Wisdom of the years ... so far

John Milton lamented the missing "inner ripeness" in On His Twenthy-Third Birthday. I moved away from that milestone ages ago but full blooming of creative, and even mental, faculties is nowhere in sight. I told a friend this morning that the wisdom of my years is (I am not telling my age) that I can still be fooled.

At my age
You are no longer a child
..................And being wild
At birthdays ought to be a thing of the past

It’s time to realize only a child jumps
At the sight of a gift
And teenagers are given birthday bumps
..................................These joys never last

But when you still can be fooled at my age
You must know you’re not yet a wise sage

You are still prone to deceptive art
Because a believing child still lives in the heart

Sunday Worship

I went to attend Sunday worship service at the Chandigarh Bible Fellowship this morning. I have been an erratic attendee at this fellowship. An SMS from a friend in the fellowship inviting me and my wife to join them for this service made my dithering self decide what I wanted to do with this Sunday morning.

It does help to seek God's face in a company.

The opening passage that was read from the scripture did exactly what scripture is supposed to do to a parched, cracked, yearning human heart.

16I heard and my inward parts trembled,
At the sound my lips quivered
Decay enters my bones,
And in my place I tremble
Because I must wait quietly for the day of distress,
For the people to arise who will invade us.

17Though the fig tree should not blossom
And there be no fruit on the vines,
Though the yield of the olive should fail
And the fields produce no food,
Though the flock should be cut off from the fold
And there be no cattle in the stalls,

18Yet I will exult in the LORD,
I will rejoice in the God of my salvation.

19The Lord GOD is my strength,
And He has made my feet like hinds' feet,
And makes me walk on my high places.

These are concluding lines from the book of Prophet Habakkuk. They grabbed my attention as I saw myself in that image of fig tree failing to blossom. The thoughts of failure and unproductiveness had plagued me since the weekend began. The Word restores me somewhat.

It does help to hear the Word in a company.

Indian Wrestlers

There was this very interesting compilation of facts about Indian wrestlers in yesterday's Hindustan Times. I just loved it.
And many congratulations to Sushil Kumar for winning a medal for India in Olympics. But it was very sad to hear that he did not have masseur and then there was a story in Express about dismal conditions these Oympians have to live and practice.

Jason Lezak: The Hope and Glory of Michael Phelps

Will he? Won't he? The million-dollar question about Michael Phelps winning seven gold medals in these Olympics would have been answered in negative rightaway but for the 32-year-old Jason Lezak, who almost single-handedly quelled the French challenge in 4 x 100 metre freestyle relay. BBC website had the headline Phelps wins second gold in relay. It was the team event that could have spoiled the party for the young American, but as it turned out, it was the adrenalin pumping through his oldest teammate that saved the day for him. In this picture above, BBC did capture the rapture of someone who is sure to become legend in the sporting annals of the world. But I would have appreciated a picture of the old—old by the standards of average age of swimmers—warhorse Lezak too. He deserves to be seen as much as Phelps. I had to look for three other websites before I found this group picture, in which Lezak is second from the left. The members are, from the left, Cullen Jones, Lezak, Phelps and Garrett Weber-Gale (AP Photo/Thomas Kienzle). Phelps, of course, is the star and one that will hog the limelight in days to come, but for me this race and this day belongs to Lezak. This not-so-young swimmer has certainly proved right what his woman compatriot, Dara Torres, 41, said a couple of days earlier, "...the water doesn't know what age you are." What a phenomenal woman she is! Her team has won the silver.
Meanwhile, Lezak did manage to make headlines, even if he missed his share of photographers' flash!

1. What a race! Lezak keeps Phelps' hopes alive (Associated Press)
2. Phelps can thank wingman Lezak for this one (Fox Sports on MSN)
3. Brilliant Lezak keeps Phelps on Olympic target (AFP)
4. Teammate Lezak is lifesaver for Phelps (news.xinhuanet.com)
5. Jason Lezak made sure Michael Phelps still has a chance for 8 golds (International Herald Tribune)

Abstract Art: A Shot in the Arm

I loved this one! Recently, as a promise to a friend forced me to rekindle my interest in art, this little comic strip gave me some valuable insights into the philosophy of abstract art.

Change of look!

I gave a new look to my blog. It's first time in more than two years that I tried a new layout and design to arrange my variegated mental emissions. And it's not bad. The sans serif font gives it a neat, typical Internet look and blue is the colour I can live comfortably with. I have also added a cricinfo widget, though I am not sure if I want to keep that forever.

How many other people are trying something different these days? Sehwag, I heard, is practicing switch-hitting a la Pietersen. Pietersen is in the midst of change himself as he captains England for the first time in a Test match.

Hockey needs to change. Indian hockey team will not feature in this year's Olympic games in China. They have been adviced to follow Korea's example and adopt a more European style of play. By the way, China needs to change its Human Rights record for the better.

Out there is Zimbabwe Mugabe is in talks with his rival Morgan Tsvangirai. But is the old fox going to change?

Ban on SIMI is not changing.

Abortion law in India is not changing, as pronounced by Union Health Minister Ambumani Ramadoss.

What has certainly changed—without any controversy—is the look of my blog.

This Is Not A Tribute To Aleksandr Solzhenytsin

The reports of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's death were obviously the big news of the day. I had tried a few times, unsuccessfully, to read him in the past. I tried reading his One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich at least twice and suspended it even before I was halfway through. Too much for me to handle I guess. This might have been a compliment to his writing. The cold—the way it is cold—in that book left me too uncomfortable. Perhaps, living in north India made it difficult for me to imagine that kind of cold but the real power of the pages that I did manage to read was in the description of the grinding manual labour, the hopeless schemes to get close to the fire, the conspiracy to hide a piece of bread. All this demanded too much from me.
I also started reading his The Gulag Archipelago once. I left it because I thought I needed to train my brain muscles by reading the smaller one first. That never happened of course. But I did start reading it. I am reproducing some lines out of what I read from the opening chapter, "Arrest":

But the darkened mind is incapable of embracing these displacement in our universes, and both the most sophisticated and the veriest simpleton among us, drawing on all life's experience, can gasp out only: "Me? What for?"

And this is a question which, though repeated millions and millions of times before, has yet to receive an answer.

Arrest is an instantaneous, shattering thrust, expulsion, somersault from one state to another.

We have been happily borne—or perhaps have dragged our weary way—down the long and crooked streets of our lives, past all kinds of walls and fences made of rotting wood, rammed earth, brick, concrete, iron railings. We have never given a thought to what lies behind them. We have never tried to penetrate them with our vision or our understanding. But there is where the Gulag country begins, right next to us, two yards away from us. In addition, we have failed to notice an enormous number of closely fitted, well-disguised doors and gates in these fences. All those gates were prepared for us, every last one! And all of a sudden the fateful gate swings open, and four white male hands, unaccustomed to physical labor but nonetheless strong and tenacious, grab us by the leg, arm, collar, cap, ear and drag us in like a sack, and the gate behind us, the gate to our past life, is slammed shut once and for all.

That's all there is to it! You are arrested!

And you'll find nothing better to respond with than a lamblike bleat: "Me? What for?"

The grim passages recounting utter helplessness and dislocation demanded discipline, and resolve, I was incapable of rallying. I left this one and pursued—and not perused—One Day.

I once browsed through his Cancer Ward in the Russian section of the A. C. Joshi librabry in Panjab University. I had read a reference in some other book of the moral dilemma one of the characters faces. I picked up the mangled copy—mangled not because it was a popular book; just neglect and insensitivity—and read through some paragraphs. The patients there had some very sharp discussions going on. But then there's so much you can read between stacks, even if the sick are making some telling comments about damaged bodies and souls.

I have pulled out the two novels I had bought long time back from a second-hand bookdealer. The sombreness that accompanies his death might have an effect on my efforts next time I get down to read him.

The paranoia-makers, the Maoists of Nepal

The king has abdicated the throne in Nepal. That's good. Maoists have become a major force in the mainstream political scenario. That's not good. That's bad. Very bad. Recently, in a magazine, they have come up with this accusation against the Dalai Lama that he is brainwashing the Nepalese children of Tibetan origin in the schools run by Tibetans. The Maoist publication go on to say that he is raising an army of Tibetan-Nepalese against China. And this he is doing on America's insistence. Maoists are going to be as bad, if not worse, for Nepal as the erstwhile king. The superstition of king-as-god will be replaced by Mao-as-god. Is Nepal moving from one dark age to another?

I like sports!

Roger Federer lost in the third round of the Cincinnati Masters. Croatia's big-serving Ivo Karlovic sent down 22 aces to overpower world No. 1 7-6, 4-6, 7-6. Federer, however, still keeps his cool and calls it a good year so far, and thinks that winning gold in Beijing and US Open will make it a great year. Is he the only one, who is not getting it? Anyway, one must give it to him for his composure and optimism. Perhaps, he will deliver what his fans so desperately want him to. As for the ongoing tournament, can anyone now stop Rafael Nadal from going into the Olympics and the US Open as the top-ranked tennis player in the world? Novak Djokovic meets him in the quarters. Let's see how he holds up against the marauding Spaniard.

Meanwhile, in Galle Test, the great Sehwag-Mendis show is on. Ajantha Mendis has 4 wickets till now out of 6 that went down. Virender Sehwag has scored 181 out of India's total of 302, that's about 60 per cent of India's total score. He has hit Mendis out of the ground four times, who otherwise has terrified everyone else. Murali doesn't have a single scalp to show. Will the tail hold on to allow Sehwag to go for a double century? Will Sehwag hold on? RECENT! Murali got Kumble stumped. Mendis got his five-for. Sehwag is eight short of a two hundered. Jayawardene needs two wickets.

Freddie Flintoff comes out with an inspiring performance after England caved in for 231 in the Edgbaston Test. South Africa are 256 for 6, not too far ahead of England. That's the kind of Test match I love to see. Freddie has 4 for 68 so far. If he gets another wicket and a 50 plus score in England's second innings, he will be back in the spot that he so richly deserves, the best all-rounder in the world.

On Judas and the like

Somebody has decided, based on the set of answers I gave in an online quiz, that I have character affiliations with Judas, the disciple who betrayed Jesus. I took this quiz on Facebook that purportedly reveals which biblical character you most closely resemble. The conclusion: apart from being left-brained I am also depraved. It told me I am like Judas, and the caption runs: traitor to Jesus. I never gave it a second thought; until I saw a note on my Facebook home page that such-and-such friend of mine is like Solomon. Wow, so in my case too the breaking news must have been flashed on the home page of all my contacts. Well, this might have caused many to gloat, "we always knew, it was coming to that" but some others must be just scandalized. Some kind friends may have avoided talking to me about it to allow me to save face. I went to my profile page and this is the picture I find there . Not very pretty, huh? Even if you consider it a joke. Anyway, this character analysis was based on a set of about six questions, one of them being, what kind of music do you like? Now does, say, being a rock and roll fan make me Judas? Did rock and roll music make Judas Judas? I am reminded of a Cliff Richards song. (The excerpts from the lyrics are given at the end.) The questionnaire never questioned my use of money or concern for the poor. Neither does it judge how easy it is for me to fall for few pieces of silver. It asked me my hobbies instead! I wonder how easy it is for people to be judgemental. How easy it is to apply formulas to complex human personalities. And how easy it is for people to fall for these.

Moving away from this inane quiz designed by some fanatic daft let me turn to Judas Iscariot. For every serious and thoughtful student of Bible Judas is a mystery. Recently, in the light of ongoing revisionist project in biblical scholarship (or what passed as scholarship), some experts offered a completely new picture of Judas. The story was run on National Geographic and the viewership was second to the 9/11 coverage. It was about Judas, the dedicated disciple, the most loyal disciple. The disciple who had too carry out the most arduous task. And this Judas was Jesus' closest companion. The story, however, was almost discredited. Read this article for more details.

The possibility of a different Judas has always fascinated human mind. Nikos Kazantzakis's The Last Temptation of Christ (1951) has a very interesting viewpoint regarding Judas. Here Judas resembles the Judas of Gospel of Judas, though it is not based on it. In the film version Judas is a nationalist, a zealot who wants to free his country from the clutches of the imperial Rome. He is the one who is sensitive to some special vocation of the carpenter Jesus. He expects Jesus to carry out his messianic duty and deliver Israel. He is upright, and violent, and also caring towards. He persuades Jesus to start a revolution and also warns him that he will kill him if he betrays the revolution. Harvey Keitel has portrayed a wonderful Judas in the film version. In the picture above he is on the right.


The classic question is what could Judas do? It was prophesied that Christ would be betrayed by one of his own. After this clear divine fiat how could a mere mortal challenge it? And by challenging wouldn't he be obstructing the way of salvation for mankind? Let me not step on the territory of theologians and carry on with my impressions of Judas.


Judas and Judas-like characters are fascinating. Japanese writer Shusaku Endo relentlessly pursues the question of silence of God in his modern classic Silence (1967). The story is as much about the search of Sebastian Rodrigues for his former teacher who has now apostatized as it is about the many failings of Japanese convert Kichijiro. Kichijiro is modeled on Judas. Like Judas he rats on the priest for 300 silver coins. In the novel he has lost his family because they refused to apostatize; he alone agrees to do that by stepping on the image of Christ, the fumie. But he keeps coming back to the priest even in his confinement and keeps asking for forgiveness. And then keeps on betraying. The dilemma of Kichijiro is why should God make weak people and then expect heroic things from them. But even as an apostate he remains most constant companion to the priest, who later abandons the faith himself. Endo's writes to examine whether the betraryers and the traitors, the apostates and the "backsliders" are able to capture and experience some attribute of God that never becomes real for those "holier-than-thous" who never had to make difficult choices in their lives. Sebastian Rodrigues had to give up that triumphant, and hence lopsided, version of Christianity. Godliness is not an imperial creed. Devotion is not a all about singing victory songs. Believing in God is not about knocking the opposition off but sometimes laying down the most prized-possession you have, even your creeds.

Now here is that Cliff Richards song I mentioned above. Great lyrics and some neat ideas to think about.

I want the people to know

That He saved my soul

But I still like to listen to the radio

They say that rock and roll is wrong, we'll give you more chance

I say I feel so good I gotta get up and dance

I feel good every day

'Cause Jesus is the Rock and He rolled my blues away

Well now they say to cut my hair

They're driving me insane

I grew it out long to make room for my brain

But sometimes people don't understand

What's a good boy doing in a rock and roll band

And I feel good every day I refuse to lose it

All I wanna I know from all of you is

Why should the devil have all the good music

The Sport of Marriage

My wife thinks I am relishing Federer's fresh failure at Roland Garros. When Rahul Dravid's Bangalore .. umm ... what was it called? Royal Challangers were being clubbed one match after the other during IPL, her thoughts were much the same. According to her womanly instincts I harbour deep jealousy for every male sportsperson she likes. It is wrong in Dravid's case and doubly so in Federer's. I was never a fan of Dravid. Neither did I dislike him. That's how I feel pretty much about everyone in the Indian Cricket team. That's something that often exasperates my father, besides his daughter-in-law. However, after Boris Becker the only tennis player I have followed is Roger Federer. Anyway, she is right in being suspicious of my apparent lack of sympathy and even some form of outrage at Rogers' rout. She might think that I am deprived of elemental humanity . I might as well be from another planet. From Mars? I want to explain the phenomenon to myself! I would like to suggest to myself that I have attained some enlightened state of cosmic detachment. It doesn't bother me much when my heros bite dust. I guess, I am finally shedding last of the remaining scales of youthful passions.
While Bjorn Borg thinks Nadal is going to win at the All Englad Club this year, Greg Rusedski, in a bright analysis, echoes the same note. By the way, Djokovic is beginning to figure in these kind of analyses, which clearly points towards more problems for Federer and, of course for Nadal. More for Federer, whom he defeated in Australian Open Semis, than for Nadal, I guess. Nadal is one of the strongest players on the circuit and is constantly improving. There is this nagging feeling that I must adjust my expectations, rethink my hopes and arrest my ardour. Sampras, on the other hand, sees no change of crown at the Wimbeldon. How I wish Sampras is right! So am I waiting for Federer to bounce back? I am. I sure am. And after that annhilation in the final (Federer lost the last set in a jiffy, 6-0) I am waiting for a resurrection, for the underdog to do well. (After Dravid's team had lost 9 matches against 2, I sincerely wanted him to win last couple of ties). I hope Sampras is right. And I hope Federer gives me a chance to prove to my wife that she hasn't married an alien in the literal sense of the word.

French Open 2008 Men's Final

Nadal and Federer are into the second set of the French Open final. Nadal is leading 2 games to 1. He absolutely destroyed Federer in the first set; Fedex lost 6-1. That's not the kind of match I had expected. And right now with a drop shot Federer levelled it at 2-2. Everyone cheered for him for just holding his serve! Federer lost his first service game in this set. He managed to break Nadal's later. I wonder if this is going to be Roger Federer's most humiliating finals defeat ever!
This is an interesting coverage. Apart from the two gentlemen sweating it out in the middle--it was cloudy to begin with, sun has just come out--there are two women whose nervous selves are frequently showcased by the camera. Mirka is one. Who is the other one? Nadal's best-kept secret? Nadal goes ahead 3-2. Federer serving. He's got to 30-0 easily. Is this a sign of a revival? Rafa returned a powerful forehand. No chance for Roger to even move. 30-15. Roger's girl Mirka looking at the floor. Caressing her brows. Her prayers are answered. Scores level 3-3.
Federer is hitting the ball into the net too often. He is having to work hard. There's another long one. Nadal leading 30-15. It goes to 40-40. Federer had the advantage. He hits it in the net. Again. It's 40-40. Now avantage Nadal. 4-3, Nadal holds. Federer gives it to the net. 15-15. Federer tries different thing. Comes closer to net. Nadal hits another powerful forehand. 30-40. Avantage Nadal. Federer must be nervous. He runs close to the net. Rafa hits it long. Federer finds the net AGAIN. Avantage Nadal. Everyone is clapping, cheering Fedex up. Merci. Federer makes it 40-40. Commentator says "Well done, again" Everyone is so desperate for him. He is desperate himself. Finds the net again and screams. Wipes some sweat off. Nadal moves quickly and doesn't let go of the advantage. Deep volley and Rafa breaks the serve. Nadal serving for the set. 5-3. A very long rally at 15-0. Nadal gets more and more precise with each shot. 30-0 for Nadal. Another long rally before Federer tries something cute. Plays it with soft hands and deposits the ball in the net. 40-15. Rafa gets first two sets. 6-1, 6-3.
I gotta go! Have an errand. Will miss the moment when Nadal equals Borg's record!

Rememberance of Things Past: In Short

I wonder if I don't have anything to say anymore. It's been more than five months since I last posted anything. Indolence, indifference, apathy? Or have I lost confidence in my readers. Ok, the last one was plain vanity but there has to be a reason for not writing. They call it writer's block, but to claim that would be a sacrilege. I am no writer nor was meant to be. Anyway! Let's reminisce. Just snapshot of months gone by.
January--Goa, dogs in the pictures, dog basking in the sun.
February--a friend announces decision to emigrate.
March--Reunion of family in bits and pieces, Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Holi, huge tax deduction.
April--Banaras, Sarnath, The Art of Getting Left behind, Krishan Chander "Luck is a residue of design", Tagore, Kailash Kher's Ya Rabba.
May--New Jersey, New York, off centre, old friend, G. K. Chesterton, Raymond Carver, Akreit, Scent of a Woman, French Open, Yahoo Answers, House hunting,

The Tale of a Dark Priest

I bought this novel about two years back but only now got the time to read it. It was short novel, 130 pages, so I was able to finish it quickly. It also helps me overcome the guilt that I keep hoarding the books, without actually reading them. Kala Padri a Hindi novel by Tejinder (the novelist just uses his first name) is set in the tribal areas of Chattisgarh and follows the growth of James Xaxa, a young man of Uraon tribe, who is studying to become a Roman Catholic priest. James is a 'talented' and intelligent young man who is expected to make it big, go to Rome, meet the Pope in person and spent three years studying theology. But he is also acutely sensitive to the socio-political upheavels that are happening all around him and which prompt him frequently towards poltical activism. There is also Soselene Minz, a young woman friend who gradually becomes more than a soundboard for his ideas and thoughts. The novel goes into the intricate details of the lives of tribal Christians and brings out rich and complex narrative of India's social, economic, political fermenting. The narrator of the novel is a young man called Aditya, a bank official who has recently been posted in Ambikapur. The working of the bank, especially the corruption disenchants him and he often spends time with his somewhat idealistic friend James Xaxa and Soselene Minz. And it's with them and through them that he's able to clear the cobwebs of prejudice and ignorance, and allows the novelist an incisive narrative.

(काला पादरी, तेजिंदर, नेशनल पेपरबैक्स, नई दिल्ली. 2005)

Back to reading ways

After a long hiatus I have resumed my reading. These are a few books that I recently finished. The first one is biography of a Marathi poet-reformer written by J. C. Winslow and the next three are novels by Japanese writer Shusaku Endo:

1. Builders of Modern India: Narayan Vaman Tilak
2. Scandal
3. Deep River
4. Silence

Apart from that I have read a couple of short stories by Laltu. The first one is "Jab Brazil Mein Suraj Sir Par Tha" (When the Sun was Overhead in Brazil) and second is"Nitai Bhikhmanga, Premika Aur Kavita Ek Maut Ki" (Begger Nitai, Lover and Poem of a Death)

Both of these stories by Laltu have a male narrator, in the first one he is a narrator proper, while in the latter he is writing a letter. The stories are a richly complex mix of a male yearning for meaning, a dream of social equity and longing for the woman increasingly drifting apart. Both the stories are a fascinating study of educated middle class urban male who has excelled in academics with tenacity, overcoming crippling effects of economic disadvantages and who has nurtured a vision of social transformation. A host of Indian men are cast in this mould. There are so many of them, who have gained higher education, dream of change, so many of them have found that it is not easy as the structures of inequality and exploitation have percolated very consciousness of our nation. And so many of them cannot let go of the dream either. Fighting personal problems, relationship issues and professional disappointments so many still want that dream transformed into concrete reality.

Writerly Question

There are things that I want to write about. Things like the upcoming US Open final between Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic. Things like novel of Endo Shusaku that I have been reading. About Vir Sanghvi's polemic against Mother Teresa in today's newspaper. The first fills me with excitement. I am looking forward to it. The second one requires me to be solemn and meditative. The third makes me melancholic. I wish I had the patience (and more importantly, skill) to integrate these three events seamlessly in one piece of writing. Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to write about life fully.

Some Books on Shelfari Shelf

Stuck in the Schindler's Lift

I am glad I am not claustrophobic. Since the day we got the lift working in our office I have often had one thought—What if the lift gets stuck in the middle? I never actually answered, or sought to answer this rather morbid flash of fancy. Today, I seem to have gotten an answer—if the lift develops a glitch, press the alarm button and the lift operator will do something.

.....There was a power breakdown as I just boarded the lift this morning. I was alone in the lift and no sooner did it reach the first floor than the lights flickered, the fan ceased to hurl the tepid air and the lift stopped. I caught myself smiling gleefully in the full-length mirror. No, I am not claustrophobic, it is confirmed. My phone was fully charged and so I could spend a day talking to the reporters from the news channels if need be. I called Jagdeep, my office mate and told him how I was stuck. We both were amused and we hung up. He didn't think necessary to come down and it didn't make sense to me to call him. It was physically impossible for him to come anyway; the lift was stuck and all of us hate stairs (Jagdeep and I especially, even though our waist sizes are beginning to become unavailable in the market). In the meantime the door of the lift slid open but instead of the passageway there was a wall in front of me. I was on the first floor and the lift is not meant to stop there so that logical opening is walled up. I didn't feel like Anarkali and I didn't bother wondering who decided this and why. I was only too happy relishing the prolonged moment of my fortitude. Then I heard some commotion overhead. Our security incharge and the lift operator were executing a plan to rescue me. With soft jerky movement the lift began to ascend. I overcame the wall and a new dawn was setting in through what seemed like a skylight in my prison cell. As I moved up, the passageway of the second floor became a skylight, then a window and then a big window.

.....In this picture on the right you can see the floor level of the second floor. I was thinking to climb up and go over but didn't want to do anything unless asked to. No movement without instructions. Our security guard, Shiv Shankar ji, came to check and then shouted to pull more and then ran up to, I think, do the pulling himself. The hiccupy motion of the lift continued. And the big window began to grow into a proper door, a welcoming gate to glory which awaits people who have endured much in life. I was thinking that my whole office would have come down to give me a hero's welcome but as you can see in that picture there was no one, oh! heartless world. Anyway, Shiv Shankar ji, came back. By the time the lift had moved few inches up. I was still not stepping out. Not before somebody had noticed my travails. Only Shiv Shankar ji was there, the man with Bholenath's dual eponym. He couId at that moment burn me to ashes by his supernatural third eye—Sir why don't you come out. More than request it was an order, actually admonishment. He perhaps wanted to say—You fool what the heck are you still doing there? Who are you waiting for? For me to play on my damru so that you to start your monkey business (This should not be taken as a reference to the company I am working for, or to the work I do there). His veiled annoyance was justified because I could just step out of the lift now as easily as mounting on a single step. In the second you can see the difference in floor level of my lift and the second floor. And that foot that you see is of Bholenath's. Only one foot is visible because he is now the Natraj, getting into his most iconic posture. Come up sir—his voice thundered. And I meekly climbed up to his level. The level which is more awesome than the Olympic pedestal. And I trudged, unmindful of the fact that this little misadventure has had been a double blessing to me. One I have found the answer to what happenes when a lift gets stuck and secondly, nobody seemed to notice that I have come half-an hour late to the office.

Theme: Delay

Continuing with the same theme, of delay, I am reminded of few lines that I wrote many-many years back, in 1999 to be precise.

--एक--

एक अलसाई कोंपल देर से फूटी
एक पत्ता देर से हरा हुआ
साथ वाले
.........और
साथ की टहनी वाले
झूमते हवा के साथ
गाते थे चिड़ियों के साथ
वो दोस्त थे सारे

नया पत्ता
कुछ देर से पैदा हुआ

न हवा का रुख़ समझता था
न गीत चिड़ियों का पहचानता था
उसका कोई दोस्त न था
उसने बहुत देर कर दी पैदा होने में
या शायद
...............बहुत जल्दी

--दो--

वो उगा
उस टहनी पर
उसी पर उसे उगना था
वो पैदा हुआ
क्योंकि उसे ही पैदा होना था
हरे रंग पर हक़
............उसका भी था
हवा का रुख़ उसकी मजबूरी न बना
चिड़ियों का गीत
........उसके गुनगुनाने को दबा न सका

वो टहनी
वो पेड़ वो साथ वाले पत्ते
उसके थे
क्योंकि ये उसी के होने थे

Distraction: A Double Edged Sword

Looking at my last couple of posts I have become painfully aware of how much catching up I need to do. I haven't gone back to the books I bought as far as four years back. The "latest" music I bought hit the charts three years ago. Gadgets people are about to discard have come to my notice only in the most recent past. LATE. LATE. LATE. I am late while catching trains. My colleagues panicked last time when I was travelling with them. (Aside: Mention of colleagues brings to mind that I am often late for the office. Hope my boss doesn't read this).

Time oppresses me. Clocks, watches and calenders are my worst tormentors. Every year my birthday gives me jitters. I am reminded of John Milton's ode he wrote on his twenty-third birthday. I don't think I will be able to write anything like that even on the twenty-third anniversary of my resurrection. Those who know me know how John Keats rattles me. He died at the age of twenty six, having written some of the best verse ever composed. Nietzsche published his first book at the age of twenty-eight.

Last night I watched the movie Lola (1981) by the German director Rainer Werner Fassbinder . The man died next year, at the age of 37. By that time he had made about 43 full-length feature films. That's more films than he was old. The movie, by the way, was hugely engrossing. From the first frame where Marie-Louise aka Lola (Barbara Sukowa) is combing her hair till the last shot there was no let up. The dialogues, the visuals, and of course the performances were all class. One scene that stays with me is von Bohm (Armin Mueller-Stahl) passionately playing on his violin.

But of course, I am getting distracted here. I am not supposed to be discussing the movie but my struggle with the relentless march of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades. That's a whole legion against a solitary me. And this solitary me cannot afford to be distracted in the face of this formidable opponent, guided by veiled or perhaps a faceless commander. Distraction is snake in the grass. Wish I were more disciplined, even like Fassbinder. On the other hand, it's possible that distraction is my most potent weapon against a single-minded obsession. On my MSN blog, Mindscape, I changed my introduction. Till now I had this written there: Looking at my life I am increasingly becoming convinced that God sends some people to be drifters. Floaters. My nickname there was DrifterAshish (I have changed that now).

Even this blogwriting is a kind of distraction. I had decided to utilize the off today to write the book review I have been planning for quite sometime. However, this distraction is endearing. I'd rather make a provision for diversions and digressions in the life-and-death battle of purposefulness.