Ok!
When Lingam performed the maneuver of facing Obul and cleverly running away past him, he did more than a maneuver-- he had won a great battle of wits, which thankfully, neither he knew nor Obul knew. In fact, chroniclers (who seem to be ubiquitous, which should make us think what is in it for them? but then we will not, for now!) think that this technique easily outweighs the last battle of wits (yes! It is a 'battle of wits', literally!) in the famous 'battle of BEML gate'.
What we are missing here is the history behind these battles of wits. Long long ago, there used to be two huge kingdoms-- one was militantly Vaishnavaite, and another was militantly Shaivaite, and they used to battle their guts out for supremacy. It was rumoured that they frequently obained favours from Gods for their militaristic endeavours.
The whole Vaishnavaite kingdom was one very posh, properly planned city called Narayanopolis. It had a beautiful central palace with Golden Spires and sprawling meadows for the King. The people were extremely polite and their taste was exceeded only by their hatred towards their Shaivaite counterparts. The people were highly sentient and hard-working beings and thrived on agriculture and trade. They had a vast, powerful and organised army divided into many regiments. The vaishnavite city also had another Satellite city (literally 'satellite', as you shall see!) named Garudopolis that was susupended in mid-air, and could be used as a huge warship. They also had a powerful air-force named the 'Garudawaffe'.
On the contrary, the Shaivaite kingdom was a large mass of barren waste-land --a paradox with colums of smoke and ash spewing out from one part and snow and grinding ice in another part. It was a rocky and a moutainous region and people mostly lived on hunting and most people, when not hunting were seen meditating on Shiva. Some never stopped meditating and after their death, they added a kind of unseen armour to the Shaiva kingdom that needed many magic weapons to break through. The Shaivas had their own answer to the Garudawaffe-- they had Marutsena.
While Garudawaffe depended on sophistication, efficiency, and precision, Maruts depended only numbers and raw heroics. No wonder, they were much feared. It was partly to thwart any further attacks from Maruts that Vaishnavaites built the Garudopolis. Shaivaites frequently employed women in the army and they had their own regiment called the Bhairavi regiment, and they were notorious for their unrelenting bravery. On the other hand, the Vaishnavaites had a powerful nursing and reconnaisance brigade called the Mohini-Brigade. It was famed to never fail.
Till now, Obul (a name of God Vishnu's Avatara Narasimha) did not know that he was the direct descendant of the lengendary General Oppiliappan-IX (Oppiliappan also means Narasimha. It could be that Oppiliappan is the actual Tamizh form of 'Obulayya'), who single-handedly, with his band of highly motivated fighters, routed an invasion of a huge Shaivaite army consisting of 44th KAla-Bhairava Regiment and the 16th Light-infantry Bhringi Regiment and 24th Rudra Rifles Regiment.
And Lingam, obvioustly as well, did not know that he was a direct descendant of VallinAyagam-III, the prefect of Chidambaram-- who successfully thwarted an attack of 4th, 5th, and 11th VarAha-regiments and even withstood, though at great loss, highly sophisticated and dangerous Sudarshana weapons dropped from Garudopolis. The whole of 6th Marut-Brigade was felled from the skies. The Shaivaites, from then on, never have had a 6th Marut-Brigade in honour of those who found martyrdom on that day. Now, it seems that to save from the onslaught of the Vaishnavaites, some of the Shaivaites in a neutral area got mixed with pastoral and peace minded Yadavs and began calling themselves Yadavs. Same was the case with Vaishnavaites and they mingled themselves with other tribes to find peace.
These wars continued for centuries together, with innumerable battles and skirmishes. As times changed, because of a lot of external factors, the funds for war decreased on Vaishnavaites' side, and not many Shaivaites were intent on ghOra-tapasya, so their shields weakened. So there emerged a new form of tactical warfare called 'Battle of Wits'. The entire warfare consisted of confusing the enemy. The more you end up confusing the enemy, the more crushing is the defeat inflicted upon him. And war-chroniclers, who write down everything, decide who wins. (more often, they are seen taking money from a side and pronounce it victorious!). So, you see, the profession is not without its plus points.
So when Lingam turned around and faced Obul at Janglee ViThoba Temple in Hyderabad, the whole world was watching him, and war-chroniclers were busy scripting each and every minute detail of the incident. By the time Lingam ran away into the galli with a perplexed Obul staring with his gaping mouth, Lingam was already a Shaivaite hero. Chants of 'Hara hara Mahadeva' echoed in the sub-terranean hideouts of the Shaivaite extremist organisations throughout the world. Lingam, without knowing the reason, kept getting many gifts and 'well-done', 'bravo', and 'salute to thou' letters for months. Thankfully, he didnt bother about them one single-bit because they were addressed to a guy named 'VallinAyagam-VII', and he had no idea it was his real name.
And Obul.. poor Obul got busted by the vaishnavaite powers that be. He was hunted by an inexplicable misfortune. He lost money everywhere, his friends deseted him. he was kicked out of his master Erra Satyam's service (in fact, some theorise that the murder of Erra Satyam was an attack to inflict pain on Obul) and was treated as a disgrace. But the powers calmed down eventually and were set to offer Obul a new life and a chance to redeem his honour.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
parivartanAvartanam -- Life, Transformation, and back to Life- III
Back to Life:
Priya was only remotely fascinated by her actual name before-- her parents sometimes used to make fun of her, saying that it would have been better if she had been named 'vakuLa', with a tint of sarcasm. Neither she understood what they meant, not did she understand what was wrong with the name 'vakuLa'. They always said that her grandmother didnt like staying with them even though they tried bringing her over because her way of life was too strict and out-of-date, and that she stayed in a remote village away from them.
It was only later when she met her grandmother incidentally on a trip did she realise what her parents meant. But right in the first meeting, she found her grandmother far more likeable than her parents. She developed a soft corner for her grandmother, who still called her VakuLa, and started visiting her often. Gradually, she began to prefer the name 'VakuLa' over 'Priya'. Though she enjoyed battling with semaphores and forks in work, she found this far more gratifying. In a short while, she had learnt so much that she felt she came a long way. Now, because of the same qualities that made her an excellent team lead in that software testing form, she had become the life of the town because of her commitment and hardwork, and she had become a role model for other young women.
At one point, she understood that more than devotion to the Godhead, it was the commitment to lead a way of life that preserved riches of life that kept her going--an honest attempt at leading a much more organic, natural, intuitive, and richer way of life where she can always learn something about the nature, the people around her, and finally herself.
And so, every weekend, she became VakuLa, and every Monday, she returned to work as Priya. Her grandmother did not coax her into any kind of decision. She knew that her granddaugher had come on her own, and she had to make her own decision-- and the decision had to be made soon.
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It is the end of my narration, for I do not know what the future has in store for the central character. Will she become VakuLa in the end or will she stay Priya... I do not want to take it any further, because I do not want to think for the readers of this story. If you have come till here, you have already an opinion about Priya/VakuLa, and about yourself. Her story ends here and yours begins here. What you want to become and where you want to go is your business.
P.S.: Yes, the narration is sloppy, the character development is incomplete, and some characters are too stereotyped and banal. But if you still manage to look through this nebulous fog and find something to ponder over, then I have done my job.
Priya was only remotely fascinated by her actual name before-- her parents sometimes used to make fun of her, saying that it would have been better if she had been named 'vakuLa', with a tint of sarcasm. Neither she understood what they meant, not did she understand what was wrong with the name 'vakuLa'. They always said that her grandmother didnt like staying with them even though they tried bringing her over because her way of life was too strict and out-of-date, and that she stayed in a remote village away from them.
It was only later when she met her grandmother incidentally on a trip did she realise what her parents meant. But right in the first meeting, she found her grandmother far more likeable than her parents. She developed a soft corner for her grandmother, who still called her VakuLa, and started visiting her often. Gradually, she began to prefer the name 'VakuLa' over 'Priya'. Though she enjoyed battling with semaphores and forks in work, she found this far more gratifying. In a short while, she had learnt so much that she felt she came a long way. Now, because of the same qualities that made her an excellent team lead in that software testing form, she had become the life of the town because of her commitment and hardwork, and she had become a role model for other young women.
At one point, she understood that more than devotion to the Godhead, it was the commitment to lead a way of life that preserved riches of life that kept her going--an honest attempt at leading a much more organic, natural, intuitive, and richer way of life where she can always learn something about the nature, the people around her, and finally herself.
And so, every weekend, she became VakuLa, and every Monday, she returned to work as Priya. Her grandmother did not coax her into any kind of decision. She knew that her granddaugher had come on her own, and she had to make her own decision-- and the decision had to be made soon.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is the end of my narration, for I do not know what the future has in store for the central character. Will she become VakuLa in the end or will she stay Priya... I do not want to take it any further, because I do not want to think for the readers of this story. If you have come till here, you have already an opinion about Priya/VakuLa, and about yourself. Her story ends here and yours begins here. What you want to become and where you want to go is your business.
P.S.: Yes, the narration is sloppy, the character development is incomplete, and some characters are too stereotyped and banal. But if you still manage to look through this nebulous fog and find something to ponder over, then I have done my job.
parivartanAvartanam -- Life, Transformation, and back to Life- II
Transformation
When Priya got home, her grandmother was not at home but she found all the arrangements made. An olive coloured silk saree and blouse set were lying on a stool, and some water, cold as a rule, was present in the bathroom. She quickly cast away all of her 'city' clothes, took bath, and wore her saree, braided her hair and made it into a bun, applied a short vertical tilakam on her forehead, wore some green and a couple of golden bangles, a small nose-gem (not a nose-ring), a set of small golde ear-rings set with pearl, and finally set a small lenth of flower strip into her bun.
The process which had come to seem so natural to her now, was not so a while ago. It began only as a small and gentle curiosity about year and a half ago. By and by, her grandmother sensed the flow of her granddaughter's feelings as the curiosity grew into general interest, then into a fully-grown hobby, and then avid enthusaism and finally maturing into realisation of she had been missing all this time as her mentor-grandmother, feeling happy at the progress made by her protege, taught her all she knew-- to cook, dress up, and behave in the trational manner.
VakuLa herself was perplexed how she could imbibe all of this so easily. She felt something was not right, and she tried to keep away from the town and cut all contact with her grandmother. But the urge to come back was too swift. She gave up finally. At times, she used to wonder if she was enjoying it because she was so good at it, or was it the other way around, but now, it did not matter much. She knew where she belonged. Every weekend, she had been coming to her grandmother's place. She kept lying to her parents, friends, and people at office about her whereabouts at weekends. She hardly used to go to her home. But whenever she went, there was a feeling of frustration and loss. Her parents were not qualified enough to peep behind her formal smiles to sense the inner volcano of feelings.
She also had come to know many of the traditional Indian chants by heart. She began reading books on Indian philosophy and very soon she was able to convince other scholars in town that she was someone to contend with. She even had started participating in some of the temple ceremonies. A small coterie of orthodox Brahmins tried to bar her progress, but being well versed in the shastras by now, she came over them, yet without hurting their self-respect using her tact. She now looked into the mirror to give final touches to her transformation from Priya to VakuLa-- the name her grandmother had chosen for her when she was born, but rejected by her parents who found it too old-fashioned. She came out and saw the framed photograph of Goddess Laxmi by the wall in the outer room. She took a slow deep breath, and she felt she was now richer, having driven out Alakshmi from her life:
Kshut pipásá-amalám jyesthám alakshmím náshayámyaham
Abhūtimasamriddhim cha sarván nirnuda me grihat.
She wrapped her neck and shoulders with the saree and went to the grocers, who knew her only has the grand-daughter of the old widow Narmada, and ordered the necessary vegetables and condiments. Cooking SODasapakvAnnAs for fifty one people is not an easy task for a beginner. She was used, by now, to cooking for the temple, but the scale was much smaller. A tough task but she had taken it upon her willingly.
She returned home where her grandmother was waiting for her. She had gone over to the neighbours' place. As her grandmother went inside to cook, vakuLa went into the small garden to collect some tulasi-daLams for the puja the next day. It was going to be another long but beautiful day.
When Priya got home, her grandmother was not at home but she found all the arrangements made. An olive coloured silk saree and blouse set were lying on a stool, and some water, cold as a rule, was present in the bathroom. She quickly cast away all of her 'city' clothes, took bath, and wore her saree, braided her hair and made it into a bun, applied a short vertical tilakam on her forehead, wore some green and a couple of golden bangles, a small nose-gem (not a nose-ring), a set of small golde ear-rings set with pearl, and finally set a small lenth of flower strip into her bun.
The process which had come to seem so natural to her now, was not so a while ago. It began only as a small and gentle curiosity about year and a half ago. By and by, her grandmother sensed the flow of her granddaughter's feelings as the curiosity grew into general interest, then into a fully-grown hobby, and then avid enthusaism and finally maturing into realisation of she had been missing all this time as her mentor-grandmother, feeling happy at the progress made by her protege, taught her all she knew-- to cook, dress up, and behave in the trational manner.
VakuLa herself was perplexed how she could imbibe all of this so easily. She felt something was not right, and she tried to keep away from the town and cut all contact with her grandmother. But the urge to come back was too swift. She gave up finally. At times, she used to wonder if she was enjoying it because she was so good at it, or was it the other way around, but now, it did not matter much. She knew where she belonged. Every weekend, she had been coming to her grandmother's place. She kept lying to her parents, friends, and people at office about her whereabouts at weekends. She hardly used to go to her home. But whenever she went, there was a feeling of frustration and loss. Her parents were not qualified enough to peep behind her formal smiles to sense the inner volcano of feelings.
She also had come to know many of the traditional Indian chants by heart. She began reading books on Indian philosophy and very soon she was able to convince other scholars in town that she was someone to contend with. She even had started participating in some of the temple ceremonies. A small coterie of orthodox Brahmins tried to bar her progress, but being well versed in the shastras by now, she came over them, yet without hurting their self-respect using her tact. She now looked into the mirror to give final touches to her transformation from Priya to VakuLa-- the name her grandmother had chosen for her when she was born, but rejected by her parents who found it too old-fashioned. She came out and saw the framed photograph of Goddess Laxmi by the wall in the outer room. She took a slow deep breath, and she felt she was now richer, having driven out Alakshmi from her life:
Kshut pipásá-amalám jyesthám alakshmím náshayámyaham
Abhūtimasamriddhim cha sarván nirnuda me grihat.
She wrapped her neck and shoulders with the saree and went to the grocers, who knew her only has the grand-daughter of the old widow Narmada, and ordered the necessary vegetables and condiments. Cooking SODasapakvAnnAs for fifty one people is not an easy task for a beginner. She was used, by now, to cooking for the temple, but the scale was much smaller. A tough task but she had taken it upon her willingly.
She returned home where her grandmother was waiting for her. She had gone over to the neighbours' place. As her grandmother went inside to cook, vakuLa went into the small garden to collect some tulasi-daLams for the puja the next day. It was going to be another long but beautiful day.
parivartanAvartanam -- Life, Transformation, and back to Life- I
Life
Priya was into software testing. In her short 4-year old career after her engineering, she had already become a team lead after just over 2-years of service. A charming smile always adorned her face and she had a knack of getting the most difficult job done by the people working under her. She would push, taunt, or pep up her team mates as the situation demanded. She was extremely committed and hard-working and demanded the same level of commitment from others around her. She took on others' load when they could not bear it any longer. In short, she was the perfect leadership-material. However, not all was okay with her.
Priya had a secret life that began about 8 months before. A part of her that was almost negligible had suddenly begun to assert itself and she felt compelled to satisfy it. She fought it initially-- it was not something well bred girls of upper middle class did without bringing the family into disrepute in the high society. Even she herself took sometime to accept it. But she had finally begun to understand that she was different from others and that her priorities had changed. She knew what had to be done... only, she was afraid of taking the step. Her parents, who were proud of her, would find it opprobrius. They were too worried about their status. Her team-mates would think she has lost it and gone mad. She would be in one of those fringe groups, generally laughed at. She suspended her decision to some other time in future and sat in a bus friday afternoon, as she had been doing every weekend of late.
She got down at a small town in the cold evening after about 5 hours of journey and started walking at a brisk pace. Some people saluted her in namaskaara mudra and walked away with bent heads, some others greeted her as their own child, while some were giving her rather anxious looks. She commanded huge respect in the town. She reached a house, went inside, locked the door and promptly removed all of her clothing. There was a feeling of expectation and excitement-- she had not even dreamt doing something like this before.
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Jayati tEdhikam kRshna janmanAvrajAH
Srayata indirA kRshna SaSvad atrahi
dayita dRshyatAm kRshna dikshutAvakA-
stvayi dhRtAsavaH kRshna tvAM vichinvatE.
na khalu gopikA kRshNa nandano bhavAn....
Chants of gOpikA gItam, along with highly appetising culinary scents, were emanating from a small house with a label "VakuLa" early in the morning in a mountain town. The female voice was young and ebullient, but it also echoed deep commitment and was full of devotion. The house had a narow fence made of thickets, and it also had a well and a couple of cows in a shed. The priest of the temple stopped in front of the wooden gate for a while to listen to the young voice, wrapt in the beauty of the sonorous chants with his eyes closed, and then walked away to attend to his chores at the temple. VakuLa had become very dear and respectable to the people, both learned and lay, in town in a short while.
Priya was into software testing. In her short 4-year old career after her engineering, she had already become a team lead after just over 2-years of service. A charming smile always adorned her face and she had a knack of getting the most difficult job done by the people working under her. She would push, taunt, or pep up her team mates as the situation demanded. She was extremely committed and hard-working and demanded the same level of commitment from others around her. She took on others' load when they could not bear it any longer. In short, she was the perfect leadership-material. However, not all was okay with her.
Priya had a secret life that began about 8 months before. A part of her that was almost negligible had suddenly begun to assert itself and she felt compelled to satisfy it. She fought it initially-- it was not something well bred girls of upper middle class did without bringing the family into disrepute in the high society. Even she herself took sometime to accept it. But she had finally begun to understand that she was different from others and that her priorities had changed. She knew what had to be done... only, she was afraid of taking the step. Her parents, who were proud of her, would find it opprobrius. They were too worried about their status. Her team-mates would think she has lost it and gone mad. She would be in one of those fringe groups, generally laughed at. She suspended her decision to some other time in future and sat in a bus friday afternoon, as she had been doing every weekend of late.
She got down at a small town in the cold evening after about 5 hours of journey and started walking at a brisk pace. Some people saluted her in namaskaara mudra and walked away with bent heads, some others greeted her as their own child, while some were giving her rather anxious looks. She commanded huge respect in the town. She reached a house, went inside, locked the door and promptly removed all of her clothing. There was a feeling of expectation and excitement-- she had not even dreamt doing something like this before.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jayati tEdhikam kRshna janmanAvrajAH
Srayata indirA kRshna SaSvad atrahi
dayita dRshyatAm kRshna dikshutAvakA-
stvayi dhRtAsavaH kRshna tvAM vichinvatE.
na khalu gopikA kRshNa nandano bhavAn....
Chants of gOpikA gItam, along with highly appetising culinary scents, were emanating from a small house with a label "VakuLa" early in the morning in a mountain town. The female voice was young and ebullient, but it also echoed deep commitment and was full of devotion. The house had a narow fence made of thickets, and it also had a well and a couple of cows in a shed. The priest of the temple stopped in front of the wooden gate for a while to listen to the young voice, wrapt in the beauty of the sonorous chants with his eyes closed, and then walked away to attend to his chores at the temple. VakuLa had become very dear and respectable to the people, both learned and lay, in town in a short while.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Ascent
A laughter as one the Gods themselves be jealous of;
A laughter as the roar of the first thunder on the Earth;
A laughter that could rend the worlds asunder.
-----------------------------------------------------------
RudranArAyaNa Sastry was the nityAgnihotri of his village. He had completed a thousand chanDi homAs till date. He was the foremost authority on tantra in his kingdom. Yet he lived as an ascetic, living on alms and prasadam of the village kAmAkshi temple. He breathed KAmAkshi in every breath. He lived in a small house in the shadow of the kAmAkshi temple. He was born every moment as the son of his loving Mother, and died every moment pining for her eternal love. To him She was the beginning, the end, and everything else.
It was VijayadaSami, and it was the last day of rudranArAyaNa Sastry's old life and the first day of new life, the day when he would call out to the skies waiting to carry out his orders, the day when he would start living without dying every moment, the day when he would finally reach his Mother in her heavenly abode.
The divyachandana lEpita utsava-vigraham of the Heavenly Sankari was adorned with flowers-
SevantikA vakula champaka pATalAbjaiH
punnAgajAti karavIra rasALapushpaiH
bilvapravALa tulasIdala mAlatIbhiH
tvAmhi pUjayAmi jagadIshvari me prasIda!
The utsava vigraham was kept on the ratham and dozens of devotees slowly dragged out the enormous vehicle of the tribhuvanESwari onto the wet road after a rainy night--
chaturbhuje chandrakalAvataMse
kuchonnate kunkumarAgashoNe
puNDrekShupAshAnkushapushpabANa
haste namaste jagadekamAtaH
It has been held that the ratham should never stop on the road till it reaches the tank at the other end of the village. And it never did till now. While the people were pulling the divine vehicle ahead, none but he saw a pool of water on the road right in the path of the vehicle. The pool was deep and wide enough for the huge vehicle to get stuck. But the people dragged it along chanting the Mother's name.
And he beheld Her, his mother, coming towards him in this Divine chaos with mangaLa Arathi being offered to her. There were people everywhere. And a thousand bells were ringing at the same time. And She seemed to him--
As vAgdEvI saraswathi early in the morning to be worshipped in his small house with white lilly flowers,
Manikya vInAm upalAlayanthIm
madhAlasAm manjula vAg vilAsam
mahEndra nIla dyuthi kOmalangIm
mAthanga kanyAm manasA smarAmi.
As AnnapUrnEsvari at noon in the corn fields with turmeric, rice, corn, and chrysanthemum
prAlEyAchala vamsa pAvanakari kASIpurAdhISvari
bhikshAmdEhi kRpAvalambanakari mAtAnnapUrNESvari
As padmagandhini mahAlakshmi worshipped in the evening in the temple with lotuses, and marigolds,
lakshmIr kshIrasamudrarAjatanayAm srIrangadhAmESwarIm
dAsIbhUtasamastadEva vanItAm lOkaika dIpAnkurAm
And as kAtyAyanI kALika with bright red flowers at midnight in the cremation ground.
KALika VarALika
Prachanda jvAla mAlika
kapAlamAla dhArika
Dushta samhArika
And so he laughed.
Yea! It was the same laughter as one the Gods themselves be jealous of;
Yea! It was the same laughter as the roar of the first thunder on the Earth;
Yea! It was the same laughter that could rend the worlds asunder.
The bells were still ringing.
So he realised this is how he has been ordained to ascend to his Mother. This is where the door opens for the path to his Home. And he laughed again. People looked at him with wonder and fright. But they kept dragging the ratham. It was almost over the pool. rudranArAyaNa jumped before the wheel of the ratham and covered the pool with his body.
The ratham went on unhindered. The bells kept on ringing.
And the devotees sprinkled the water from red pool over their heads.
I have died today,
My Mother has come for me,
I am born today.
-------------------------------------------------
kAmAkshi-- in VarALi by SyAmA Sastry, set to misra chApu. Rendered by Maharajapuram Ramachandran
A laughter as the roar of the first thunder on the Earth;
A laughter that could rend the worlds asunder.
-----------------------------------------------------------
RudranArAyaNa Sastry was the nityAgnihotri of his village. He had completed a thousand chanDi homAs till date. He was the foremost authority on tantra in his kingdom. Yet he lived as an ascetic, living on alms and prasadam of the village kAmAkshi temple. He breathed KAmAkshi in every breath. He lived in a small house in the shadow of the kAmAkshi temple. He was born every moment as the son of his loving Mother, and died every moment pining for her eternal love. To him She was the beginning, the end, and everything else.
It was VijayadaSami, and it was the last day of rudranArAyaNa Sastry's old life and the first day of new life, the day when he would call out to the skies waiting to carry out his orders, the day when he would start living without dying every moment, the day when he would finally reach his Mother in her heavenly abode.
The divyachandana lEpita utsava-vigraham of the Heavenly Sankari was adorned with flowers-
SevantikA vakula champaka pATalAbjaiH
punnAgajAti karavIra rasALapushpaiH
bilvapravALa tulasIdala mAlatIbhiH
tvAmhi pUjayAmi jagadIshvari me prasIda!
The utsava vigraham was kept on the ratham and dozens of devotees slowly dragged out the enormous vehicle of the tribhuvanESwari onto the wet road after a rainy night--
chaturbhuje chandrakalAvataMse
kuchonnate kunkumarAgashoNe
puNDrekShupAshAnkushapushpabANa
haste namaste jagadekamAtaH
It has been held that the ratham should never stop on the road till it reaches the tank at the other end of the village. And it never did till now. While the people were pulling the divine vehicle ahead, none but he saw a pool of water on the road right in the path of the vehicle. The pool was deep and wide enough for the huge vehicle to get stuck. But the people dragged it along chanting the Mother's name.
And he beheld Her, his mother, coming towards him in this Divine chaos with mangaLa Arathi being offered to her. There were people everywhere. And a thousand bells were ringing at the same time. And She seemed to him--
As vAgdEvI saraswathi early in the morning to be worshipped in his small house with white lilly flowers,
Manikya vInAm upalAlayanthIm
madhAlasAm manjula vAg vilAsam
mahEndra nIla dyuthi kOmalangIm
mAthanga kanyAm manasA smarAmi.
As AnnapUrnEsvari at noon in the corn fields with turmeric, rice, corn, and chrysanthemum
prAlEyAchala vamsa pAvanakari kASIpurAdhISvari
bhikshAmdEhi kRpAvalambanakari mAtAnnapUrNESvari
As padmagandhini mahAlakshmi worshipped in the evening in the temple with lotuses, and marigolds,
lakshmIr kshIrasamudrarAjatanayAm srIrangadhAmESwarIm
dAsIbhUtasamastadEva vanItAm lOkaika dIpAnkurAm
And as kAtyAyanI kALika with bright red flowers at midnight in the cremation ground.
KALika VarALika
Prachanda jvAla mAlika
kapAlamAla dhArika
Dushta samhArika
And so he laughed.
Yea! It was the same laughter as one the Gods themselves be jealous of;
Yea! It was the same laughter as the roar of the first thunder on the Earth;
Yea! It was the same laughter that could rend the worlds asunder.
The bells were still ringing.
So he realised this is how he has been ordained to ascend to his Mother. This is where the door opens for the path to his Home. And he laughed again. People looked at him with wonder and fright. But they kept dragging the ratham. It was almost over the pool. rudranArAyaNa jumped before the wheel of the ratham and covered the pool with his body.
The ratham went on unhindered. The bells kept on ringing.
And the devotees sprinkled the water from red pool over their heads.
I have died today,
My Mother has come for me,
I am born today.
-------------------------------------------------
kAmAkshi-- in VarALi by SyAmA Sastry, set to misra chApu. Rendered by Maharajapuram Ramachandran
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Shree
Shadows of evening slanted through the high windows. It was not time yet to light the lamps. In the fading light is the silhoutte of a female figure sitting across the front door with head back, resting against the open door. The smell of sandal and jasmine was floating around the house. Dressed as a bride, ThakuraNi Roopmati was staring into the sky. Her hand was playing instinctively with the colourful bangles she had worn--red and green and yellow and of of gold with pearls and stones set in them. Suddenly, she felt a tinge of pain and gave out a gasp. She lifted her head and brought her gaze down onto her right thumb. The bleeding had long stopped but the wound would take a day or two to heal. It was in the early morning that she applied rakta-tilak to her Thakur and sent him to the battle wishing that he come back victorious, as always.
They had said the enemy was already at the gates of the city. They had said they were outnumbered. They had said there was slim chance of victory. But this was not the first time that the Thakur led his regiment to battle to under the leadership of the MaharaNa. She remembered how she had laughed at the prospect of war and how spectacularly magnificent was the huge feast they organised, as was the custom of the household, before war. MaharaNa himself had visited their house.
Yet, there was a deep sense of misgiving and a premonition in her heart right from the time she received the news of the battle and slowly, those vague warnings and notions in her heart began to take a shape and become clearer. And when she saw her Thakur's face, blazing like the Sun, in the glow of evening lamp, she was no longer in doubt. She knew her Thakur was not going to come back this time. She knew this was her Thakur's last feast. She knew that she will be seeing her Thakur for the last time the next morning. But she was a Lioness among RajputaNis. She had a huge reputation of lifting the spirits of others around her. And so she hid her sorrow. No. The Thakur shall not sense her state of mind. He has to go and the battle has to be won. At any cost. She remembered how she had succeeded in lifting the sagging morale of other women who were aghast at the rumours of the losing battle and she smiled wryly at herself.
It was almost night, and Roopmati still did not get up to light the lamp. It was a sombre evening with dull skies and no wind and a few melancholy birds wailing. Lamps could be seen dimly flickering from Neighbours' homes. She succeeded in rallying the neighbourhood to thw cause, but who would assuage the storms raging in her heart? She wondered what was the use of the Durga puja, the tilak, and other such rituals when she could clearly see the truth naked in front of her waking eyes.
An hour later, an errand rider came running to her and bowed to her:
"Victory to you ThakuraNi!"
She did not move and kept staring far away beyond the horizon.
"ThakuraNi... Thakur fought valiantly and saved MaharaNa's life."
She still did not move. Her eyes closed, and tears waiting in her eyes saw enough reason to flow out.
-------
Shree raaga.
Alap and dhamaar by Uday Bhawalkar.
They had said the enemy was already at the gates of the city. They had said they were outnumbered. They had said there was slim chance of victory. But this was not the first time that the Thakur led his regiment to battle to under the leadership of the MaharaNa. She remembered how she had laughed at the prospect of war and how spectacularly magnificent was the huge feast they organised, as was the custom of the household, before war. MaharaNa himself had visited their house.
Yet, there was a deep sense of misgiving and a premonition in her heart right from the time she received the news of the battle and slowly, those vague warnings and notions in her heart began to take a shape and become clearer. And when she saw her Thakur's face, blazing like the Sun, in the glow of evening lamp, she was no longer in doubt. She knew her Thakur was not going to come back this time. She knew this was her Thakur's last feast. She knew that she will be seeing her Thakur for the last time the next morning. But she was a Lioness among RajputaNis. She had a huge reputation of lifting the spirits of others around her. And so she hid her sorrow. No. The Thakur shall not sense her state of mind. He has to go and the battle has to be won. At any cost. She remembered how she had succeeded in lifting the sagging morale of other women who were aghast at the rumours of the losing battle and she smiled wryly at herself.
It was almost night, and Roopmati still did not get up to light the lamp. It was a sombre evening with dull skies and no wind and a few melancholy birds wailing. Lamps could be seen dimly flickering from Neighbours' homes. She succeeded in rallying the neighbourhood to thw cause, but who would assuage the storms raging in her heart? She wondered what was the use of the Durga puja, the tilak, and other such rituals when she could clearly see the truth naked in front of her waking eyes.
An hour later, an errand rider came running to her and bowed to her:
"Victory to you ThakuraNi!"
She did not move and kept staring far away beyond the horizon.
"ThakuraNi... Thakur fought valiantly and saved MaharaNa's life."
She still did not move. Her eyes closed, and tears waiting in her eyes saw enough reason to flow out.
-------
Shree raaga.
Alap and dhamaar by Uday Bhawalkar.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Journey
Those green valleys with those lush meadows,
The bee on the flower and the birdling in the nest,
That trickling stream, running down the mountains,
Those drops of rain and the gentle breeze sweetest,
Those high aims, those lofty ambitions,
Those long struggles and those victories great
Those melancholies and bursts of mirth,
Those smirks to self at treacherous turns of fate,
Those benign people living in inviting homes,
Those smiling faces, with greeting hands,
Those times spent in the pleasant company,
But mere images drawn on the eternal sands.
The feet move with ease by themselves
The hands held aloft on their own,
Away, away my heart, I am carried off,
Yonder to the place He does own.
Shivam Shankaram Shambhumeeshaa na meede!
(From Shivashtakam)
The bee on the flower and the birdling in the nest,
That trickling stream, running down the mountains,
Those drops of rain and the gentle breeze sweetest,
Those high aims, those lofty ambitions,
Those long struggles and those victories great
Those melancholies and bursts of mirth,
Those smirks to self at treacherous turns of fate,
Those benign people living in inviting homes,
Those smiling faces, with greeting hands,
Those times spent in the pleasant company,
But mere images drawn on the eternal sands.
The feet move with ease by themselves
The hands held aloft on their own,
Away, away my heart, I am carried off,
Yonder to the place He does own.
Shivam Shankaram Shambhumeeshaa na meede!
(From Shivashtakam)
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Genesis
The four were not yet born, the eight still far away in thought.
The five were one yet, the universe still was not wrought.
Not even darkness. Not even nothing.
Then there was nothing. Darkness everywhere-- all engulfing, all encompassing-- A defeaning darkness. Issuing out of the depths of that nothing, and going back into that unseen chasm of nothingness.
Out of that nothingness was born the First of All-- Experience. And out of the Experience came a horrid fright. A fright that held the Unborn Universe as She saw her own Nemesis was being born before She was born.
A fright that would have made Man tear his own flesh and drink his own blood in a maddening dementia.
A fright that gripped even the Nemesis as she saw her own End -- slow, painful, and eternal.
A fright that struck and shook fright itself.
When would this torture end?
And fright called out:
O Most Powerful, Most Fearsome, Grandest and Greatest!
O Warrior of the Beyond, Slayer of the Great Foe unsown!
O Harbinger of the Eternal peace, my Only Saviour and Recourse,
Wilt Thou not take me, ere I drown in the venom of mine own?
There were swirling vortexes of blackness all around. Everything feared everything else and itself. Everything engulfed everything else and itself. Unmanifested realities contested among themselves without any rules and shattered themselves into a million fragments with indescribable elan. New unborn realities, formed from those fragments took their place and led the battle to newer planes of rage and passion.
A heavy burden of inexplicable melancholy. A feeling of permanent distress. Yet, no, this cannot be permanent, said a voice within. For anything permanent has to be blissful. Only a passing phase. Only Pangs of Birth. A grim determination arose-- To carry on. To suffer the pain. To brave the blows. To face the fear. To wade through the violence.
And PaSupathi opened His eyes to the Universe born as the Unborn, Unheard Sound--AnAhata Adi nAda.
Paarvathi Naatha Shiva Shambho,
MahaabaLi, Mahaaroopa, Mahaadevatha jaage!
(Dhrupad in Puriya-- chautaal)
The five were one yet, the universe still was not wrought.
Not even darkness. Not even nothing.
Then there was nothing. Darkness everywhere-- all engulfing, all encompassing-- A defeaning darkness. Issuing out of the depths of that nothing, and going back into that unseen chasm of nothingness.
Out of that nothingness was born the First of All-- Experience. And out of the Experience came a horrid fright. A fright that held the Unborn Universe as She saw her own Nemesis was being born before She was born.
A fright that would have made Man tear his own flesh and drink his own blood in a maddening dementia.
A fright that gripped even the Nemesis as she saw her own End -- slow, painful, and eternal.
A fright that struck and shook fright itself.
When would this torture end?
And fright called out:
O Most Powerful, Most Fearsome, Grandest and Greatest!
O Warrior of the Beyond, Slayer of the Great Foe unsown!
O Harbinger of the Eternal peace, my Only Saviour and Recourse,
Wilt Thou not take me, ere I drown in the venom of mine own?
There were swirling vortexes of blackness all around. Everything feared everything else and itself. Everything engulfed everything else and itself. Unmanifested realities contested among themselves without any rules and shattered themselves into a million fragments with indescribable elan. New unborn realities, formed from those fragments took their place and led the battle to newer planes of rage and passion.
A heavy burden of inexplicable melancholy. A feeling of permanent distress. Yet, no, this cannot be permanent, said a voice within. For anything permanent has to be blissful. Only a passing phase. Only Pangs of Birth. A grim determination arose-- To carry on. To suffer the pain. To brave the blows. To face the fear. To wade through the violence.
And PaSupathi opened His eyes to the Universe born as the Unborn, Unheard Sound--AnAhata Adi nAda.
Paarvathi Naatha Shiva Shambho,
MahaabaLi, Mahaaroopa, Mahaadevatha jaage!
(Dhrupad in Puriya-- chautaal)
Friday, November 03, 2006
Swadeshi and Matrix
The swadeshi movement started by Gandhiji was one of the most potent manifestations of the Indian freedom struggle, and I single it out not just because it stands as a monument of defiance of the British authority in India, but it also was a necessary step for the survival of the struggling Indian industry. Simply put, the british were taking raw materials like cotton, jute, iron-ore, etc, fromIndia (did I mention at throw-away prices?), mass manufacturing them into finished goods and selling them back to us as finished products. One can imagine the conditions of the local industry! In this light, the swadeshi movement is one movement that was not just a maneuver to defy the British rule like the Salt Satyagraha or to throw the British off balance like the Quit-India movement, but something that must have hit the British in a very sensitive place! Imagine the worry of the British manufacturers! So... they literally forced the Indians to buy their goods. Well, it might have worked only moderately, with the entire nation of India rallying behind Gandhiji.
Cut to the present--
A Joke: A Yadagiri (in India) asks his friend, lets say a Srinivas, in US to get him a shirt, may be not a costly one, but something from The USA. The Srinivas diligently goes to wal-mart, and picks up a very decent one of about $35. On his visit to India, he proudly gives his friend Yadagiri, a glimpse of the American product. The Yadagiri looks at it in awe, but something near the collar catches his eye, and he throws the shirt back at the Srinivas! On the tag was written: 'Made in Pakistan'. Damn the American honesty!
But no, I dont want to talk about either American honesty or the quality of shirts in Wal-mart. I want to highlight that the same thing that was happening then, is happening now. All the these foreign manufacturers (Van-Heusens, Peter-Englands, Oxemburgs ??) buy raw material at dead-cheap rates from third world countries, mass manufacture them, and then sell them to the same countries! The bad thing is, we are lapping it all up without any sense of awareness or compassion to that good old tailor who used to sew our clothes about a decade ago. Why?
Cut to Matrix Reloaded, the second part of the trilogy-- The Architect tells Neo:
"The first Matrix I designed was quite naturally perfect, it was a work of art - flawless, sublime. A triumph equalled only by its monumental failure..."
As you would remember, Agent Smith tells Morpheus in the first part that "the first matrix... was a disaster.No one would accept the program. Entire crops were lost. "
(please note the word 'crops'. It warrants another discussion... not now though!)
The Architect continues "the answer [to the problem of designing a self sustaning matrix] was stumbled upon by another - an intuitive program, initially created to investigate certain aspects of the human psyche..."
"...she stumbled upon a solution whereby nearly 99% of all test subjects accepted the program, as long as they were given a choice, even if they were only aware of the choice at a near unconscious level."
Cut to the present--
A Joke: A Yadagiri (in India) asks his friend, lets say a Srinivas, in US to get him a shirt, may be not a costly one, but something from The USA. The Srinivas diligently goes to wal-mart, and picks up a very decent one of about $35. On his visit to India, he proudly gives his friend Yadagiri, a glimpse of the American product. The Yadagiri looks at it in awe, but something near the collar catches his eye, and he throws the shirt back at the Srinivas! On the tag was written: 'Made in Pakistan'. Damn the American honesty!
But no, I dont want to talk about either American honesty or the quality of shirts in Wal-mart. I want to highlight that the same thing that was happening then, is happening now. All the these foreign manufacturers (Van-Heusens, Peter-Englands, Oxemburgs ??) buy raw material at dead-cheap rates from third world countries, mass manufacture them, and then sell them to the same countries! The bad thing is, we are lapping it all up without any sense of awareness or compassion to that good old tailor who used to sew our clothes about a decade ago. Why?
Cut to Matrix Reloaded, the second part of the trilogy-- The Architect tells Neo:
"The first Matrix I designed was quite naturally perfect, it was a work of art - flawless, sublime. A triumph equalled only by its monumental failure..."
As you would remember, Agent Smith tells Morpheus in the first part that "the first matrix... was a disaster.No one would accept the program. Entire crops were lost. "
(please note the word 'crops'. It warrants another discussion... not now though!)
The Architect continues "the answer [to the problem of designing a self sustaning matrix] was stumbled upon by another - an intuitive program, initially created to investigate certain aspects of the human psyche..."
"...she stumbled upon a solution whereby nearly 99% of all test subjects accepted the program, as long as they were given a choice, even if they were only aware of the choice at a near unconscious level."
Aah! So there you are! More than a grain of truth in there! Force doesnt always work (in fact, it doesnt work most often!), but given a choice, even if at a sub-conscious level, the human always chooses what s/he is expected to. No one is actually stopping us from getting our clothes stitched by the tailor. Yet we feel compelled to go to a mall and buy clothes.Hmm!
But wait! Thats not all. The local tailor, well, he certainly is out of business. But thats not the worst! People will always find alternate routes to support themselves. So, the tailor might get a job somewhere in the factory of some Levi's. Thats ok. But there is a bigger problem. Now, the ex-tailor is a part of the Levi's process chain... condemned to do a specific repetitive job over and over again... a part of the highly optimised and mechanised design. So, his skill is lost. And the generation of those who call themselves tailors might no longer possess that kind of skill.
All said and done, though the end seems inevitable sooner or later, one saving point in India is that its really difficult to reach the last leaf of the last branch of the tree. It takes a long long time for any sort of change to come into India. So lets wait and watch!
In the meanwhile, spare a moment for the local tailor who used to sew your clothes in your childhood (applies to middle class only!).
Monday, October 16, 2006
Experience
What does a human being long for in life? Money, perhaps? or may be power? or may be love and affection? But are all these different? There is a definite common human quality associated with all these... underlying the outwardly different manifestations of materialism. It is not exactly materisalism that satisfies our human urges... it is the urge for the experience that we crave that matters so much to us. This childish longing for that sublime entity called experience makes us humans go to nefarious lengths, even if its only out of sheer malice and jealousy towards our fellows. Nevertheless, the importance of this thing called 'experience' cannot be underestimated.
But then, of what use is a brilliant masterpiece of visual art to a blind person? how can a congenitally deaf person comprehend music? Experience is more valuable than the value of the object sought! In that sense, the object associated with experience no longer matters once that familiar sensation starts to set in. The object remains as a gate-way to that realm, a vehicle to carry us across to the other shore, a means to the end. Hypothetically it can be argued, eventhough it seems a repugnant notion, that if an obect gives that same beautiful, instantly uplifting, and emotionally intense feeling to a woman that is gifted to her as her maternal instinct, the woman may be less inclined to beget a child since her urge has been satisfied by another object.
The problem is that though over the millennia, ways and means by which this experience can be had permanently, or for atleast a long time have been tried, successfully tested and documented, they have never been popular. And of course, they will never be. Most of us are not ready to wake up to that ultimate reality, to realise what we already know, to understake that ascent to the topmost turrets of the towers of our own inner selves and throw open all the windows and let ourselves be affected, exposed, and receptive to new, hitherto unknown, and inexplicable sensations of the higher realm... for Sensation preserved in memory is but Experience.
Hence, it now seems to me that humans are not exactly materialistic, what is materialistic is the way we adopt to satisfy the urge for the experience.
But then, of what use is a brilliant masterpiece of visual art to a blind person? how can a congenitally deaf person comprehend music? Experience is more valuable than the value of the object sought! In that sense, the object associated with experience no longer matters once that familiar sensation starts to set in. The object remains as a gate-way to that realm, a vehicle to carry us across to the other shore, a means to the end. Hypothetically it can be argued, eventhough it seems a repugnant notion, that if an obect gives that same beautiful, instantly uplifting, and emotionally intense feeling to a woman that is gifted to her as her maternal instinct, the woman may be less inclined to beget a child since her urge has been satisfied by another object.
The problem is that though over the millennia, ways and means by which this experience can be had permanently, or for atleast a long time have been tried, successfully tested and documented, they have never been popular. And of course, they will never be. Most of us are not ready to wake up to that ultimate reality, to realise what we already know, to understake that ascent to the topmost turrets of the towers of our own inner selves and throw open all the windows and let ourselves be affected, exposed, and receptive to new, hitherto unknown, and inexplicable sensations of the higher realm... for Sensation preserved in memory is but Experience.
Hence, it now seems to me that humans are not exactly materialistic, what is materialistic is the way we adopt to satisfy the urge for the experience.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Shri Aurobindo's talk
Taken from:
http://www.voiceofdharma.com/books/ir/IR_part3.htm
July 23, 1923
(A disciple:) The Mahatma believes that non-violence purifies the man who practises it.
I believe Gandhi does not know what actually happens to the man's nature when he takes to Satyagraha or non-violence. He thinks that men get purified by it. But when men suffer, or subject themselves to voluntary suffering, what happens is that their vital being gets strengthened. These movements affect the vital being only and not any other part. Now, when you cannot oppose the force that oppresses, you say that you will suffer. That suffering is vital and it gives strength. When the man who has thus suffered gets power he becomes a worse oppressor....
What one can do is to transform the spirit of violence. But in this practice of Satyagraha it is not transformed. When you insist on such a one-sided principle, what happens is that cant, hypocrisy and dishonesty get in and there is no purification at all. Purification can come by the transformation of the impulse of violence, as I said. In that respect the old system in India was much better: the man who had the fighting spirit became the Kshatriya and then the fighting spirit was raised above the ordinary vital influence. The attempt was to spiritualize it. It succeeded in doing what passive resistance cannot and will not achieve. The Kshatriya was the man who would not allow any oppression, who would fight it out and he was the man who would not oppress anybody. That was the ideal....
There is also the question of Hindu-Muslim unity which the non-violence school is trying to solve on the basis of their theory.
You can live amicably with a religion whose principle is toleration. But how is it possible to live peacefully with a religion whose principle is “I will not tolerate you”? How are you going to have unity with these people? Certainly, Hindu-Muslim unity cannot be arrived at on the basis that the Muslims will go on converting Hindus while the Hindus shall not convert any Mahomedan. You can’t build unity on such a basis. Perhaps the only way of making the Mahomedans harmless is to make them lose their fanatic faith in their religion....
The Mahomedan religion was born under such circumstances that the followers never forgot the origin.
That was the result of the passive resistance which they practised. They went on suffering till they got strong enough and, when they got power, they began to persecute others with a vengeance....
Gandhi's position is that he does not care to remove violence from others; he wants to observe non-violence himself.
That is one of the violences of the Satyagrahi that he does not care for the presssure which he brings on others. It is not non-violence—it is not “Ahimsa.” True Ahimsa is a state of mind and does not consist in physical or external action or in avoidance of action. Any pressure in the inner being is a breach of Ahimsa.
For instance, when Gandhi fasted in the Ahmedabad mill-hands' strike to settle the question between mill-owners and workers, there was a kind of violence towards others. The mill-owners did not want to be responsible for his death and so they gave way, without, of course, being convinced of his position. It is a kind of violence on them. But as soon as they found the situation normal they reverted to their old ideas. The same thing happened in South Africa. He got some concessions there by passive resistance and when he came back to India it became worse than before.
http://www.voiceofdharma.com/books/ir/IR_part3.htm
July 23, 1923
(A disciple:) The Mahatma believes that non-violence purifies the man who practises it.
I believe Gandhi does not know what actually happens to the man's nature when he takes to Satyagraha or non-violence. He thinks that men get purified by it. But when men suffer, or subject themselves to voluntary suffering, what happens is that their vital being gets strengthened. These movements affect the vital being only and not any other part. Now, when you cannot oppose the force that oppresses, you say that you will suffer. That suffering is vital and it gives strength. When the man who has thus suffered gets power he becomes a worse oppressor....
What one can do is to transform the spirit of violence. But in this practice of Satyagraha it is not transformed. When you insist on such a one-sided principle, what happens is that cant, hypocrisy and dishonesty get in and there is no purification at all. Purification can come by the transformation of the impulse of violence, as I said. In that respect the old system in India was much better: the man who had the fighting spirit became the Kshatriya and then the fighting spirit was raised above the ordinary vital influence. The attempt was to spiritualize it. It succeeded in doing what passive resistance cannot and will not achieve. The Kshatriya was the man who would not allow any oppression, who would fight it out and he was the man who would not oppress anybody. That was the ideal....
There is also the question of Hindu-Muslim unity which the non-violence school is trying to solve on the basis of their theory.
You can live amicably with a religion whose principle is toleration. But how is it possible to live peacefully with a religion whose principle is “I will not tolerate you”? How are you going to have unity with these people? Certainly, Hindu-Muslim unity cannot be arrived at on the basis that the Muslims will go on converting Hindus while the Hindus shall not convert any Mahomedan. You can’t build unity on such a basis. Perhaps the only way of making the Mahomedans harmless is to make them lose their fanatic faith in their religion....
The Mahomedan religion was born under such circumstances that the followers never forgot the origin.
That was the result of the passive resistance which they practised. They went on suffering till they got strong enough and, when they got power, they began to persecute others with a vengeance....
Gandhi's position is that he does not care to remove violence from others; he wants to observe non-violence himself.
That is one of the violences of the Satyagrahi that he does not care for the presssure which he brings on others. It is not non-violence—it is not “Ahimsa.” True Ahimsa is a state of mind and does not consist in physical or external action or in avoidance of action. Any pressure in the inner being is a breach of Ahimsa.
For instance, when Gandhi fasted in the Ahmedabad mill-hands' strike to settle the question between mill-owners and workers, there was a kind of violence towards others. The mill-owners did not want to be responsible for his death and so they gave way, without, of course, being convinced of his position. It is a kind of violence on them. But as soon as they found the situation normal they reverted to their old ideas. The same thing happened in South Africa. He got some concessions there by passive resistance and when he came back to India it became worse than before.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Hoomite and Youbee (Who might and you be)
Long ago, there was an insignificant channel called Home TV which used to air some of my favorite shows. Mostly animation series from Cosgrove Hall productions and a couple of chinese mythological dramas-- totally enjoyable!.
One of the animations was "Count Duckula".
taken from http://www.dvdverdict.com/reviews/countduckulaseason1.php :
"Castle Duckula—home for many centuries to a terrible dynasty of vicious vampire ducks: the Counts of Duckula! Legend has it that these foul beings can be destroyed by a stake through the heart or by exposure to sunlight. This does not suffice, however, for they may be brought back to life, by means of a secret rite, that can be performed once a century when the moon is in the eighth zenith. The latest reincarnation didn't run according to plan."
Count Duckula is a funny, odd guy (voiced with above average enthusiasm by David Jason) a vampire duckwho now only wants to munch on veggies instead of hapless necks and who often finds himself overwhelmed by his bumbling, caustic staff. There's Nanny (voiced by Brian Trueman), an oversized bird with a bandaged arm and a knack for walking through walls; and Igor (Jack May), a stuffy Jeeves-like butler who often looks bored/indifferent/annoyed with Count Duckula and Nanny's antics. Other minor characters pop in and out of a few episodes, including Duckula's enemy, Van Goosling (a la Van Helsing).
Count Duckula is often based on odd exchanges between the various characters. To show you the goofy extents the show goes to, here's an example of a dialogue exchange between Count Duckula and two Egyptian characters (Hoomite and Yoobee):
Hoomite: I am Hoomite, High Priest of the Sun God Ra! And this is my assistant Yoobee.
Yoobee: Delighted, I'm sure.
Hoomite: Who might you be?
Count Duckula: Yes, I got that.
Hoomite: No, who might you be?
Count Duckula: Yes, I know, you said that already.
Hoomite: So you will not tell me?
Count Duckula: Well, I hardly need to, do I?
Hoomite: We shall see about that! Yoobee, you try.
Yoobee: Oh, very well master. Listen I am Yoobee, right?
Count Duckula: Wrong. I am, you are.
Yoobee: Aahhh! There you are Master, he is Yooare.
Hoomite: So you are Yooare?
Count Duckula: I am not, I am not.
Hoomite: See! He is not Yooare, he is Knot!
Yoobee: You are Yooare!
One of the animations was "Count Duckula".
taken from http://www.dvdverdict.com/reviews/countduckulaseason1.php :
"Castle Duckula—home for many centuries to a terrible dynasty of vicious vampire ducks: the Counts of Duckula! Legend has it that these foul beings can be destroyed by a stake through the heart or by exposure to sunlight. This does not suffice, however, for they may be brought back to life, by means of a secret rite, that can be performed once a century when the moon is in the eighth zenith. The latest reincarnation didn't run according to plan."
Count Duckula is a funny, odd guy (voiced with above average enthusiasm by David Jason) a vampire duckwho now only wants to munch on veggies instead of hapless necks and who often finds himself overwhelmed by his bumbling, caustic staff. There's Nanny (voiced by Brian Trueman), an oversized bird with a bandaged arm and a knack for walking through walls; and Igor (Jack May), a stuffy Jeeves-like butler who often looks bored/indifferent/annoyed with Count Duckula and Nanny's antics. Other minor characters pop in and out of a few episodes, including Duckula's enemy, Van Goosling (a la Van Helsing).
Count Duckula is often based on odd exchanges between the various characters. To show you the goofy extents the show goes to, here's an example of a dialogue exchange between Count Duckula and two Egyptian characters (Hoomite and Yoobee):
Hoomite: I am Hoomite, High Priest of the Sun God Ra! And this is my assistant Yoobee.
Yoobee: Delighted, I'm sure.
Hoomite: Who might you be?
Count Duckula: Yes, I got that.
Hoomite: No, who might you be?
Count Duckula: Yes, I know, you said that already.
Hoomite: So you will not tell me?
Count Duckula: Well, I hardly need to, do I?
Hoomite: We shall see about that! Yoobee, you try.
Yoobee: Oh, very well master. Listen I am Yoobee, right?
Count Duckula: Wrong. I am, you are.
Yoobee: Aahhh! There you are Master, he is Yooare.
Hoomite: So you are Yooare?
Count Duckula: I am not, I am not.
Hoomite: See! He is not Yooare, he is Knot!
Yoobee: You are Yooare!
Saturday, September 23, 2006
maya ka khel
Since the last few days, the great Mr.Musharraf suddenly seems to say and do things that I never expected of him-- first it was the firm rebuttal of the great Bush's admission that he was prepared to send troops into pakistan to find the terrorists, then he had something to reveal for CBS 60 minutes (RIP, Dan Rather!) that the then deputy secy. of state Richard Armitage said something about bombing Pakistan back to stone age and finally, the deferral of the F-16 deal by Pakistan.
Call me a conspiracy theorist if you wish, but I do smell something. I think that Musharraf is onto something here. By reacting angrily to Bush's remark (rather harmless if you consider that it amounts only to violating the sovereignty of a country whose president fawns on the US) and defering the F-16 deal, a strong message is sent to the world and the Pakistanis (well, especially the latter) that they are not slaves of the US and they have an independent existence and their leaders will not allow that to change at any cost. Also, Musharraf is playing the victim to perfection when he talks about Armitage and Bombing Pakistan to stone-age-- Look! Here is a leader who is prepared to accept the insulting proposition of helping the west in the fight against the fellow muslim in order to save his country. He is a true leader! May God bless him!
And he will lap up all the sympathy he can get from the gullible public.
Why?
Because two assassination attempts have already been made on him, and the Islamic hardliners are gaining good ground in Pak. More importantly, he is losing control over the Islamists. Not that he cares a lot about the countries affected by them, but they no longer listen to him. So.... he needs to crack-down on them-- neither to make an honest attempt at securing world-peace, not to please the US by doing his part in the fight against Terror-- he just wants to consolidate his position in his country. Having the common man's support in such a mission is of utmost importance. Playing victim of circumstances dissuades the common man from letting himself carried away by the imflamatory speeches of the extremist clerics! And makes him follow his leader, and president with more faith. And the US is ok with it-- of course they will be happy if their 'stand-up guy' gets stronger in his own country! They want him to be so!
God knows where he is leading Pakistan to... but I sincerely hope what Barkha Dutt says is true!
Call me a conspiracy theorist if you wish, but I do smell something. I think that Musharraf is onto something here. By reacting angrily to Bush's remark (rather harmless if you consider that it amounts only to violating the sovereignty of a country whose president fawns on the US) and defering the F-16 deal, a strong message is sent to the world and the Pakistanis (well, especially the latter) that they are not slaves of the US and they have an independent existence and their leaders will not allow that to change at any cost. Also, Musharraf is playing the victim to perfection when he talks about Armitage and Bombing Pakistan to stone-age-- Look! Here is a leader who is prepared to accept the insulting proposition of helping the west in the fight against the fellow muslim in order to save his country. He is a true leader! May God bless him!
And he will lap up all the sympathy he can get from the gullible public.
Why?
Because two assassination attempts have already been made on him, and the Islamic hardliners are gaining good ground in Pak. More importantly, he is losing control over the Islamists. Not that he cares a lot about the countries affected by them, but they no longer listen to him. So.... he needs to crack-down on them-- neither to make an honest attempt at securing world-peace, not to please the US by doing his part in the fight against Terror-- he just wants to consolidate his position in his country. Having the common man's support in such a mission is of utmost importance. Playing victim of circumstances dissuades the common man from letting himself carried away by the imflamatory speeches of the extremist clerics! And makes him follow his leader, and president with more faith. And the US is ok with it-- of course they will be happy if their 'stand-up guy' gets stronger in his own country! They want him to be so!
God knows where he is leading Pakistan to... but I sincerely hope what Barkha Dutt says is true!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
nArada
Posted in an orkut group by me--
My favorite character in the purAnAs is nArada. I shall investigate the character of nArada under the follwing headings:
1)A vital link:I think the very concept of Narada as an intermediary between the three kinds of beings-- the devas, the dAnavAs, and the humans is truly unbeatable.It is interesting to note that almost every mythilogical story involves nArada as a person being trusted by all. From outside, when we see the sequence of the purAnAs, we really feel that dAnavAs do not study their history properly-- time and again, nArada goes to dAnavAs and tricks them, and they still believe him.But if one goes into the depth, one can see that these are all stories out of a comic book. He who looks for a sequence has a very ignorant perspective of looking at Indian Mythology. In this regard, he supplies, through himself, that vital missing link in the story to make it more gripping.
2)Renunciation vs. Gruhasta Dharmam:
Many stories also involve him as one teaching a fitting lesson to some person, or (more frequently) him being taught a lesson in Bhakti. The latter one, I think is one of the most crucial central points about the SanAtana tradition. The moment nArada thinks he is the greatest bhakta of Hari since he has renounced the world, he is humbled by a common man! This is a great lesson, this is exactly why we have survived the onslaughts of religions that preach renunciation and living as an ascetic. Stories like these have taught the world that one can attain mOksha even while following the gruhasta dharmam.
3)Memory:
If Mythological stories were serious, they would really be boring, because the common man doesnt want to be engrossed in bhakti all the time. So--- add a comic element! nArada is perfect in this role! His comic touch makes an impression on everyone right from the newborn to the aged. It is very difficult to forget an entertaining story. This is exactly why our stories are still intact even after thousands of years.
My favorite character in the purAnAs is nArada. I shall investigate the character of nArada under the follwing headings:
1)A vital link:I think the very concept of Narada as an intermediary between the three kinds of beings-- the devas, the dAnavAs, and the humans is truly unbeatable.It is interesting to note that almost every mythilogical story involves nArada as a person being trusted by all. From outside, when we see the sequence of the purAnAs, we really feel that dAnavAs do not study their history properly-- time and again, nArada goes to dAnavAs and tricks them, and they still believe him.But if one goes into the depth, one can see that these are all stories out of a comic book. He who looks for a sequence has a very ignorant perspective of looking at Indian Mythology. In this regard, he supplies, through himself, that vital missing link in the story to make it more gripping.
2)Renunciation vs. Gruhasta Dharmam:
Many stories also involve him as one teaching a fitting lesson to some person, or (more frequently) him being taught a lesson in Bhakti. The latter one, I think is one of the most crucial central points about the SanAtana tradition. The moment nArada thinks he is the greatest bhakta of Hari since he has renounced the world, he is humbled by a common man! This is a great lesson, this is exactly why we have survived the onslaughts of religions that preach renunciation and living as an ascetic. Stories like these have taught the world that one can attain mOksha even while following the gruhasta dharmam.
3)Memory:
If Mythological stories were serious, they would really be boring, because the common man doesnt want to be engrossed in bhakti all the time. So--- add a comic element! nArada is perfect in this role! His comic touch makes an impression on everyone right from the newborn to the aged. It is very difficult to forget an entertaining story. This is exactly why our stories are still intact even after thousands of years.
Friday, July 21, 2006
The Kavi
JandhyAla was a great film personality because of many reasons-- one of them being his contribution to gather and store important artifacts about the linguistic, cultural, and sociological conditions of the Telugu land of his times.
One of his masterpieces is the movie "Rendu-RellAru" starring Chandra Mohan and Rajendra Prasad.
There is reference to a term called "kavi" in that movie-- "kavi anTe kanapaDadu, vinabaDadu". I am not very sure if this term is an invention just for the movie, or if it has been in existence even before, but it is little things like these that have to be passed on to the next generations.
Notwithstanding the formal definition of the word "kavi" which is a 'poet', about 3000-4000 years ago, the word "kavi" meant something entirely different and denoted a person of a higher degree--a 'kavi' used to mean a 'seer'... somebody higher than a rishi. The Gods Agni, Brhaspati,etc., are all revered as kavis in Rig Veda.
This is just one example among many, of how our language, culture, and even religion have changed ever slightly by the day over thousands of years and finally have taken theie present shape. Sri Aurobindo Ghosh was one of the very few who saw a hidden, a rather cryptic meaning hidden in the otherwise mundanely ritualistic suktas of Rig Veda and Sri KapAli Sastry and Sri M.P.Pandit carried on the work started by Aurobindo. Dr.R.L.Kashyap, a Professor Emeritus at Purdue University has taken the responsibility of disseminating the inner meaning of the Vedas to the common people by writing and publishing numerous books that shed light on the real meaning of the Veda Suktas which can be viewed at http://www.vedah.com/org2/pub/overview.asp.
There is a dire need for the youth of this country to take up the study of Vedas because whatever interpretations we have of Vedas till now are by the western minds. Hopefully, atleast a few of us might devleop an interest in the esoteric knowledge of the Veda at some point of time.
I intend to propagate the work done by them by posting excerpts from their books (which are small, easy to understand and cheap!!) . For that purpose, I have started a blog called "The Kavi".
One of his masterpieces is the movie "Rendu-RellAru" starring Chandra Mohan and Rajendra Prasad.
There is reference to a term called "kavi" in that movie-- "kavi anTe kanapaDadu, vinabaDadu". I am not very sure if this term is an invention just for the movie, or if it has been in existence even before, but it is little things like these that have to be passed on to the next generations.
Notwithstanding the formal definition of the word "kavi" which is a 'poet', about 3000-4000 years ago, the word "kavi" meant something entirely different and denoted a person of a higher degree--a 'kavi' used to mean a 'seer'... somebody higher than a rishi. The Gods Agni, Brhaspati,etc., are all revered as kavis in Rig Veda.
This is just one example among many, of how our language, culture, and even religion have changed ever slightly by the day over thousands of years and finally have taken theie present shape. Sri Aurobindo Ghosh was one of the very few who saw a hidden, a rather cryptic meaning hidden in the otherwise mundanely ritualistic suktas of Rig Veda and Sri KapAli Sastry and Sri M.P.Pandit carried on the work started by Aurobindo. Dr.R.L.Kashyap, a Professor Emeritus at Purdue University has taken the responsibility of disseminating the inner meaning of the Vedas to the common people by writing and publishing numerous books that shed light on the real meaning of the Veda Suktas which can be viewed at http://www.vedah.com/org2/pub/overview.asp.
There is a dire need for the youth of this country to take up the study of Vedas because whatever interpretations we have of Vedas till now are by the western minds. Hopefully, atleast a few of us might devleop an interest in the esoteric knowledge of the Veda at some point of time.
I intend to propagate the work done by them by posting excerpts from their books (which are small, easy to understand and cheap!!) . For that purpose, I have started a blog called "The Kavi".
Monday, July 17, 2006
Who was he talking about??
Gandalf in "Return of the King":
"The old wisdom born out of the west was forsaken. Kings made tombs more splendid than the houses of the living and counted the old names of their descent dearer than the names of their sons. Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry or in high, cold towers asking questions of the stars. And so the people of Gondor fell into ruin. The line of Kings failed. The white tree withered. The rule of Gondor was given over to lesser men."
And so, the beautiful Minas Ithil turned into the dark dirty and dangerous Minas Morgul.
Perfect!!! Gandalf (and Tolkien) could nt have been more correct.
But look-- Our own Minas Ithil going Minas Morgul way:
http://www.hvk.org/articles/0706/84.html
"The old wisdom born out of the west was forsaken. Kings made tombs more splendid than the houses of the living and counted the old names of their descent dearer than the names of their sons. Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry or in high, cold towers asking questions of the stars. And so the people of Gondor fell into ruin. The line of Kings failed. The white tree withered. The rule of Gondor was given over to lesser men."
And so, the beautiful Minas Ithil turned into the dark dirty and dangerous Minas Morgul.
Perfect!!! Gandalf (and Tolkien) could nt have been more correct.
But look-- Our own Minas Ithil going Minas Morgul way:
http://www.hvk.org/articles/0706/84.html
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Osmania Biscuit XIII--- Raakshas Mama
It is said that the much feared Shani doesnt come near people who take up Ayyappa deeksha, and wearing black clothes (black shirt, black lungi, black etc) was a sign for him to recognise those that he cant touch!
Alas!
Kaliyugam!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ever since that incident before Deepaavali, Raakshas Mama has come to fear Lingam. And this, in fact had a very negative effect on Lingam who has, of late, become one of the most timid fellows! Even when some prankster (whistle-blower to be more precise) wrote "Rekha loves Jaffer" on our compund wall (Jaffer being the son of our cleaning maid, and Rekha, the daughter of one of our neighbours, apparently our distant relatives), he was very tight-lipped about it, while my parents made a huge ruckus about it in the colony.
Raakshas Mama is the name my father gave to a gentleman belonging to the huge family that occupies the whole of the front view from our home. He was the eldest son-in-law of the patriarch, known as "Head-Master"(now no more, MHSRIP). Apparently, he had one of the biggest sizes of the (decaying) teeth my father ever saw (with huge cavities), and his voice seemed like the braying of a confused male donkey mistakenly caught up in menstrual problems. Hence the name! And then the fact that whenever he used to meet my father over a cigarette at Yadagiri's shop (Lingam doesnt sell them!), he always used to greet my father with a "Namaskaar, bolaa!" in Marathi (in Telugu-- namaskaaram, cheppandi!) which he picked up from somewhere, having worked in the railways, and my father, being the courteous one, had to cook up some story all the time... but it was seriously getting on him... even if he met him every single evening, the same sentence...
"Namaskaar, bolaa!"
"Arey! what else does he expect me to tell.. I have told him everything from the shaving cream and the hair dye I use to the inside information on how to find out genuine mysore sandal soaps!" And he started avoiding him.
My father later found out from another frequenter at Yadagiri shop (he is not among us as well, MHSRIP) that it was just Raakshas Mama's way saying "Hi" and he didnt expect any information in return!! A huge sigh of relief!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ahem! So.. anyway, Raakshas Mama is an ardent devotee of Ayyappa, and never fails to take up the deeksha. It was also the Deepaavali season. So, one fine evening, our Lingam here got very curious about a new type of cracker called "air force". It was very small... like a tiny round box. He was told that it shoots up straight into the sky, like a rocket! It seemed absolutely impossible to him.. how can such a small device shoot up into the sky! Well, he took one out, and lit it on the side of the road.
Misfortune, it seems, has her own ways of manifesting herself where there is absolutely no need of her. Walking just beside was our own beloved Raakshas Mama, and the air force betrayed its supposed wont-- instead of shooting up, it went straight into Raakshas Mama's black Ayyappa lungi.
Aahaa!
I have never heard such a loud howl... I came out running, and there I saw Lingam trying to get something out of Rakshas Mama's lungi... I didnt want to know what at that time... it seemed very iffy! I still cant forget the sight.
All said and done, Raakshas Mama developed a thorough mixture of hatred and fear towards both "air force" and Lingam. And Lingam... well, he was crushed beyond imagination. He didnt show his face throughout the Deepaavali season. And to add salt to his wounds, the rest of the "air force" devices didnt do anything strange... just went straight up, which made some theorise that Lingam had a "hand" in air-force goin up Raakshas Mama's lungi.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Raakshas Mama is (also) no longer amidst us. He passed away just a couple of months ago. He was found dead one afternoon in his apartment by one of his nephews. Heart Failure.
Farewell Raakshas Mama!
MYSRIP (May Your Soul rest In Peace).
Alas!
Kaliyugam!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ever since that incident before Deepaavali, Raakshas Mama has come to fear Lingam. And this, in fact had a very negative effect on Lingam who has, of late, become one of the most timid fellows! Even when some prankster (whistle-blower to be more precise) wrote "Rekha loves Jaffer" on our compund wall (Jaffer being the son of our cleaning maid, and Rekha, the daughter of one of our neighbours, apparently our distant relatives), he was very tight-lipped about it, while my parents made a huge ruckus about it in the colony.
Raakshas Mama is the name my father gave to a gentleman belonging to the huge family that occupies the whole of the front view from our home. He was the eldest son-in-law of the patriarch, known as "Head-Master"(now no more, MHSRIP). Apparently, he had one of the biggest sizes of the (decaying) teeth my father ever saw (with huge cavities), and his voice seemed like the braying of a confused male donkey mistakenly caught up in menstrual problems. Hence the name! And then the fact that whenever he used to meet my father over a cigarette at Yadagiri's shop (Lingam doesnt sell them!), he always used to greet my father with a "Namaskaar, bolaa!" in Marathi (in Telugu-- namaskaaram, cheppandi!) which he picked up from somewhere, having worked in the railways, and my father, being the courteous one, had to cook up some story all the time... but it was seriously getting on him... even if he met him every single evening, the same sentence...
"Namaskaar, bolaa!"
"Arey! what else does he expect me to tell.. I have told him everything from the shaving cream and the hair dye I use to the inside information on how to find out genuine mysore sandal soaps!" And he started avoiding him.
My father later found out from another frequenter at Yadagiri shop (he is not among us as well, MHSRIP) that it was just Raakshas Mama's way saying "Hi" and he didnt expect any information in return!! A huge sigh of relief!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ahem! So.. anyway, Raakshas Mama is an ardent devotee of Ayyappa, and never fails to take up the deeksha. It was also the Deepaavali season. So, one fine evening, our Lingam here got very curious about a new type of cracker called "air force". It was very small... like a tiny round box. He was told that it shoots up straight into the sky, like a rocket! It seemed absolutely impossible to him.. how can such a small device shoot up into the sky! Well, he took one out, and lit it on the side of the road.
Misfortune, it seems, has her own ways of manifesting herself where there is absolutely no need of her. Walking just beside was our own beloved Raakshas Mama, and the air force betrayed its supposed wont-- instead of shooting up, it went straight into Raakshas Mama's black Ayyappa lungi.
Aahaa!
I have never heard such a loud howl... I came out running, and there I saw Lingam trying to get something out of Rakshas Mama's lungi... I didnt want to know what at that time... it seemed very iffy! I still cant forget the sight.
All said and done, Raakshas Mama developed a thorough mixture of hatred and fear towards both "air force" and Lingam. And Lingam... well, he was crushed beyond imagination. He didnt show his face throughout the Deepaavali season. And to add salt to his wounds, the rest of the "air force" devices didnt do anything strange... just went straight up, which made some theorise that Lingam had a "hand" in air-force goin up Raakshas Mama's lungi.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Raakshas Mama is (also) no longer amidst us. He passed away just a couple of months ago. He was found dead one afternoon in his apartment by one of his nephews. Heart Failure.
Farewell Raakshas Mama!
MYSRIP (May Your Soul rest In Peace).
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Of Judas and Satan
Ever since Gospel of Judas has come to light, a section of the christian orthodoxy is shaken up and is finding it hard to wake up to it. It may be a problem with organised religions. What is written in the book is believed to be absolutely true and any small piece of actuality unearthed that undermines the writing becomes a threat. Nevertheless, it has brought forth a motif, similar to one I was contemplating to write in the Indian context-- that of duty, of dharma and kartavya, and of sacrifice.
In this gospel, Judas is the closest disciple of all the other disciples to the Christ. He even chides others for not knowing the designs of the Messiah. And the other disciples are jealous of Judas. In the end, Jesus himself spells out to Judas on what is to be done to save the world and warns him that this will actually incur the wrath of all the followers. Yet, Judas passes the test, truly comprehends the orders of his master, and delivers Him to the Romans, in spite of his damnation at the hands of the other followers. He is branded as a traitor, though he is not actually one... he is just acting at the behest of his Lord and Master whom He loves and understands. Hmm!
There is a more beautiful concept, more fundamental to the christian myth, not history that I had come across earlier. That of the psyche of Satan himself. About two years ago, I watched the wonderful DVD "The Power of the Myth" by Joseph Campbell, the brilliant mythologist, and he explained the behaviour of Satan in a wonderful way. I am not sure of the sources, but according to one as cited by him, Satan is not exactly the "embodiment of evil", who seeks to destroy everything that is good in the world, a la Morgoth of the Tolkien's Middle Earth. Satan, like Morgoth was the greatest of the angels of God, but when God created Man and declared that Man shall be the most beloved of all of His creations, the character of Satan takes a very curious twist. In his childishly jealous love towards his Lord, he felt that Man has to be ensnared into evil so that Man falls from the grace of God and he could have God's love again, and so Satan is Man's enemy, not the arch-enemy of God directly. A beautiful, though dangerous, thought.
Now, there are two ways to look at it--
1) Christ loved Judas and others were jealous of Judas, and relegated him to a lower status. Similarly, God loved Man and Satan was jealous of Man, and made sure that Man did not stay for long in the Garden of Eden. So here, Satan is symbolised by the other disciples and the Adam/Eve by Judas.
2) There is one more way to look at it ... Judas might actually be an avatar of Satan, in a different way--vilified by the world which has absolutely no idea about the grand design of the God for the universe, Satan might just be doing his duty. And what is this duty? Just as Judas sought to end something good, Satan tried to currupt the hearts of people. The result of ending something good is what is called as 'The Change'. The 'Good', is always associated with a fantastic idea of utopia, where things dont change, stuck in an all pervading constancy. Change on the other hand is the fundamental nature of the dynamic universe and that which brought forth life from non-life. No wonder that constancy doesnt exist in the universe. While the Garden of Eden might be a superlative idea of perfection, denying change is denying that very thing that created the universe, for creation itself is a change. Many things that God thought for the Earth, had to come about in some way, and Satan may be the instrument that causes change that God wanted. As Merovingian puts it, everything in the universe happens due to causality. The interplay of Satan and God, could be viewed as cause and effect. What is reassuring, and probably makes us feel safe in this theory, is that though the cause is the mysterious Satan, the effect is always the benevolent God.
The gospel of Judas has been found of late. It may be that a gospel of Satan will also be found sometime in future, and it may be then that mankind will truly understand the wisdom of Satan. This is exactly why I love the ending of the movie "Bedazzled" where God and Devil are playing chess. I guess Satan has the white pieces.
In this gospel, Judas is the closest disciple of all the other disciples to the Christ. He even chides others for not knowing the designs of the Messiah. And the other disciples are jealous of Judas. In the end, Jesus himself spells out to Judas on what is to be done to save the world and warns him that this will actually incur the wrath of all the followers. Yet, Judas passes the test, truly comprehends the orders of his master, and delivers Him to the Romans, in spite of his damnation at the hands of the other followers. He is branded as a traitor, though he is not actually one... he is just acting at the behest of his Lord and Master whom He loves and understands. Hmm!
There is a more beautiful concept, more fundamental to the christian myth, not history that I had come across earlier. That of the psyche of Satan himself. About two years ago, I watched the wonderful DVD "The Power of the Myth" by Joseph Campbell, the brilliant mythologist, and he explained the behaviour of Satan in a wonderful way. I am not sure of the sources, but according to one as cited by him, Satan is not exactly the "embodiment of evil", who seeks to destroy everything that is good in the world, a la Morgoth of the Tolkien's Middle Earth. Satan, like Morgoth was the greatest of the angels of God, but when God created Man and declared that Man shall be the most beloved of all of His creations, the character of Satan takes a very curious twist. In his childishly jealous love towards his Lord, he felt that Man has to be ensnared into evil so that Man falls from the grace of God and he could have God's love again, and so Satan is Man's enemy, not the arch-enemy of God directly. A beautiful, though dangerous, thought.
Now, there are two ways to look at it--
1) Christ loved Judas and others were jealous of Judas, and relegated him to a lower status. Similarly, God loved Man and Satan was jealous of Man, and made sure that Man did not stay for long in the Garden of Eden. So here, Satan is symbolised by the other disciples and the Adam/Eve by Judas.
2) There is one more way to look at it ... Judas might actually be an avatar of Satan, in a different way--vilified by the world which has absolutely no idea about the grand design of the God for the universe, Satan might just be doing his duty. And what is this duty? Just as Judas sought to end something good, Satan tried to currupt the hearts of people. The result of ending something good is what is called as 'The Change'. The 'Good', is always associated with a fantastic idea of utopia, where things dont change, stuck in an all pervading constancy. Change on the other hand is the fundamental nature of the dynamic universe and that which brought forth life from non-life. No wonder that constancy doesnt exist in the universe. While the Garden of Eden might be a superlative idea of perfection, denying change is denying that very thing that created the universe, for creation itself is a change. Many things that God thought for the Earth, had to come about in some way, and Satan may be the instrument that causes change that God wanted. As Merovingian puts it, everything in the universe happens due to causality. The interplay of Satan and God, could be viewed as cause and effect. What is reassuring, and probably makes us feel safe in this theory, is that though the cause is the mysterious Satan, the effect is always the benevolent God.
The gospel of Judas has been found of late. It may be that a gospel of Satan will also be found sometime in future, and it may be then that mankind will truly understand the wisdom of Satan. This is exactly why I love the ending of the movie "Bedazzled" where God and Devil are playing chess. I guess Satan has the white pieces.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Ramblings of a sentimental fool
The sight of the tops of fluffy milky white clouds brilliantly illuminated by the soft light of white full moon in the midnight sky easily superseded that wonderful view of Fujiyama (Mt. Fuji) more than three years ago. Flight, an experience always associated with freedom, progress, happiness, and wonder, an expression of beauty and faith interwoven destined to find perfection, a triumph of nature's own ability to prove that She Is the divinity...
Flight.
Ironically, to most Homo sapiens now-a-days, flight has come to symbolise exactly the opposite experience-- flight is something that is best when it ends at the earliest-- It is dangerous, confined, and troublesome. I wondered how many of those who travelled with me knew the importance and the rarity of the sight outside. Yet, if they knew it, what else can they do than savouring it with utmost delight? Can they take it along with them, save etch it in their memories? And I, who claim to know all of this already, have done what to keep this treasure from going away? And can I actually do anything in this matter?
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It was Vata-SAvithri Purnima-- the day when SAvithri defied the God of Death to bring back her husband's life. Yet, there was the heavy feeling that what I lost cannot be brought back. I wanted to be melancholic, in reverence and memory of that guiding thought that was with me all the while when I was in alien land. A vision kept coming back to me in that flight. That evening, as I came out of the bathroom and stepped into the newly constructed (and posh) extended portion of my home, I turned back and saw little footprints coming out of the bathroom... Ah! those must be from the time when I just came out of the bathroom to declare that I belong to the clan of MitrAyu for the very first time. A little way ahead, the prints got bigger. I smiled... that must be from the time when I packed my school bag with books and clothes and said a tearful goodbye to my brother, determined and proud, to leave home forever because of a minor altercation with my parents-- all for my parents' total entertainment. And afterwards, they got still bigger. That was the time I came out from the bathroom not knowing if its was the last time I would ever come out of that room-- I was leaving the home for a long time for the first time in my life. Finally, they vanished into the marble flooring of the new portion.
I always loved that ShAhbAd flooring in my house. Still do. There were times when I wished for smoother, more modern tiles, but ultimately, this flooring was that one thing that made the home what it was, and is. Those little imperfections, those magnificent colours, and those irregular shapes of trees, aeroplanes, stones atop each stone imparted unrivalled uniqueness. Each stone I stood upon produced a different sensation. Each one had his/her voices, memories, emotions. Each one remembered and revelled in a particular moment of my life. I still remember how I used to never go in a straight line while passing through the hall, but used to mimic the movements of the knight on a chessboard. How I was, and still am, fascinated by the enchanting movements of the knight.
Even when I was abroad, the one thing that warmed the cold chambers of my heart was my home-- the walls, the floor, the scent of the old silk clothes that are taken out only during the MAhAlakshmi festival, the chants of my father, the songs of my mother, and so on. I always wanted to succeed my father one day and take up my responsibilities of offering the main puja to the Saligrams on that ShAhbAd flooring, always wanted to roam about the backyard looking after the plants and trees, always wanted to, one more time, stand under the umbrella of a plantain leaf and offer Arghya to the Sun on a rainy morn. It was that one idea that kept me alive, going about mundanities without minding. It was my Zion.
And now, under the garb of "utkarsh" (progress), all those little blossoms have been rolled over by the heavy machinery of the cold logic and obstinately objective rationalism.
The backyard is gone.
So have the plants.
The flooring is about to go this week.
Irony! At one point of time, I was not sure of myself coming back to see all these. Now, I am not sure if these will ever see me again. Nay, I am sure they wont. Hiding my tears, I asked my parents to keep one stone and sell the rest... one that I found as the quintessential representative of that whole bunch.
Where is this flight of progress taking me to? Which reality of life am I going to unearth at that height?
Flight.
Ironically, to most Homo sapiens now-a-days, flight has come to symbolise exactly the opposite experience-- flight is something that is best when it ends at the earliest-- It is dangerous, confined, and troublesome. I wondered how many of those who travelled with me knew the importance and the rarity of the sight outside. Yet, if they knew it, what else can they do than savouring it with utmost delight? Can they take it along with them, save etch it in their memories? And I, who claim to know all of this already, have done what to keep this treasure from going away? And can I actually do anything in this matter?
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It was Vata-SAvithri Purnima-- the day when SAvithri defied the God of Death to bring back her husband's life. Yet, there was the heavy feeling that what I lost cannot be brought back. I wanted to be melancholic, in reverence and memory of that guiding thought that was with me all the while when I was in alien land. A vision kept coming back to me in that flight. That evening, as I came out of the bathroom and stepped into the newly constructed (and posh) extended portion of my home, I turned back and saw little footprints coming out of the bathroom... Ah! those must be from the time when I just came out of the bathroom to declare that I belong to the clan of MitrAyu for the very first time. A little way ahead, the prints got bigger. I smiled... that must be from the time when I packed my school bag with books and clothes and said a tearful goodbye to my brother, determined and proud, to leave home forever because of a minor altercation with my parents-- all for my parents' total entertainment. And afterwards, they got still bigger. That was the time I came out from the bathroom not knowing if its was the last time I would ever come out of that room-- I was leaving the home for a long time for the first time in my life. Finally, they vanished into the marble flooring of the new portion.
I always loved that ShAhbAd flooring in my house. Still do. There were times when I wished for smoother, more modern tiles, but ultimately, this flooring was that one thing that made the home what it was, and is. Those little imperfections, those magnificent colours, and those irregular shapes of trees, aeroplanes, stones atop each stone imparted unrivalled uniqueness. Each stone I stood upon produced a different sensation. Each one had his/her voices, memories, emotions. Each one remembered and revelled in a particular moment of my life. I still remember how I used to never go in a straight line while passing through the hall, but used to mimic the movements of the knight on a chessboard. How I was, and still am, fascinated by the enchanting movements of the knight.
Even when I was abroad, the one thing that warmed the cold chambers of my heart was my home-- the walls, the floor, the scent of the old silk clothes that are taken out only during the MAhAlakshmi festival, the chants of my father, the songs of my mother, and so on. I always wanted to succeed my father one day and take up my responsibilities of offering the main puja to the Saligrams on that ShAhbAd flooring, always wanted to roam about the backyard looking after the plants and trees, always wanted to, one more time, stand under the umbrella of a plantain leaf and offer Arghya to the Sun on a rainy morn. It was that one idea that kept me alive, going about mundanities without minding. It was my Zion.
And now, under the garb of "utkarsh" (progress), all those little blossoms have been rolled over by the heavy machinery of the cold logic and obstinately objective rationalism.
The backyard is gone.
So have the plants.
The flooring is about to go this week.
Irony! At one point of time, I was not sure of myself coming back to see all these. Now, I am not sure if these will ever see me again. Nay, I am sure they wont. Hiding my tears, I asked my parents to keep one stone and sell the rest... one that I found as the quintessential representative of that whole bunch.
Where is this flight of progress taking me to? Which reality of life am I going to unearth at that height?
Friday, June 09, 2006
DIVINITY IN INNOCENCE
Today, without thinking, Ashvin started running. Just about two hours ago, he was asleep with a serene countenance, clutching his grandmother. When she had got up early in the morning, slowly had he turned to the other side, resting his leg on the bump on the edge of the bed. A pillow was kept under the bedding to prevent him from falling off the bed while asleep.
Today, he realised how much he loved his people. He always knew his father as the wittiest and the calmest person on the earth, but his mother was always wonderfully special to him. Every single spare moment of his mornings was spent relishing the divinity in his mother. Yet, he never thought about it—he was just preoccupied looking at her in the mornings. Sometimes, when she sits down for puja in the morning, he instinctively goes to her and starts to braid her long thick hair. He loves her hair—by the time she is done with her puja, he is done braiding her hair with his tender hands. And ever single time she dresses up in his favorite violet, starched cotton sari and puts a small string of kanakambaram[1] flowers laced with maruvam[2] twigs amidst her braided hair, the vision has something new to offer.
Today, he didn’t care that he was still in his shorts, that his vest was torn, or that he forgot his footwear. He kept running. He still remembered how his mother kissed him goodbye before she left for her work. Yet, something was not right. Something that was supposed to be done was not done.
Today, he ran faster than ever before to catch up with his mother before she goes out of reach. He did not know if what he was doing was necessary at all, yet, he would not abandon his mission. When Varun, his younger brother got up, he could not find his mother home. A heavy gloom of separation descended over him —mother had left him without wishing him goodbye. He was still asleep when she left. She had a long way to go. Yet, Varun does not know all these intricacies of life. Tears welled up in his eyes. For his age, he was a charming character. He behaved with such maturity and patience that the elders were often baffled. He always checked if everyone had the pudding before asking for a second serving, never complained about his debilitating asthma problem, and still was ever cheerful. Yet, his fiery anger and disarming grief were difficult to assuage once aroused.
Today, though, it was not his brother’s anger that concerned Ashvin. It was melancholy that moved him. He could never stare at a tear in an eye without offering an answering tear of his own. But he simply could not stand tears in his brother’s eyes. Once, Varun had come home from school crying. He learnt that his teacher had hit him in school. An instant spasm of pain surged throughout his body, and made it quiver for a moment. He clenched his fists in helplessness.
Today, the moment he learnt what happened, Ashvin knew what to do. He darted out of his home, and on to the road. He always fancied himself one of the fastest runners among his peers. Stones and thorns pricked his soles, yet he went on. He saw his mother walking ahead. He ran faster and caught up with her. Surprised, she first checked her watch. She has a habit of forgetting her watch while leaving for work. No, the watch was on her hand. It is something else. He told her about Varun. She smiled. She put her hand under his chin, and asked him to pass on her characteristic “tata” to her younger son.
Today, as he was returning home, Ashvin had a sensation of triumph and a fragrance of satisfaction about him. As he entered the street where his home lay, he saw his brother waiting for him, sitting on the steps with his face cupped in his palms. As soon as Varun saw him, he rushed towards his elder brother.
Today, Ashvin is a kid of eight and Varun, a kid of six. Yet their mother was proud that in this world where street-smart children are looked at with awe, at least her children have the godly gift of innocence, but she wondered how long this halo would remain around them.
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1Kanakambaram—Firecracker flower (Crossandra infundibuliformis)
2Maruvam—The Sweet Majoram (Majorana hortensis)
Today, he realised how much he loved his people. He always knew his father as the wittiest and the calmest person on the earth, but his mother was always wonderfully special to him. Every single spare moment of his mornings was spent relishing the divinity in his mother. Yet, he never thought about it—he was just preoccupied looking at her in the mornings. Sometimes, when she sits down for puja in the morning, he instinctively goes to her and starts to braid her long thick hair. He loves her hair—by the time she is done with her puja, he is done braiding her hair with his tender hands. And ever single time she dresses up in his favorite violet, starched cotton sari and puts a small string of kanakambaram[1] flowers laced with maruvam[2] twigs amidst her braided hair, the vision has something new to offer.
Today, he didn’t care that he was still in his shorts, that his vest was torn, or that he forgot his footwear. He kept running. He still remembered how his mother kissed him goodbye before she left for her work. Yet, something was not right. Something that was supposed to be done was not done.
Today, he ran faster than ever before to catch up with his mother before she goes out of reach. He did not know if what he was doing was necessary at all, yet, he would not abandon his mission. When Varun, his younger brother got up, he could not find his mother home. A heavy gloom of separation descended over him —mother had left him without wishing him goodbye. He was still asleep when she left. She had a long way to go. Yet, Varun does not know all these intricacies of life. Tears welled up in his eyes. For his age, he was a charming character. He behaved with such maturity and patience that the elders were often baffled. He always checked if everyone had the pudding before asking for a second serving, never complained about his debilitating asthma problem, and still was ever cheerful. Yet, his fiery anger and disarming grief were difficult to assuage once aroused.
Today, though, it was not his brother’s anger that concerned Ashvin. It was melancholy that moved him. He could never stare at a tear in an eye without offering an answering tear of his own. But he simply could not stand tears in his brother’s eyes. Once, Varun had come home from school crying. He learnt that his teacher had hit him in school. An instant spasm of pain surged throughout his body, and made it quiver for a moment. He clenched his fists in helplessness.
Today, the moment he learnt what happened, Ashvin knew what to do. He darted out of his home, and on to the road. He always fancied himself one of the fastest runners among his peers. Stones and thorns pricked his soles, yet he went on. He saw his mother walking ahead. He ran faster and caught up with her. Surprised, she first checked her watch. She has a habit of forgetting her watch while leaving for work. No, the watch was on her hand. It is something else. He told her about Varun. She smiled. She put her hand under his chin, and asked him to pass on her characteristic “tata” to her younger son.
Today, as he was returning home, Ashvin had a sensation of triumph and a fragrance of satisfaction about him. As he entered the street where his home lay, he saw his brother waiting for him, sitting on the steps with his face cupped in his palms. As soon as Varun saw him, he rushed towards his elder brother.
Today, Ashvin is a kid of eight and Varun, a kid of six. Yet their mother was proud that in this world where street-smart children are looked at with awe, at least her children have the godly gift of innocence, but she wondered how long this halo would remain around them.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
1Kanakambaram—Firecracker flower (Crossandra infundibuliformis)
2Maruvam—The Sweet Majoram (Majorana hortensis)
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