Manipur and the AFSPA

Hmm, I don't know how to start on this... I recently came to know about the situation in Manipur (I hate writing about it; you can google it yourself - just type manipur + manoroma) .... as an Indian citizen I am shocked by India's attitude to Manipur. Is Manipur (the North-East in general) a part of India, or is it a colony? True, there are some movements that I know of which are fighting for Independence in Nagaland and perhaps there may be some in Manipur, but by alienating the people of Manipur in the way the Central and the state Governments are doing, it becomes all the more probable that these people will someday hate the rest of India enough to break away from the Indian union. I wish peace to everyone, in Manipur and outside it, and hope that the government at Delhi sees enough sense to withdraw the AFSPA (1958), bring the culprits to book and brings about better contacts between the people and the armed forces - so that even if their presence is necessary in these parts, atleast arbitrary powers like the AFSPA are withdrawn and horrible incidents like the one I've read about never happen again. Also Manipuris should be convinced that they stand to gain much more by being a part of India than by being separate - not just by words (remember the PM's Rs. 10,000 crore package?) but by actions.

Nice quote from a friend -

It's an experience when you rise, It's an experience when you fall. It's an experience when you live , and you live when you experience it all...

Loved ones, dead ones

Why is it that the ones we love, have to die? (Why is it that anybody has to die - you say). And why do the dead ones leave so many memories behind? - Not all of them are sweet - some are perhaps, so bitter that they colour our thoughts whenever we think of the departed. And yet, the sweetness is to the bitterness just as the flowing river is to the incoming tide - overwhelming.
Death comes to all, say the Scriptures - whatever is created, must get destroyed one day. Actually, do we really need the Scriptures to tell us this?
And yet, after grinding the Scriptures through a lifetime, one still has the same reaction to death: why O God, Why?
Why is it that these people, who dreamt so much for you, and for whom you dreamt so many dreams, have gone away before they could see their fulfilment?
And why, o why, do they have to come back in your dreams, night after night, even in your afternoon siestas, always smiling, looking as they did before their disease, consoling you, talking to you about various things, when you never ever dreamt of them when they were alive?

On Evil

Yes, Evil exists. I, a Seeker, have come face to face with it. Today, I escaped. Tomorrow, I may not. Whosoever sees this, be warned. It could be your turn to receive a visitation tomorrow.
A certain amount of endemic Evil is within everyone. Manifest Evil is, however, different. Its power lies in its ability to "twist" the mind. Remember those "Harry Potter-ian" movies where the Devil/Evil Force/other negative overlord character comes to the hero(ine) in the form of his near and dear ones and he/she is swayed (or seems to be)? "It's not real, stupid! It's just a disguise! Don't listen to it!" we thought. It turns out, it's very similar in real life - we are the protagonists here - and many of us, manytimes, are a lot more stupid than those movie characters.
Sometimes we escape, sometimes we don't... we don't realise the evil that is within us, because we are used to it. Only when something out of the ordinary happens, a great surge of Evil, as it were, occurs inside us, that we feel its power.
To fight this Evil, possibly our strongest power is the one that seems the most useless - Habit. Yes, the force of our habits could enable us to fight the Devil himself, if he existed. Habit comes to our aid, even when our reasoning, will, strength of mind etc. all have failed. Therefore, it is well to inculcate Good Habits at a young age. Devotion to Truth, Celibacy, Non-covetousness, constant Activity, Meditation etc. are some such Good Habits.
It may be very difficult to completely eradicate the Evil inside us or to become proof to its attacks. However, for our spiritual as well as worldly long-term success, it is necessary to make efforts as best as we can.
For those incredibly pure (and lucky) or unobservant ones who have never felt the force of manifest Evil (perhaps few have, as I did), all this might seem like a sermon, but please be warned...

On Silence and the Upanishads

Yeah you're right - it's an oxymoron. Why speak at all about silence, since it can be best enjoyed, well, by being silent! So let me come to the point and say that ok, the title is somewhat misleading, it's not all about silence, but about the thoughts that crop up in Silence...

Sitting in the terrace on a cool, breezy night, with the old friends - darkness and solitude, staring at the stars - turning into constellations - into old stories about Vashistha and Arundhati - into Arundhati-darshana-nyaya (the principle of explaining a minute point - in any field of knowledge - by first taking up a simple point which is closely related to it) - this Upanishadic gem creeps up into the mind:

"Na tatra sooryo bhaati, na chandrataarakau, nemaa vidyuto bhaanti,
kutoyamagnih? Tameva bhaantamanubhaati sarvam, tasya bhaasa
sarvamidam vibhaati"

"There the Sun does not shine, nor do the Moon or the stars, nor does lightning, what to speak of this (mortal) fire? He shining, everything else shines,
every thing shines with His light."

And then, another -

"Tad aejati tannaijati, tad doore, tadvantike,
Tad antarasya sarvasya, tadu sarvasyaasya baahyatah"

"It moves, It does not move, It is near, It is verily far,
It is the innermost (heart) of everything, It is verily beyond everything"

Why, after all these years, are these lines still romantic, why has the loss of innocence and the all-conquering cynicism failed to touch the feelings that arise on thinking of them? Could it be that, there is still something pristine and pure, something untouched, a still-shy, still-sweet virgin inside? Somewhere?

Please say yes.
Please.

Emptiness

Having spent the whole day sleeping, moping around, and generally doing nothing of consequence, one is qualified, one feels, to write on this subject.
Let me just outline the list of my interests, in order to give some background - maths, music, meditation, reading, singing, table tennis, cricket, badminton, gossipping, watching tv (sometimes), talking to family members, walking, finding new eating joints and eating out - especially ice cream, sometimes just thinking about the past - these are just a few of my interests.
This was a day supposed to be totally free, and I was totally bound - not by work, but by its opposite - an idle laziness or a lazy idleness, whichever way you want to look at it.
I didn't want to listen to music, nor to meditate; PG Wodehouse's romantic comedies made me think of things I wanted to forget (you know, sometimes one should stick to comedies - who would have ever thought I'd find PG Wodehouse predictable and boring! ) , nor did I want to play table tennis, or cricket or do anything else ... at all. I didn't want to speak to friends, couldn't concentrate on maths, ... singing was anyway a distant memory.
Why, how did this happen? One thing I know for sure - it's definitely NOT because I'm missing someone - that's just not possible.

Banaras: Impressions and feelings

The problem with feelings and impressions is that they are so very hard to capture, express and convey. You see, even if you do capture a single instant of your mental recollections in your own thoughts, you face the monumental task of expressing those thoughts in words - to yourself. And if you succeed in slaying that ogre, you have to face the demon of conveying the original recollections and feelings to others. But how can a person who has never felt what you feel, be made to understand? How can a blind person be made to understand what is color? The way that most people chose, the only way for many, seems to be approximation and hope.
In talking of Banaras - Varanasi - where drain water and the collective excretions of men and beasts finds its way unchecked into the Ganges, mixing freely with "Ganga-jal" - one has to fight through a similar pattern throughout, an incredible juxtaposition of the holy and the profane, and keep one's balance.
Take for example, the (Hindu) policeman inside what is one of the holiest of holy temples in India, on one of the holiest days of the Indian calendar, using a South Indian word for "two", for a South Indian female devotee - only that it sounds uncomfortably similar to the Hindi word for a public woman - and the situation certainly did not warrant the use of the word "two" - nor do I think he meant "two".
On the other hand, think of the thousands of devotees, thronging the corridors of the temple, spilling out for several kilometres into the streets - with "Shiva, Shiva" or "Om namah Shivaya" or "Baba" or "Mahadeva Shiva Shankara Shambho" or any of the thousands of fearful, respectful, endearing, or simply loving words for the Diety of Varanasi - Vishwanatha - the Lord of the All - on their lips, having fasted throughout the day, waiting patiently, just to see, to touch, the stone symbol of their Lord - the same as the Lord Himself - who would free them of all sins.
Think of the sannyasins, the men of renunciation, who, in the words of one of them, "commit no sins, unlike the worldly people slaving away for money, or woman, or family, yet observe these fasts and rituals, simply to set an example for them, and to maintain 'good samskaaras' (tendencies)".
Think of the foreign tourists, some of whom have come in search of "spirituality" - becoming repulsed on seeing the urine running freely down the ghats of the Ganges - others, more experienced, (or perhaps more engrossed?) who have learnt to develop thick skins, some, who have to come to see a human zoo, clicking away at the rally of the Naga sannyasins - some of whom are only too happy to oblige - and some, who have come for "free drugs and sex" - for remnants of the Hippy culture of the Sixties still thrive here.
And yet, underlying all this, there is something, unique to Banaras, an old world charm, intangible, indescribable in its entirety, yet so much there that any casual observer - or atleast anyone whose mind is not addled with Western notions of cleanliness - can feel.
Take for instance, the laidback casualness of the natives, the willingness to accommodate and adjust, the almost interfering concern into the affairs of other people and the ensuing readiness to help, the perennially clogged streets in which hardly ever does a fight break out, the devoutest of Hindus and the most orthodox of Muslims living within spitting distance of each other, brushing against each other daily as they go to their favourite temples and mosques.
Or, delving into the realms of the more indescribable, take the feeling that one gets after sitting for some hours on the ghats, the stillness and the peace, or the purity that one feels in the morning, meditating, or worshipping, or studying, or simply taking a walk. Later on, listening to the birds chirping or, if one is lucky, watching peacocks dance on the hostel roof (inside the BHU campus)... one just feels ... something.
And when the night comes, watching the bright lights of the "Ganga ji ki arati" (adoration of the Ganges), or strolling along the ghats of the Ganges, or, again, through the neat little streets inside the University campus, especially during late spring/early autumn, especially under starry nights, during blackouts, one feels ... again... a contentment, and yet a yearning ... whether spiritual or romantic ... or simultaneously both, one knows not.
Yes, there is something about Varanasi, the Gods, the city, the people, and the places... something that just defies description.

Vague recordings on: life, love and the world

(Disclaimer: This post records less than one ppm (millionth part) of my opinions on the subject).
Life - what does one say about It, for It is the one saying something about oneself. How does one begin? - There was a time that this person - dreamer that he is - found the world so fresh and young, so mysterious, so full of possibilities, new adventures, dreams, hopes and fears.
One sometimes thinks about those days - the dreams that have come true and those that have receded into the misty , hazy twilight Hades that dead dreams go to, the fears that have been conquered, through careful training, or rigourous practice, or simply through the fear of being laughed at, and those that have, like the proverbial chameleon, changed their appearances, so that they continue to exist even when the original causes are gone.
But one mourns the most for the possibilities, the freshness of outlook, the innocence, the belief in the inherent goodness of people - including in one's own goodness, that somehow seems to have been largely - if not completely - eroded.
Turning the clock back, one remembers the dreams that were fulfilled too late - when they didn't mean much - like the coin collection one made as a child - just the one 1/4 anna coin that one wanted - and found - a 1906 piece, 13 years later, when the collection was just a hazy memory - and lost again. Or the Enid Blyton stories that one read as a child - a favourite one being about pixies, and thinks about the pixie that one found 16 years later, who flew away before one could close one's arms around her and say "Hey Pixie!".
One remembers thinking about the loved ones that one lost along the way - the ones for whom one wanted to conquer the world, to "do something" - who were not even there when finally one could say, "I did this!" - and during whose final moments, one was conspicuous - only by one's absence.
Then come the friends - some who've stood by one during all one's trials, the ones to whom one could open out one's heart - and also the ones to whom one couldn't - the ones who shared all their happiness and hid their sorrows, so one would not be troubled, as well as the one whose sorrow makes a heartless person like me get my eyes wet, but whom I cannot help, for the only way to help her is to give her something that is not in my power to give, or even pray for.
And so, methinks, that the world can be a cruel place to some - though it has been very good to me.

Time and Motion

The first serious post... about time and motion...
So what is Time really? (Reminds me of a joke: somebody once asked my Uncle "what is time, bhaisahab?", in typical Indian ishtyle, and Uncle, with a grave face, replied, "that, dear Lady, is a very difficult question to answer.")
Typically, humans tend to relate time with clocks and watches, or as something that goes inexorably on. We tend to think that all the clocks and watches in the world may stop, but Time will still move on. Time seems to have become so important, especially to the modern city-dweller, that life itself takes a backseat to the demands of Time.
However, none of this makes any difference from the philosophical, or meta-physical point of view (which explains why some of the Ancients had a much better understanding of Time, than most of us ;) ).
First of all, Time is a (human) idea, a concept, a thought. Let the Seeker think deeply about this.
If the Seeker agrees with the above, he (ladies please excuse me, I do not mean to be gender-biased) should derive that Time, as we understand it, does not have any physical existence, rather like Space, Numbers, and Triangles, it is a abstraction of an idea existing in Nature.
For example, corresponding to Space, we have the distance between any two objects, to Numbers, we have the count of objects in a collection, and so on.
The question naturally arises, "What is the physical existence whose abstraction is Time?" The intelligent Seeker, pondering over this question, may find the answer startling, though simple: it is Motion.
Yes, I know that you had always known this, but wait and think: Had you? Really?
Did you know that if the motion of all the particles in the Universe be stopped, Time will stop? Did you also know that if these particles have their motions reversed, Time will reverse, and people will die before they are born? Did you also know that if a closed system (a system that exchanges neither energy nor mass with the rest of the Universe) has this reversal of motion happening to all its particles, that system will go into the past compared to the rest of the Universe...and we will have a Time Machine?
Think, O Seeker, did you know all this, or did I tell you, or is it that this knowledge, always within you, has just been brought out??
Now back to the real (or seemingly real?) world, and apply this knowledge. If you can't build a Time Machine, atleast remember this always: You are the creator of Time, and therefore its Master. Do not, ever again, become the slave of Time.

First Ecstasy

...It was around 8:30 in the evening, and the precocious six-year old No-no had completed his homework. So, like other days, he turned to his favourite set of books - "Finding Out" - a periodical for children.
Of late he had been reading stories from the Odyssey - appearing as a serial in Finding Out.
Some time back he had read about the sad love of Calypso for Odysseus... infact if you looked at it, the whole Odyssey itself was a saga of sadness. Sometimes hope grew, only to be crushed at the last moment by human folly, or Nature's unpredictibility, or, as the Greeks would say, the "wrath of the Gods".
But today was different. Odysseus, at the very bottom of his luck, had reached Phaecia, shipwrecked, alone, sans food, clothing, or material possessions. He was lying unconscious on the beach, having somehow reached some bushes, and hiding amongst them, when Fate smiled on him- (Not that he knew it then ofcourse) - the Princess of Phaecia, Nausicaa, found him. And rescued him. And took him back to the palace. They gave him everything, everything that Nature and the Gods had taken away from him. And they sent him on his way.
No-no was pleased. No, he was happy. Suddenly, as he came to the end of the episode, he looked up. He felt different, like he had never felt before. There was no-one else in the room, Mother was about to return from her Clinic, Pushpa the maid was in a different room, sister was somewhere in the house, Father at the Hospital. He was Alone. Just him, the book, and Silence. There was the swishing sound of the fan ofcourse, but it only accentuated the Silence. School, work, play, friends, these were all Silent. No-one was pursuing him in his mind. Of nobody was he afraid, of none infatuated, of nobody was he jealous, of none pitiful. The world was quiet. As quiet as his mind.
He was at Peace. He was Happy. Nothing mattered. Nothing else mattered. Time stopped.

And then there was the sound of the gate, as Mom arrived, and the spell was broken.
Years later, looking back at this, he would remember the experience. And he would call it - The First Ecstasy.
He would struggle to repeat it, struggle to experience it, again and again. It would colour his thoughts, his actions, his whole approach to life. Seeming irrational to the world, they would all be directed towards this one end- to experience again what he had experienced, more often if possible, more intensely if possible. One experience of joy would be a precursor to countless experiences of pain, and he would have to bear it all, like a mad lover. But No-no did not know all this. All he knew was that he was Happy.