Rock Bottom

I remember it.

But I have no idea how I remember it. The memory is corrupted, somehow; it seems, to me. But I have no way of knowing. There is no way that you can trust a memory that’s 16 years old.

If it is that old, we live on disconnected fragments. Disconnection is the key, perhaps. We fill the gaps of disconnectedness the way we would imagine them to be. We pour wishful-thinking in it. Much time has passed. As a wise man once said, God gave us the ability to forget. Without wanting to, we forget. The blur remains. And we try to make sense of it. To no end.

Often I feel guilty of not remembering you all; you dead people. I do not know if I have let you go or if you have let me go. The guilt is not about how I would have saved you (though, that remains), but about how I would have spent time with you.

My best friend would call out this post and say how dark, my posts have become. She has said it already. I, however, will not deny what I feel. Mentioning death, makes this post dark. But it is not so. Death, as the cliché goes, is dark. And it is inevitable. Death, however, is not just the demise of a person.

1885: Coal Mining: Tadoba-Andhari Tiger Reserve

It is the end. End of things.

Death is a concept, not an event. Most of us cannot accept an end. It is the proverbial flogging of a dead horse. Instead of leaving the room, we concentrate on belonging. Without purpose. A promise of a long time ago, in different circumstance. Like flogging a dead horse, petting a dead horse is the same.

Undelivered.

Lies upon lies to maintain status quo. Till such time. It’s OK. Stop lying. Just say the word. Say no.

*

We will be free, eventually.

It Ends with You: #ANTHEM 18

Well, it’s not really the end, so to speak. It’s not really the end as much as it is the limit. At least in this song. While the song keeps saying that you are the end – that is not what it means. We are apt to get lost in the literal meaning. And we should be careful. Love knows no end. If it did, it would be so small, so little, so less in meaning – I wouldn’t be love.

17.02.03: For the Love of Red

Living this life that I have lived, I have discovered, it’s not so. Love has limits, ends, boundaries. Unfortunately it has a start and an end, for those who choose to be in love or not. Not for a lover, however; the lover is always in love. You can throw restrictions and strictures at a lover — that person will continue to love, by throwing away the net of conventions.

 

For my readers who do not know Hindi, here’s the translation.

This song states the limit of love; there should be a poetry of how love starts. How it begins. How it is sparked.

That’s just me. But, This song has been on the top of my various playlists. For the first time, it is not the lyrics, but the sense of the song that is making sense. There are people who do not want, necessarily, to be in love. But they need a sense of it.

You can either define limits or you can define love. Not both.

For them, these limits may make sense. For the rest of us..

… ah, well…

It’s Love!

Return of the Rhythm

Writing here feels a bit weird, now. Using a keyboard, i.e.

A couple of hours ago, I completed a handwritten assignment: over 11,000 words, in seventy-five pages. The wrist and the fingers feel different; rejuvenated, or something like that. Like the return of an old memory; only that the sense of the memory is physical.

When I got to know about this assignment, I was a bit surprised. In this age and time? Handwritten assignments? That too, these long? I mean who does that anymore! A friend even called it regressive. And she would be right. But I decided to go through it. If nothing; as an experience.

When I finished the first three pages, I was not sure I’d be able to complete. The wrist and the fingers were ready to fall off. And I posted a picture of the pages that I had written, on Facebook, and wondered socially aloud, if I could complete it. Like an angel that she is, my English teacher from school, saw that post and asked me to keep at it. All through, whenever I talked about this — with friends and family — all I saw were congratulatory thoughts and lots of “thumbs ups.”

20161213_175457-01

The first seven – eight pages were painful, to say the least. And they were excruciatingly slow. Somewhere around that time, I found my rhythm. The muscle memory, which I thought I had lost, forever, kicked in. Ink started flowing on paper. The speed of my thought and the speed of my writing, found harmony. It was sweet music and dance. Fond memories of learning, discovering new things, surfaced slowly and put me in a happy place.

I am glad I didn’t give up.

Thank you, you know who you are.

PS: This post is a measly three-hundred and thirteen words. Perhaps this assignment was more than just a submission for my course-work.

209 pages

This book that I am reading. A mass market paperback. It’s called “What is History?” by Edward Hallett Carr. I started reading it on 10th October, this year; am on page 112, now. That seems like an achievement to me. So, as is my nature, I posted this update on Goodreads, and it showed up on my Facebook feed. (Not magically; I’ve given Goodreads permission to publish on Facebook on my behalf.)

Of all the people who saw that post, it was picked up by my English teacher from school, and she commented, “Atul, keep up the speed.”

Disclaimer: She is my favourite teacher of all times and I am her favourite student of all times. (Irrespective of the thousands of kids she taught after I completed high school. A few of these thousand kids may have been good, but I am her favourite, I am sure. Let’s not dwell on the fact that I didn’t make it to Editor of the school magazine, in my last year. Those were purely technical issues.)

More than twenty-five years later, she keeps tabs on what read and write. On my previous post, she said, “Well tried.” That was a message, if I ever got one. That’s who and how she is; she always pushes you forward.

You are never as good (or bad) as what you just accomplished, you are as good as what you can achieve.

Perhaps, that was her mantra for all of us. Perhaps that’s why I am not as lost as I think I would have been, otherwise.

20161129_222808

Back to the book.

This book is about Historiography. Unlike most facile stuff that I once used to read, it’s not an easy read. Here’s a sample:

This is the real indictment of those who seek to erect a super-historical standard or criterion in the light of which judgement is passed on historical events or situations—whether that standard derives from some divine authority postulated by the theologians, or from a static Reason or Nature postulated by the philosophers of the Enlightenment. It is not that shortcomings occur in the application of the standard, or defects in the standard itself. It is that the attempt to erect such a standard is unhistorical and contradicts the very essence of history. [E. H. Carr, What is History?]

As is obvious, such a paragraph takes time (for me, at least). The idea in itself is quite simple and straightforward. The manner in which it is presented seeks that the reader be involved with heart, soul, and mind.

So, yes, I’ll complete this book. Soon enough, for it’s the kind that needs to be savoured.

And that’s the speed. Thank you Ma’am!

Writers & Carpenters

Writing is difficult. Writing well, is another matter altogether.

Carpentry is difficult too. Carpentering well, is another matter. Just like writing well.

Writers get distracted; just like carpenters. Writers and carpenters have their own means of getting distracted. Writers get distracted by style, grammar, method, medium, and such. Carpenters think of paint, cuts, design, trends, and such. (Needless to say, I am making things up for carpenters. I am not a carpenter. Though I would have liked to be one. Come to think of it, I am, perhaps, making things up for writers too!)

When distracted and diffused*, writers write nonsense or trite passages and carpenters make bad furniture or misaligned shelves. And this distraction is perhaps important. For writers and carpenters. It offers an opportunity to move away from the known, experiment, make mistakes, fail (often miserably), learn, and therefore, create something new.

6172: Buddha

After all the wandering through the land of distractions, however, the writer and the carpenter return. To the place where they started. Everything is the same, but nothing is. The intercourse of familiarity and strangeness is at once comforting and disquieting. This conflict is beauty’s birthplace.

The carpenter creates a writing desk for the expression through words, as the writer would, and the writer measures and assembles his words as the carpenter would. The open window is witness: to what the carpenter would like the writer to see and to how the writer sees what the carpenter intended.

It may not happen at first, but it is a stage for success.

~

* Kathy’s Song, Paul Simon

A Broken Narrative

Few of my friends know of a certain profile picture I use on Facebook, which indicates that I am away. Every once in a while I test if I can be away from Facebook (and therefore Twitter and other such networks). October was my away month — by my standards. I used Facebook sparsely. I’ll be back on the 1st of November. The last three or four times I did this away exercise, it was more of a test of my addiction, so to speak. While October started with the same purpose; the revelations were interesting to say the least.

The narrative of everything has changed.

There isn’t — according to the way I see it — anything that we can say, that will not be crushed out or hammered in by some ism that someone else follows. Opinions do not have spaces anymore. Jokes have no space. Most people I see, are angry and belligerent. Mostly, deep down, they are defensive – but outwardly they are angry and belligerent. Those that aren’t angry are on a trip, some trip, which offers them a false sense of happiness.

When ideological camps never intersect, where is that common space for us to speak and hear? What is our meeting ground? Not to make a statement; just to speak, to listen to each other. In the race to be heard, no one is listening.

I am not lamenting social change. I have lived my adult life, with and without mobile phones, e.g., and I am aware of the boons and curses of how society responds to changes it did not expect. In these times of (mostly) nonsensical back-and-forth, I struggle to find a place of my own.

~

Within that struggle, I have discovered a small place. It’s nice. Comfortable. Mine. It’s not mine, yet. But I’d like it to be mine. And it has the potential to be mine. In times of predictable spaces, determined by isms, I am fortunate to have found one that allows for isms, but is not dictated by an ism.

~

I am participating in Movember, yet again, this year. (That’s the day I return to Facebook) It has been over half-a-decade of Movembering; I have yet to find an organisation that works for men’s health, in India. If you know of one – do let me know. Nevertheless, It seems, I will be a permanent Movember Member; inspired in no less measure thanks to The Bum.

2016-01-01 17.04.50: Orchha

It’s the festival of lights, here, in India. In my head, there is a philosophical connotation to the festival. To tell you the truth, it is a festival of light and sound. Traditionally, philosophically, and spiritually. Not anymore. Either by armchair activism or sheer usurpation. Those that purportedly attack and those that apparently protect — both have it wrong. Festivals are resilient enough that they can survive attacks. Festivals are strong enough that they do not need protection. I wish I do not live long enough to have to wish “Happy Holidays” for a festival that you celebrate, even if I do not celebrate it. When a festivity is reduced to a holiday – that is when we have lost everything. We should be worried about sameness, assuming we will live long enough to sense it.

My apologies for this line of thinking on such a wonderful festive day. I leave you not with thoughts to discover the light within but just be good. In your own way. Do something nice. I will.

Happy Diwali!

Little Injuries and Big Bandages

Thanks to #2016KabaddiWorldCup, a small conversation of injuries ensued, with a colleague. For the few years that I have played Kabaddi, I have never seen serious injuries; me, my team mates, or my opponents. (My parents, without doubt, disagreed.) Young as we were, we bandaged even the smallest injuries. While it sounds (and definitely is) stupid now, injuries were conversation starters. Young men wanting to be in love understand the value of big bandages.

There were two reasons we didn’t like tincture. One, it stung, as if hell itself had descended where we were sitting. Second, it exposed the extent of the cut. There was no way to make it seem bigger that it actually was. Which, as you can imagine was a conversation non-starter. Big bandages made sense when you were in your late teens. Bandages were medals that weren’t celebrated.

Cut to 25 years later. Well, to today.

20161013_003112I have yet to find a knife that can cut through tomatoes, especially the wrinkled, sad, mushy tomatoes. This happened (See photo).

Needless to say, my ethos of demonstrating a cut has not changed. The cut is less than 3mm, but as you can see, the bandage is almost an inch.

Also, needless to say, the most important women in my life were concerned, and it started a conversation. For this miniscule cut, I have been advised bedrest. How can I not be in love with these two girls?

But I want this post to be less about starting conversations.

There aren’t knives in the market that cannot defeat wrinkled, old tomatoes. We need knives that cut through shrivelled tomatoes; not firm thumbs.

May there be better knives. And may I find them.

Perhaps, I will manage with small and appropriate bandages.