you can’t do it forever — because you cannot escape and you will eventually have to do an about-turn and see inside — it allows you to go quiet inside and consider the possibility of forgiving it, rather than fighting it.

Being Free

Happy Independence Day, all you proud Indians, slightly belated, but it is still Independence Day as I write this.

Freedom has come to mean a lot more than just the notion of being self-governed. It has started gnawing the innards of the self. A mere declaration of independence does little in achieving it. And Tagore’s words resonate:

Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them.

Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.

I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room.

The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love.

My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.

– Rabindranath Tagore

This is, surprisingly, the same person who wrote, “Where the mind is without fear…”. I say surprising because, while I am not quite familiar with the chronology of Tagore’s poetry, he has obviously experienced the clutch as as well as the release.

Tagore is not, or has evolved from being, the patient that Sheldon Kopp refers to when he says:

He prefers the security of known misery to the misery of unfamiliar insecurity.

So, apart from the notional freedom that we all experience on this day, there is an arduous journey we all will have to undertake before we can be truly free. Free from what? That “what” is a personal trammel that we will need to identify and cut through each layer before we can swim free to the surface and gulp in fresh air.

We are often blind to that obstacle that holds us back. We think we are free, yet somewhere our heart does not accept it. That mildly nagging feeling of slavery never leaves us alone. We walk with our heads held high, yet the thud is our heart is nervous. It is almost Matrix-ically Neo-tic where you do not know if you are dreaming or awake. And we cover ourselves with more tinsel, that perhaps may blunt the unwavering call of freedom that keeps softly beckoning.

And we get weighed down by the tinsel that promises false safety.

Yet, we want to be free.

A Word for the Courts

It’s almost two years since I have been living this new religion. It has its own doctrines and dogmas; advantages and disadvantages.

Two years ago, when a matt-finish shiny black Macbook made itself my constant companion, I’ll admit, there was a lingering fear of being able to be as good as I was on my MS-Windows machine.

Two years later (this 23rd, my blog archives tell me) I am comfortable, happy and content with what a Macbook machine can do. In the last 24 months I have even indulged in light banter of the standard Windows vs. Mac and enjoyed teasing Windows-users of how things should work.

Yesterday, I learned of a YALS (Yet-Another-Law-Suit) against Microsoft. Very blatantly it stated: Microsoft Banned from Selling Word in the US. I am not the one to get into deep analysis (I have personally found it a useless waste of time) but in short it means that while this judgement holds, MS will not be able to sell MS-Word in the United States. To my legally-unsound mind this comes across as stupid, notwithstanding the merits of the case, whatever they were. But it’s not about the case, is it? Neither is it about the ban.

It is about how we have come to live in this numb sensitive world. We are to be sensitive to every emotion and feeling of the other that overlaps our sense of being.

One question always manages to surface: why is it that we are never the ones that are the other? Is it me? Why do I feel that my sense of being is always compromised? Why do I have to be sensitive to the loud, out-of-rhythm, crass cacophony of Janmashthami noise blaring in my window, but they never need to be sensitive to my need to have a quiet evening?

The obvious answer being that of: size does matter. But then why does MS get cornered every time when someone feels threatened? Be it browsers or be it word-processors, the Goliath gets struck every time. Success stings. Everyone just wants to get to that level and a very few ever do it on their own accord. How do they make it happen? They go to the court. The court that settles competitive issues is the last refuge of the weak.

I cannot but help being reminded of the courtroom scene in Atlas Shrugged, when Hank Rearden is in the dock. Some of you have obviously read the entire book and may remember this scene. Hank Rearden says:

“I will not help you to pretend that I have a chance. I will not help you to preserve an appearance of righteousness where rights are not recognized. I will not help you to preserve an appearance of rationality by entering a debate in which a gun is the final argument. I will not help you to pretend that you are administering justice.”

“But the law compels you to volunteer a defense!”

There was laughter at the back of the courtroom.

“That is the flaw in your theory, gentlemen,” said Rearden gravely, “and I will not help you out of it. If you choose to deal with men by means of compulsion, do so. But you will discover that you need the voluntary co-operation of your victims, in many more ways than you can see at present. And your victims should discover that it is their own volition—which you cannot force—that makes you possible. I choose to be consistent and I will obey you in the manner you demand. Whatever you wish me to do, I will do it at the point of a gun. If you sentence me to jail, you will have to send armed men to carry me there—I will not volunteer to move. If you fine me, you will have to seize my property to collect the fine—I will not volunteer to pay it. If you believe that you have the right to force me—use your guns openly. I will not help you to disguise the nature of your action.”

The eldest judge leaned forward across the table and his voice became suavely derisive: “You speak as if you were fighting for some sort of principle, Mr. Rearden, but what you’re actually fighting for is only your property, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. I am fighting for my property. Do you know the kind of principle that represents?”

“You pose as a champion of freedom, but it’s only the freedom to make money that you’re after.”

“Yes, of course. All I want is the freedom to make money. Do you know what that freedom implies?”

“Surely, Mr. Rearden, you wouldn’t want your attitude to be misunderstood. You wouldn’t want to give support to the widespread impression that you are a man devoid of social conscience, who feels no concern for the welfare of his fellows and works for nothing but his own profit.”

“I work for nothing but my own profit. I earn it.”

I believe you have understood where I stand. As a context, let me tell you that I have used MS-Word since it was v2.0. If I ever have to rank all the software that I have used, MS-Word would top it. Hands down. After two years, my hands itch for the consistency and robustness of that software. Unfortunately, it sucks on a Mac.

I really don’t care what grouse i4i has against MS-Word. It is baseless. For its own “profit” it will deny all future users the experience of using the best word-processor ever.

How is that any different from what MS does? May MS file a case against them tomorrow? Or will being weak and small make people strong in the new world order?

The courts will have to decide.

Proof of Life

Chanced upon a not-so-innocent-song about the rains. Needless to say – it brought very happy memories from the days when life was a possibility. Not as artificially predictable as we have made it to be through anxiousness and concerns of security.

When I was in college (1989-92, yeah, really long time go) there was this tea-stall at the Pune University Circle — run by this diminutive, yet regal, man who went by the name of Anna. He made good tea. Notice, the subtle emphasis on the word — good. Like the smell of your grandmother’s unique recipe and the mesmerising visions that your father could paint with words, flowing with ease; this is one such taste. It remains with you forever.

My analytical mind, unfortunately, takes over.

Since Anna’s chai, I have had tea at a gazillion tea-stalls, all over the MH state. I am sure I have had as good tea in at least one of these stalls. It makes you wonder, if it was really the way that the tea that was brewed that keeps the memory alive.

It wasn’t the brew.

It was the environment. There is a word, maahoul — which, I doubt has an equivalent English word. Chai at Anna’s was a concept that we were in love with. One Skid-prone-Kinetic, a Bajaj Scooter and a black Yamaha 100cc bike, if he chose to ever find time for us, from his why-does-he-have-such-an-ugly girlfriend. Conversations of today that were heavily punctuated with loud laughter (in the days when LOL or ROFL weren’t invented and you had to use facial muscles to “Laugh-out-Loud”). Building dreams of tomorrow with almost-Italian-style-waving-bare hands in the thin air of Pune’s December. The clinical dissection of emerging role-models by brash arrogance that was nurtured by fearless dreams.

There isn’t a University “Circle” anymore.

The circle has been sliced and bled dry by sharp and stoic grey plates of thick concrete fly-overs that help you get quicker to where you will not stay anyway. I often go to Pune, and every time I take the fly-over to head towards the Expressway, a late-eighties cell-and-tissue-combination in my heart dies a lonely death. Some psycho-somatic mechanism almost denies entry to those memories.

But, coming back to the point, I hate the rain.

I really do. And ironically, my self-proclained-and-personally-discovered roots are in Konkan, and I spent formative years in Goa. Imagine, I call Mumbai — Home. I think, since I started driving, rains in Mumbai have banged in the last nail in a rotting coffin. But, I try and remember, and, I have never liked rains. Not as a kid, because you couldn’t go out and play. Not as a commuter, because I start two-hours earlier for a thirteen-kilometre ride (and yet I am not sure). There is something about rains that seems so “arresting”.

Go out, get wet!

Right. Water in my mobile phone. Fading driving license; thrice wet since it was issued. Wet currency notes that need to come under an iron. Soggy cigarettes that are anyway useless, because the bloody match-box is a hopeless lump of phosphorous, devoid of a spark, even. They still haven’t invented practical wipers for the glasses on your nose. Can’t take photographs – ever heard of a working wet camera? There isn’t even anything really romantic about the rains, unless you are on film set and have a director who can manage your smallest action. In real life, the girlfriend is always on the 5:56pm Karjat-Slow that is late because of the rains. (And she couldn’t call you because she had water in her mobile phone. Imagine this scene as you wait and watch the shoe-shine boys at Ghatkopar station, for ninety minutes, creating a ruckus with their wooden implements. Continuously. Without a break!)

Rain and wash-outs, have an illegitimate relationship.

I have seen the freshness and the squeaky-clean sense that you get after a rain. Rains clean everything. They affect your thoughts, if you are in the rain. I have had, many opportunities to be in a dry place with large windows and a very comfortable chair. Those (very few) instances where I did not need to get somewhere in the same dry state as when I started, when it was pouring outside.

I love watching the rain.

When rain doesn’t touch me, it does not wash-out anything. It brings back a-small-smile-on-your-face memories. And that dry place that you are in, with a glass of chai that reminds you of Anna (and his well-oiled moustache) and reminds you of Abhijit who can never laugh with his eyes open. Or the glass of Old Monk and Thums-up stirred with your ring-finger, that reminds you of Mahesh’s theory of how love really happens. That place and time is my happiest place and time on the face of this warm and parched earth.

It is not nostalgia. Oh, hardly.

It is not raking in the past like cleaning up the dry leaves orphaned on the ground. It is not a time-traveler’s wish. It is not the pangs of wanting to get back to those times. Neither is it the craving for a carefree life. It definitely is not a judgement on living a life of responsibilities. It is an acknowledgement of how beautiful a life we have led. This life, not any other.

It is proof of life.

True Lies

An otherwise irrelevant piece of news caught my attention (after it caught the attention of the newspaper I read). Standard Chartered Bank purchased office space in Mumbai’s prime commercial locality for just below US$ 150 million. 275 thousand square feet of prime area.

In times when everything related to money is supposed to be depressing, this news made it to the front page and an inside page with analysis and interviews. Given that we have been asked to be depressed, this was almost blasphemy and ironically a joyous moment.

On Tuesday a new-found friend and I wondered, if people weren’t told about the so-called economic depression, would they be depressed in the first place.

This is how lies becomes truth. I have seen this happen often in life, and is not limited only to global crises.

It all starts with a simple and minute distortion of truth, a very thin coat of vagueness on the absolute truth. There is no intent of malice, it is a sexed up version of what really is. At this time there is amusement about how it is presented and a laugh is on the cards, for those who know the truth in its nakedness. Ignored, this small distortion remains a silent and available bystander; never sheds of that paint.

On another day, the question is asked again, seeking the same truth that we are talking about. The person asking the question has a different perspective. The truth eagerly adopts that perspective and bends even more without breaking or creaking. The coat of vagueness becomes thicker. The presentation is discotheque-ed and perspectivised further. It becomes sexy. It starts going further away from home. Someone else picks up this painted truth, which hardly resembles its original face and re-presents it in another context.

On another day, the question is asked yet again…

On another day, the question is asked yet again…

As days go by, the truth travels far away from home. It retains its original character but has lost its identity in changing personality. It becomes malleable and ductile to the whims of the present context and perspective. The original is beyond recognition. Those that decorated it with vagueness and distortion slowly refuse to acknowledge the original face; eventually they forget it. The mask becomes the face. We start believing the distortion. After a few hundred times, we even stand by the distortion; defend it.

Truth becomes lies and becomes a new truth again.