Will The Meek Inherit The Earth?

I feel for Clarise M Starling.
As I have never before since the Silence Of The Lambs was first released.

The first time I first saw the movie, it was Lecter who caught my attention.
His cold unhurried demeanour, the subtle regality of his words and actions, his appreciation of classical music and of course his cannibalistic tastes, all  intrigued me.
If anyone could have made cannibalism fashionable, it had to be Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Agent Starling, on the other hand, struck me as a rather strange young woman. 
Mostly because it was a little too hard for me to empathise with the scatty girl who carried into her adulthood, the childhood trauma of the bleating of the lambs during slaughter.

But this past week transformed my long buried disdain for Clarice Starling into empathy.

Last Wednesday, I came home to be greeted by a herd of frisky goats.
The goats, seven in all, were caged in a make-shift pen by the side of my apartment.
The windows opening into my bedroom and living room were festooned with boughs of succulent green leaves. And the goats who were tied to the window grills, eagerly flocked together to partake of their leafy feast.

Every once in a way, a rebellious little goat would stamp his feet and toss his head to the bleating cheers of his bovine mates, in a desperate effort to shake off his noose. But, in a matter of minutes, the lone rebel would realise the futility of his battle and turn his attention back to the lush foliage.

I was rather surprised, and, to be honest, a little annoyed by the new denizens of the building. 
Discrete enquiries, made around the vicinity, revealed that the Muslim festival of Bakrid was right around the corner and the chomping goats in front of me were to be sacrificed at the celebrations the following week.

'Madam, Bakri ka eid hain Bakrid*'  the watchman explained to me helpfully "Your landlord and his family have bought these goats for their sacrifice. I don't know why they have bought them a week in advance though....Most people buy the goats on the eve of the Eid"

The Koran, it seems, stipulates that the sacrificial animal be a part of the family for a whole year at the very least. And I supposed by some convoluted mathematical calculation that was bound to fly over my head at the speed of light, my landlord and his family had managed to compress a long year into a paltry 7 days.

I was livid and agitated.
And, with just cause.
While I would not presume to judge the rites and rituals prescribed by any religion, I do take exception to  people forcing religion or barbaric rituals down my unwilling throat.

Late as the hour was, I was all set to go knocking at the landlord's doors with my objections.

But, a quick call to a wise friend stayed my tongue and feet.
" Do NOT do anything right now when you are annoyed" she said "This is a sensitive matter. Sacrifice of goats is a part of the Muslim tradition at Bakrid. You need to communicate your displeasure about the goats tied to your window and their slaughter on the building premises. But, you cannot in any way imply that they should not slaughter. So, wait till morning so we can talk to the broker who fixed up the house and then let us decide how to proceed" 

I passed an agonising night of sleepless vigil, broken every now and then by the orgasmic grunting of the goats as they tore into the foliage.
But, the morning only brought with it news as bleak and cold as its grey sombre skies.

" Adjust...It is just a matter of a few days"

The response only stoked the embers of righteous indignation that were blazing within me.
And the glowing embers flamed into a mighty conflagration by evening, when I returned home to the news that one of the goats had strangled itself on the restraining rope.

Throwing caution to the winds, I determinedly marched up to my landlord's apartment on the floor above.
As I lumbered up the stairs, I mentally ticked off my grouses to make my case...the stinky goat stench that permeated every nook and corner of the house, the noisy bleats and orgasmic grunts that punctuated my sleep at night, and, the possibility of bearing witness to more suicides.

But, what the girl proposed, Allah was swift to dispose of. 
For I was met at the doorstep by his formidable mountainous wife, who tersely informed me that her husband was out and slated to return late at night.
"Too late to come calling on a SINGLE girl" she snapped at me, disapproval and suspicion dripping from each syllable that escaped her carmine lips.

Not that I was fazed.
"Try, try and try again...till the goats are all taken away" chanted the voices in my head, just as the spider intoned to the legendary Bruce centuries ago.

So I went calling the next day, and the day after.
And every day of the week, until it was painfully apparent that the landlord had got wind of my intentions and was in hiding.
My phone calls remained unanswered, as were my text messages.
Even the watchman who was recruited to track down the elusive landlord, threw up his hands in defeat and dejection in the face of my aggressive rants.

Despite the best of my efforts, the week continued to progress with the goats remaining firmly ensconced in their pen, steadily chomping their way to tender plumpness. Despite the stench and the noise, I could not help but respond to the furry faces that turned to me with warmth and friendliness every time I opened a window or emerged from my house.

As the festive fervour grew around me, I could not help but resent the people who blithely chuckled and chortled as they compared their goats and eagerly smacked their lips in anticipation of the blood that would flow and the juicy flesh that would grace their tables.

Even Ging, it seemed had discovered her blood lust and turned traitor to my cause, for she took to stalking me relentlessly until she managed to sink her tiny fangs into any jiggling body parts that chanced to sway her way.

And caught in this vortex, all I could do was to rant maniacally to my friends, while adroitly sidestepping the treacherous teeth and claws that swiped at me from under the couch.

The morning of the 17th dawned cold and grim.
The torrential rains that pelted the earth in impotent fury echoed the frustrated pain in my soul, as I tried to shut my ears to the distressed calls of the cattle and the rhythmic sounds of the butchers' blades that rent the air around me. 

It was with a heavy heart and a sense of anger that I lit my candles and lamps that morning.

For once, I had nothing to ask of God.
And so, for the first time in my life, I prayed not for myself or my loved ones, but for the innocents around me whose blood was being wantonly shed.

As I stood there praying, I could not help but wonder.....
How can the meek inherit the earth, when the road to heaven is paved with their blood?

C'mon Baby, Don't Light That Fire

The truth is out of the closet!
The Moggies, do NOT, like Diwali.

Yes indeed. We don't like Diwali.
And, we are not apologetic about it.

Diwali is noisy and dangerous.
If it had been less so, we wouldn't have had any grouses against it.
After all, each is best left to his own.

But, the loud and incessant kabooms of the crackers that started in the wee hours of the morning and rang on way past midnight, the thick cloud of acrid smoke that hangs heavy in the air, the sight of animals quivering in fear & cowering in dark corners, all reminds me of a war zone than a festive land.

It has finally succeeded in prodding me into coming out of my closet with my dislike.
This, and the fact that I have spent the past two days holding Ging's trembling paw, either semi-closeted in the wardrobe with my posterior sticking out in the most ungainly fashion, or in a supine state on a sofa.

Ging still remains firmly ensconced in the closet -or rather the wardrobe – into which she vanished on Friday evening. And despite my coaxing, she probably will not emerge from her sanctuary for another day, until the last smells and sounds of Diwali fade away.

As I set up a makeshift office well within sight of my little wailing one, I cannot help but wonder if this is the spirit Diwali is supposed to embody.

I had always been led to think of Diwali as the festival of lights....The triumph of good over evil. As a time for introspection and for dispelling ignorance and darkness from our lives.

Maybe, it once was so.
But, in today’s world, I see it more as a festival which brings in its wake as much darkness as it does light.

While most of us rush out to our parties and merry gatherings in our festive finery, bearing boxes of sweets and gifts, to play cards, laugh and gush over spectacular displays of fireworks, we often fail to see the dense smog and the harsh acrid smoke which threatens to blind and choke any benevolent God or Goddess who may dare to venture out in hope of blessing their devotees.

We fail to see the animals and birds of various sizes and shapes with their fear crazed eyes, trembling violently and desperately seeking some semblance of security in dark corners and hidden alleys.

Blinded by the glittering lights and deafened by the blaring music, we forget the endless hours of power cuts and black-outs suffered in the sweltering heat during the rest of the year.
And, we fail to remember the little children in Sivakasi who risk health and life to bring us the bombs, crackers and sparklers to add light and colour to our festival of lights.

Would these children and animals see Diwali in the same light as the rest of us?
I wonder.

I once learnt in a communications class, that the greatness of an idea lies in its relevance to its time.

I think this is true of our festivals too.
Festivals, like lifestyles, education, food habits and traditions, must be relevant to the changing times. To achieve this, man must find from within himself, the ability to look beyond iron clad traditions, to understand the true spirit of the occasion and interpret it in accordance with the world he lives in.

And until he learns to do so, the bright lights of Diwali will continue to be the right of a privileged few.

Capitalism For Souls...

Last weekend was rather extraordinary. 
On Saturday morning, we woke up to the loud chanting of sanskrit mantras in the neighbourhood. 
Not a surprising turn of events one might say in a country dominated by Hindus. But, it was surprising in a neighbourhood that has been home to a sizable Christian and Muslim population and their religious edifices for decades.
Even more surprising was that the mantra chanting was often interspersed with the muezzin's call to prayers, without an effort from either to outshout the other.

That  evening, Ging and I cooked dinner to the pulsating beats of Christian rock and then, turned up the volume on our television so that Manny Mammoth and his ludicrous herd could drown the booming music from the outside. As happy as we were to witness the religious harmony in our surrounds, we were looking forward to a lazy, quiet Sunday. 

But, it seemed that the Gods had not had enough. 
For come Sunday morning and there were more mantras and songs blaring.

Muttering and grumbling at insensibility of the Powers Above who should have doused the fervent chants with a deluge of rain or a thunderstorm, I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and decided to make the best of a bad day by catching up on my chores. 

As I dashed out of the house for a spot of weekend shopping at the shop round the corner, I ran into my neighbours dressed in their Sunday burkhas, all set for a day out at the most fashionable mall in town. 
We were standing at my doorstep making polite small-talk about the weather, the merits of KFC chicken vis-a-vis other native impostors and the shopping hot spots in  town, when all at once, one of them who had been avidly scanning the insides of my house caught sight of the Buddha at my door.

" Buddha is a Hindu God also?" she asked me with hesitant curiosity.  

"No" I clarified " Buddha was a wise, noble sage who found enlightenment as well as a whole new religion...He is not a  Hindu God"

" Oh, when I saw the statue I thought he might be another one of your Gods like that Ganesha in that corner"
The lady was quick to extend the olive branch, lest her query had caused umbrage.
After all, discretion is the better part of valour, especially when one ventures into uncharted territory. 

But then, when her darting eyes spotted a stone sculpture of Mother Mary, a wall hanging with an evil eye and an Arabic inscription, a few more Buddhas and Ganeshas, as well as an array of  gleaming lamps and colourful candles glittering and twinkling in different corners of my house, she threw caution to the winds to exclaim " But you have different Gods from differnt religions in your house".

Her announcement had the desired effect on her sisters in black who looked suitably shocked and intrigued.
But before any of them could join in the inquisition, my questioner continued " Do you pray to all of these Gods? How is it possible?" 

For a moment, I was lost for words. 
How could I explain my spiritual beliefs to a gaggle of women whose approach to God, religion and spirituality was similar to that of a horse with blinders?  

So I flippantly remarked "We Hindus are used to having many Gods and Goddesses who co-exist in harmony. If I can pray to Ganesha, Durga, Shiva and Krishna in the same breath, why would it be a problem to call upon Mother Mary or Jesus or Buddha or Allah for comfort, peace and guidance"

I don't think the ladies in black quite expected that, for I could see a few eyes widen in shock.
Others were looking around distractedly- at the floor, the walls, and even invisible people next door.  

Etiquette and prudence must have demanded a graceful and hasty retreat, for one of them laughed nervously and quickly chirped an awkward "we must not keep you from your shopping"  to signal to the rest of her herd to lift the ends of their black robes and run for their lives before the brazen heathen corrupted their immortal souls with her heresy. 

As I walked down to the shop at the corner, I could not help but wonder why we humans tend to complicate God and Religion, insisting upon the need for die hard loyalties to a single God especially when we revel in the power of choices in every other aspect of our lives.

We are not confused when faced with an endless array of choices at the local supermarket, are we ?
Chicken, Fish or Mutton?  Breast, Thighs, or Wings?
Whole Wheat, Multi Grain, Rye or Just Plain Sandwich Bread?
Red Wine or White?  Sula, Grover, Australian, Italian.....?
Surf and Ariel Vs the 'sastha' brand on the lowest rack?
Plain Cornflakes or Flavoured?
Or, should we ditch breakfast cereal for Muesli or Porridge?.....

Are we confused while making selections off an excruciatingly extensive but mouthwatering menu card?
North Indian, South Indian or Indian Chinese?
Oh wait, there are Burgers, Sandwiches and Indian Continental too!!!
Soup? Starters? Paneer? Chicken? Fish?
One by two? Or each to his own?
Dessert anyone?

The truth is that, choice is the least of our worries.

The truth is that we consider choice as our due rather than a privilege.

And, in every other aspect of life, we pride ourselves on our ability to pack as much of the goodies as we can into our wallets.

So, why should there be a dilemma when it comes to deities or religions? 

For the life of me, I could not comprehend my neighbours' quandary at my spiritual style. 

Was it that they had overlooked the possibility of Hindus, with their plethora of Gods and Goddesses, having been the original capitalists of our world?
Come ye, Come all...
A God for every need & mood...
Take your pick...
Pick as many as you wish...
Pray as you will...
Pray where you want...

Was it that they had overlooked the truth, that most of the old religions - Hinduism, Paganism, the religions of ancient Greece, Rome, Germany and Egypt - all offered a free market of Gods and Goddesses where the souls were kings and queens?

Or, could it have been that the ladies in black were suffering from the classic " My God is better than yours, and no, before you say it, more IS not merrier" syndrome - a particularly infectious and mind rotting disease that is fast proliferating in the world today.

Can we imagine such an attitude towards, say, Coke and Pepsi?

Or, the possibility of a group of die-hard Baklava fans flying an air-plane through the World Trade Center to terrorise the unsuspecting population into declaring Baklava as the one and only true dessert?

Can we conceive of a situation where the teetotallers of the world unite to declare a spirited Jihad on alcohol and resort to covert and overt acts of terror enforce their choice on everyone else?

Silly as these may sound, the fact is, would any of these topics result in heated discussions, mulish obstinacy or a stand-off from one or both participants if there ever was an argument on the subject?

So why then, about which, and, how many Gods one prays to? 

Why is it hard to logically assume that a polytheist, like any other consumer in a capitalist society, would choose a God or Gods who delivered the maximum value to his soul?

And, if there are doubts and uncertainties, one always has the option of experimenting, as with a detergent or a cereal, before settling on a favourite.....
Nirma one month, Surf the next, Henko in the third, so on and so forth before Mr. White is crowned the favourite! 

Easy peasy, ain't it?


Disclaimer: I am not a axe wielding, gun toting die-hard Hindu, and, this post is not meant to promote Hinduism in anyway. If my words offend the religious sentiments of any reader, please do accept my apologies for having done so. The intention is not to hurt, but to merely point out that religion and God, like every other thing in our life, is a matter of personal choice, and, it is up to us to exercise our Right of Choice in a matter we think fit. 

On Shoes & Change

Change, often, is like a new shoe.

At first, the need.
To buy or not to buy?
To change, or not ?

Then, the considerations.
Is this a better shoe than the one I have?
Is it a change for the better?

At what price?
How much, is too much?
How much am I willing to stretch?

And, then finally, come the moments of truth when we wear the new shoes to walk through new ways.
Or, perhaps on old roads.

Who really focuses on the scenery, when one is nagged by a vague, weird feeling of discomfort from a fit which is a wee bit too snug?
Or, if one is nursing angry blisters.

Until the shoes are broken in, or, shall we say, we are reconciled to the change, one has to continously resist an overwhelming urge to shake the tightly encased feet, hoping for a little more breathing space down there.

But, once you get past the blisters...the snug fit....the newness wears off and comfort levels rise, the change is no longer a change, but a well worn, comfortable habit.

And, how would you know when change knocks at your doors?

Just as you know when its time to trade in a worn pair of shoes...

It is time for change when there is an ache in the soul..when the familiar no longer delights us but instead, fills our being with a sense of jaded tiredness and self loathing.

Sometimes, every now and then, we come across a thought that grips our hearts, and fills us with an undescribable excitement and intense yearning to make it a part of our lives.

When this happens, you know that change is beckoning.
And when change comes calling, we can either stay.
Or, we can choose to run as fast as we can, in our old worn shoes till the threadbare soles completely give way, and then, my friend, is when change is gonna catch up & bite us hard on our bums.


Note: Reproduced from Soul-Talkin

The Yogi In Chains

A reputed master of yoga and other such ancient Indian sciences sauntered into office this morning.
Clad in a white kurta-pyjama, he meandered about lazily, examining the art and artifacts with detached interest.

In the distance stood a few admirers, gazing upon the noble guru in awe and veneration.
" 85 and still going strong...Can you imagine..." whispered one, all too audibly.
" He is a true master....even foreigners come to learn from him" hissed another.
Impressed more, it seemed, by the yogi's ability to attract hordes of white disciples than by the depth of his knowledge.

But, much to my surprise, he breezed into my office....The master of all that he surveyed. And, with scant disregard for all else, began to examine the yellow and white lilies in the Japanese vase on my desk.
Any offence I would have taken to this rude intrusion was mollified, in part, by his interest in my precious blooms. And so, when he eventually deigned to notice me from over the vase, I decided to accord him the traditional Indian welcome and brought my palms together in a Namaste.

Perhaps, it was that I did not look sufficiently overwhelmed.
Or, seem as if I would fawn or gush mindlessly.
For, the mystic man's glance flickered casually over me.
Without any interest. Without any acknowledgement.
And, perhaps, a tad dismissively.

With a last glance at my brilliant lilies, he wheeled about and left the room.

As I watched him walk out of the glass door, in surprised annoyance I confess, I noticed a white woman in her mid 50s walk into the office.
American, I guessed out loud to myself.
The master must have spotted her too....For his progress was, suddenly and inexplicably stalled.

To the adoring onlooker, it must have seemed as if he was pondering on a particular yogic puzzle.
Or, an unexplained mystery of life.
But, to my cynical eye, it appeared that he was sizing the entrant with barely concealed delight.

As he stood there, probably wondering how best to make his acquaintance of yet another potential disciple, a dutiful devotee stepped forward.
" Madam, this is one of the greatest men in Bangalore city. He is a famous teacher of the science of yoga. His knowledge is superlative and he may be amongst the best in the country..."

The enthusiastic eulogies that followed, floated down the hallway to my eager ears.
And I could not resist sneaking a glance at the mystic man.
He sported a benevolent smile. But beneath the modest expression, I could trace the signs of self-gratification.

My examination of his demeanor came to a screeching halt when the lady, who looked suitably impressed, flung out her arms to join her palms together in a rather exaggerated Namaste.
The beaming master, quite predictably, reciprocated with a deep, stately one of his own.

And, to think ,we Indians, take such fierce pride in having freed ourselves from the white man's yoke!!!

On Criticism

Two roads lie before a person criticised.

One is the high road, where she can examine the critical words for merit before reacting.
And, if she finds even an iota of truth in the harsh words, then, it is up to her to choose to change for the better.
Or, try brush it under the carpet of one's ego.
But, at least, she would have done the right thing of having looked within with brutal honesty, and introspected.

The second, which is the refuge of the weak and shallow, is to react like a cornered animal and lash out in rage. Without any thought what-so-ever.
To heap abuse and lies on the offender, making it abundantly clear to all and sundry that a raw nerve has been hit.

The first is the path of the wise, and, the strong.

And, the second, ....
Well...Now, what was it that the wise old men said about empty vessels and a cacophony?
:)

Where Has The Passion Gone?

Another hard day at work.
Of emotionally wrestling, and, of, trying to coax initiative, out of people.

Infusing positiveness into people, can, be exhausting.

Especially, in the times, we now live in.

It is, almost, as if, the recession has, churned to the surface, all, that is negative in people.
Fears, insecurities, frowns, withdrawals...mark the visages around me.
On strange faces on trains.
On the roads.
At homes.
At work.

When did people stop following their hearts, and, dreams?

When did money, and, status symbols, begin to matter more?

Where has the passion gone?
Or, is it that, it didn't exist at all, in the first place?

I wish I knew!

How stupid would I look?

How stupid would, I, look....

If, I tripped, and, fell down on my butt, in full view of my juniors, at work?

If, at a party, I was to prance about the dance floor, with a goofy grin, flapping my arms, like a giant albatross?

If, at a presentation, I am asked a question, I cannot answer?
Or, worse, if I am asked a question, so elementary, that, a cocky brat in school can answer it, but, I cannot ?

If, I sported my thick, cheap, plasticy home wear spectacles, outside my home?

If, I, were to speak up, when, everyone else is holding their peace?

If, I were to sing karaoke, in front of a crowd?

If, I, do not, espouse a cause, that, the world around me does?

If, I, was to lick the sticky, melted chocolate off the wrapper, in public?

If, I were to use my fingers to shovel food into my mouth, at a fancy restaurant?

If, I said no, because I really meant it?


So many ifs......

But, the, question is....Would I really look stupid?

Or, would I, just, be stupid, to, not, have tried it on for size?

Festive Magic

Vishu is right round the corner, and, apart from, channeling all my energies, into, recreating a little bit of the Kerala magic and spirit, in my life, it is also time for one of my nostalgic trips.

Having spent most of my childhood in the arid desserts of the Middle East, my first real experience of Vishu celebrations occurred, when I was, well into my adolescence.

Not that age diminished my enthusiasm for a festival, which, was to prove to be the biggest revenue grosser in an entire year.

I remember, as a kid, I would first carefully draw up a list of potential victims, and then, in the days leading up to Vishu, would drop carefully considered hints about my monetary expectations.
There would, also, be prolonged and heart wrenching discussions, with my friends, about the right amounts to be bequeathed to our younger siblings. Nothing less than a rupee, we would firmly tell ourselves, while furtively, practising at steeling our hearts, to survive the tears and squalls, which, we knew, would follow, on the morrow.

It was, only recently, that I realised, how much of our wonderful festivals, I had taken for granted, as a child.
The excitement of stumbling forward, with my eyes shut tight, in the wee hours of the morning, to start my day with the sight of my face in the Vishu Kani....
The thrill of the chase, as we determinedly stalked our quarries, and, dove unceremoniously, for their feet, to claim our Kai Neetam....
The fun and camaraderie shared with our families, and, extended families...
And, the delicious food, which we would stuff ourselves with, till we lay about, helplessly, gasping for breath...

Oh, Vishu was so much fun!!!
And, back then, I thought it would never change.

Looking back, I realise that Vishu was one occasion, which, brought the extended family together, and, helped them bond better.
It taught us, the invaluable lesson, of Give and Take, which are the two faces of the same coin, and, without which, our lives would remain incomplete.
We, also, learned, to reach out to each other, spontaneously, and, across distances, without inhibitions, preconceived notions or envy, and with this bonding, we enjoyed the day better.

Unfortunately, the fun and spontaneity went out of the window as we grew up, and, life took us, our separate ways.
Today, all of us in our corners of the world try celebrating Vishu to the best of our abilities.
And, often, all that remains of the camaraderie of the past, is a succinct 'Happy Vishu' mail to the family.
Some phone calls.
Pictures, on Orkut, and, Face Book.
And, a few stolen moments, on chat, for a quick update.

I don't know how the rest of my loved ones fare, but for me in a strange land, far far away from the people who matter, Vishu has become more of a forced experience. -something that I do, year after year, with the vain hope of recapturing the lost magic of the Vishus of my youth.

Despite, the careful planning, and, the best of efforts, the food is never as good...
There, aren't, too many people, to plague, or, for that matter, very many, diving for my feet, and, hounding me, for kai neetams...
There is less laughter, and, bonding....
And, with many hotels, and malayali associations, getting into the act, Vishu seems to have become more of a commercial experience, than a family one.

Even so, there are, many of us, who religiously maintain, if not the festivities, then at least the Vishu Kani in our homes.

Is it a habit ,which has waned in strength, but, continues to live nevertheless?
Or, is it, an conscious attempt, to preserve tradition, in a world beset with change, and, speed?

I, for one, believe it, to be, an effort to keep the happy memories going, and to draw strength from it in the current day.
For, when 14th April dawns, and I open my eyes to the sight of my face, surrounded by bounty, bathed by the golden glow of the flame of the Lakshmi Lamp, I feel peaceful, calm, and, aware, of a sense of well being, which pervades my entire being, and, the space around me.
And, in that moment, I know, the magic, though weak, is not entirely gone.



Note: Festive Magic, reproduced with minor variations, from Soul Talkin.

On Letting Go

A wise man once said, if you love somebody, set them free.

If, the recipient of your affections is truly yours, he, or she, will come back to you.
One way or the other.
Sooner or the later.

And, if not, then, the object of your affection was never yours, to start out with.

Scary, as that is.
Painful, as that can be.
I still believe, freedom, forms the foundation of true love.

Because, it then is about two people being connected, because they want to be.
Not, because, they have to be.

I talk not only about lovers.
Or, spouses.
But also, about friends, siblings, parents, pets, and, even objects for that matter.

The rule applies to anyone, and anything, we have a deep, honest and sustained emotional connection with.

 Relationships are not about ownerships.

And, yet, it is the ones we love the most, that, we seek to possess completely.
That, we yearn to belong to.
Body, mind & soul.

I have heard people say that, we, humans, are wired to seek love.

That, true and unconditional love is a desirable emotion to achieve.

Perhaps, it is true.

But, then, is not freedom implicit in the very concept of unconditional love?

So, why are we, almost always, compelled to own our loves?

At times, I, cannot help but wonder, if it is completeness we seek, in the guise of love.
A ratification of our identity, through the most important roles we assume in life, with the most important people in our lives.
An affirmation of our measure of self worth.


What if we love too much, and, are not loved back the way we want to be?
Or, worse, what if we love deeply..allow ourselves to depend..and, eventually, the person we love is no longer there for us?

Like it or not.
Man is a being, driven by needs & wants.
By, feelings and emotions.
And, by dreams and expectations.

Letting go, is never easy.

I have, in the past, sought to insulate myself from the pain of loss by trying to let go.
By, retreating into fortresses, and, feigning indifference.
By, refusing to get fully involved.
But, withdrawal and indifference can, sometimes, make for an unfulfilled existence.
And, the dam of pent up emotions, eventually breaks.

After, painful spells of tears and tantrums.
Of, clinging and pleading.
My way today, is to try, accept a loved one for what he or she is.

To savour the love, warmth and happiness, that fills my being when all is well.
To jealously guard the memories, and, bring them out for an airing when I hit a bumpy road.

My way today, is to listen to the whispers of my soul.

Very often, it tells me to rise above the pain and sorrow.
To strengthen my spirit by looking within, reflecting and accepting.
To channel, and expend, the negative energy in nurturing my passions.
But, above all, to, keep the faith.
And, look forward to tomorrow.

It's never easy.
But, then, the voice of the soul is seldom wrong.

After all, what ever will be, shall be.
Que Sera, Sera.


Or, could it be that the compulsion to own arises from a fear, of not receiving, as much as we put out.

A Rose By Any Other Name.....

Some time back, I was privy to a rather entertaining conversation between two colleagues of different nationalities, living in different continents.
One was in the thick of putting together a legal report which required every teeny tiny detail to be deadly accurate, while the other was coordinating with agencies and, people for information gathering and transmission.
Everything was going well.
Until, the one on home base, received a missive which threw her off guard.
The document referred to a certain Mr. Anthony, who seemed to hog credit for all the tasks currently handled by her good friend Tony. Perplexed and chagrined, she shot off an express message asking him who the mysterious Mr. Anthony was.

Much to her surprise, Tony nonchalantly claimed to be Mr. Anthony without offering any explanation what so ever.

Which prompted yet another mystified mail from her "What IS your real name...Anthony or Tony?"
And his response "What is in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet....I personally prefer Tony but either would work on official documents"

His words lingered on in my mind, long after the laughter abated.

What is in a name indeed?
Everything it would seem, if, one was to go by the names, people seem to come up with, on the social networking sites.

In the days that followed, I found myself taking a greater interest in the alternative names that ordinary people like you and me come up with for cyber spaces.

Most were ordinary first names.
Some communicated a mood, an event or an experience.

There was the odd pervert who solicited or raved, ranted and abused like a certain Ms. Fatafat who seemed to think the world was interested in her pantie liners!!!
* Violent Shudder*
Talk about persecution complexes and extreme reactions!!!

And then, there were the bizarre, bordering on the funny, like the King of Devils, Error and BlOoDsUcKeR sCaR.
*Laughing out loud*.

Seriously why on earth would anyone refer to himself/herself as an error or a bloodsucking scar???
Low self esteem?
Or, a flair for theatrics?
Your guess is as good as mine...
These, my friends, were the not too wild ones.

My other favourites included:
The Alien Has No Name
.... *rolls eyes*.
Duh, isn't that why they are called Aliens???

Kalari Panda

*Laughing My A*** Off*
Now, how cute is that??

Hate me or Add me

Bad Command or File Name, Nice Try Though

*deadpan expression*
I am still trying to figure these out.
In the Monotone of Idiosyncrasy
*Wide Eyed*
Uh huh, sounds suspiciously like Magic Mushrooms, Floyd, Cheap Rum and Random Musings....
Still He Was Butter Phulka in a CD player....
*taps forehead*
What ever...I am not even trying to figure this one out!!!

Maybe, I should spend some time thinking up a bold new mysterious name for myself instead
*winks*

The World's Largest Trash Can

Hallelujah...I have attained enlightenment!!!..

I have realised one of life's great truths!!!

That India is nothing but a giant trash can.......The largest in the world in fact!!!

When I woke up this morning, I had no premonition what so ever about the discovery that awaited me. A few hours later, I was at the airport desperately waiting for my boarding call.
Not that I had places to reach in a hurry, but only because I was desperate to get away from my litter rich surrounds and the gut-racking stench from the toilets nearby.

Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen.
Or the catatonia of a sleep & caffeine deprived brain.
But, as I held my breath and feverishly counted the moments all the while staring mindlessly at an over-turned cup of coffee on the floor, it struck me rather forcibly that we were all the rather hapless residents of a giant garbage bin

* Defiant expression which dares anyone to challenge the C.R.A.P theory*

Protest all you want, people...but the cold hard fact remains unchanged.

India IS a garbage can.
Or, even worse, perhaps, when you consider the urine, excreta and spittle that accost us every single day.
365 days of the year.

This is in addition to the rotting heaps of various other forms of organic and inorganic litter that we have to deal with on an average day.

So, what does that make us??

The creepy crawlies that blithely wallow and make merry in the muck and filth??

Yeouwh...What a thought!!!

But those are the only creatures that come to my mind when I think of dirt.
Just imagine us as repulsive little squiggly worms and maggots or the buzzing flies, all of which not only hover around the crap, muck and rotting filth, but also have no compunctions in fostering it.

Sure there are those of us who preserve every single apple core, plastic bags, bottles and teeniest scrap of paper for proper disposal, but that is such a small minority. The rest just seem impervious!!!

I glance around at the people around me, most of whom are well dressed and engrossed in their papers or their thoughts.
None of them look even remotely affected by the malodour around us.

I contemplate taking over the P.A system and expounding my C.R.A.P Theory to the lesser non-thinking mortals. But thoughts of the padded cell and shock therapy deter me!!!

Maybe another day...when I am drunk silly on Tequila shots...
*Deep Sigh*

Before I rush off to board my flight, I decide to toss the offending coffee cup from the floor and some others into the dust bin.

As I make my way out of the terminal, rubbing sanitizer into my palms, my attention is momentarily caught by an effervescent reporter on T.V. who is gushing about all the things India can be proud of as she celebrates yet another Independence day!!!

Seriously, is there no end to the crap attack??