Some questions about Possibilities...

Have you ever wondered what it is to be fully self-expressed? Do you know what the feeling is like? Do you know what kind of satisfaction it can give you? Do you realize the kind of results you can achieve? Can you understand the offshoots possible? Can you understand possibility itself? Do you see what's possible for yourself? Do you see what's possible for the people in your life? Can you understand what's stopping this possibility from becoming reality? Have you wondered why you cannot do things? Have you ever wondered why things don't happen? Have you considered what could be done if you did everything that you knew had to be done? Have you considered what effect you have on your community? Can you consider the impact you've had, versus the impact you can have if you understood the impact you can have?

In this world you are your community. Your community becomes you and you become your community. Stand for possibility.... for yourself and your community. Possibility is endless....

We the people...

I made this collage with some pictures I collected from all over. I tried to represent people from different walks of like in India. I will post the credits for the pics as soon as I find out who took them :)

Blank Noise is a wake-up call

I guess I have been way too far away from bloggerland these days, because I am only just getting to read about the blanknoise project. And you know what... it fills me with great disgust at myself, for I have been so oblivious to all this, in spite of having seen it all happening first-hand. I read so many accounts of hapless women, nay little girls, who could not even understand what it's all about, let alone fend for themselves. And this is how they are introduced to the concept of being a woman. The very fact that all these brave individuals are able to lead normal, highly successful lives, stand up for themselves and speak out, and want to do something about it, is a testament to the strength of mind that women possess.

I had been fiddled around with once, by a homosexual sitting next to me in a movie theatre for the duration of the movie. I was a young boy then, and ever since and till very recently, I had not been able to consider gay people with the same respect as straight ones. I can't imagine how hard it must be for women to even live with men in India, after having gone through some of the most demeaning ordeals.

How can this be happening at such a large scale and be so wholly ignored by our lot, at a social and administrative ( hah, forget political ) level? Are we all silently consenting to it? No? Well, the only way to oppose it, is to actively pursue and destroy this evil. Yes, it is evil. It is as evil as it gets. Today, killing the freedom of an individual is as good as burning him/her alive. Throwing unnecessary and ugly impediments in the way of a normal life, just because there is a perception of power over another, is the mindset of uncivilized brutes, and does not behove anyone in this day and age. We owe it to our womenfolk who have borne such torture, and have had the great minds and hearts to raise, and take care of us men.

I am looking at women in a new light today, and what Wodehouse once said about women feels so, so apt -
"At the age of eleven or thereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handle difficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages to achieve somewhere in the later seventies."

Transformation

It was the darkest morning of my life. A darkness I had never experienced before, endless, merciless. It set upon me as soon as I opened my eyes. It had been so bright, and I, so happy when my eyes were closed. Now, I was squinting as I tried desperately to peer into this darkness, to find some shape to this nothingness that pervaded me. I tried to see my hands, but couldn't. I tried to imagine what I looked like, but suddenly I found that I wasn't sure anymore. It was painful, and it was sad. All these truths I seemed to know, couldn't be seen. All these memories, these wishes, these cravings, they all seemed to have disappeared into the darkness. I flailed around for the authenticities that represented this world, my world. I had to prove the world existed. Nothing. Darkness. Then, I gave up. Resigned myself to this darkness forever. I had been trying to find one, just one authenticity in my life. And yet, not one ray of light, not one...

What would become of me now? Was there any point in keeping my eyes open to this darkness? What if it hurt me? It definitely scared me. But, then, if I could not see the world, then was there no world? And if there was no world, then what is it I had been kidding myself about, all this while? And if there was a world, and I could not see it anymore, then there was no world anyway. Now I was me, and I existed. Just my consciousness, which did not need a world. And if I had my consciousness, then I had me. The world would be what I wanted it to be. And I didn't even need it to be, anymore.

Now I see the light. It is the light that I have just made. The light I will declare, and the light that I will spread. The light is my word, and my word is the light. I now exist, because of my word. That is the one authenticity to me now. The word... My word...

The color of truth is not white, the color of truth is Black....

Some photographs

These are some photographs I took on a couple of random trips. A hiking trip to Mt.Rainier Natl park, a drive along route 1 to Santa Barbara, and to places in Seattle.

The first one is a stream somewhere up in the foothills of Rainier.



Some trees, as we hiked up into the clouds.


Some more trees and clouds up on Rainier's foothills.



A thundering stream...



The grand spectacle itself.... We were left speechless by him.



A flower growing in the sands by the roadside of Route 1. I think this is somewhere past Malibu.



Snoquolmie falls near Seattle. Pretty cool place.

Living alone - III

The worst part about living alone is having the time alone to comprehend that you are alone. It is about remembering better times past, and wondering if they will ever return.

As I sit alone in my apartment on this Sunday evening, sipping hot Chai, I am drawn back to those hot Sunday evenings in Vizag, where I would volunteer to make tea for everyody at home. I would start off boiling the milk and water seperately, then grinding out elaichi and ginger after the boiling was done. I guess I was too alarmed to let the boiling liquids out of my sight! Finally the elaborate ritual would end some twenty minutes later with a tray of four cups brought out with ceremony. I don't remember how the tea tasted, but it was never received with less gusto than a five-course meal by my mom and dad. My sister was more realistic sometimes, but often she was probably afraid that I would drink her cup too. The delightful snacks were the titbits of conversation loosely centered around the world, topics chosen with the certainty of Heisenberg's electron. This was our regular family time, since, thanks to my awful timings, full-family dinners had become a rarity. Tea-time was often stretched over a couple of hours, with the tea cups having dried up long since, and my mom complaining that making tea includes washing the dishes afterwards. I, who had invariably never known such rules, would leave, giving her a hug saying so. You see, my second cuppa was getting cold on the beach where the rest of the gang had already gathered. That one's for another day though...

Those precious moments are past. I sip my tea by myself now, having reduced the ritual to a few minutes. It's interesting to note that the quality of tea has increased considerably, while the quality of tea-time has plumetted. Yet, I make tea everyday. More than the relaxing effect of the brew, it takes me back to those evenings, when I didn't have to sit by myself in the balcony, staring at the sky and the stars, pondering about why my code didn't work that day, and whether I had paid the rent on time. Those evenings when I had lived in good ol' Vizag with my family. After five years of living by myself, I suddenly don't see the point of it all, when I am no longer home. Sending gifts home is not touching enough anymore for me. Heck, it's not even novel anymore. To me, nothing compares to just being home. and hence, on this 21st of June, 2005, I am not sending any gifts or wishes home.

Amma and daddy, on your thirtieth wedding anniversary, all I wish is that I could make tea everyday for you both again, soon....

Living alone - II

I turn out the lights and sit on the low chair in my balcony. The warm cup of steaming hot coffee is a godsent. For the first time in two weeks, I am able to take some advantage of the outrageous rent I pay. The lights in the million dollar homes on the hill to the north-east are going off one-by-one. Above one of them I see a new set of lights flashing in the sky. I look up, and as the two-seater aircraft drones into and then away from my interest, I catch a lone star with a dull shine in its own little niche in the evening sky. Unimportant, yet embellishing the scene in some way. In a while, it will be right above me, in the center of things. Then it will pass into the dawn.... Life reflects the cosmos.

All around the lawn below, an army of crickets whistles away like drunken drill sergeants. The sprinklers come on, to add to the calming din of the night. Ever so slightly, the fog is setting in, and this still-life will be smudged off the canvas in a bit. To my left, a bat flits in and out of the walkway light, having a hearty meal of gnats. My eyes change focus from the bat to that girl in the balcony across. She sits all drawn up and cocooned in her hippy quilt. Her glasses fog up and clear as she breathes into her own cup. They fog up and clear and fog up again. This time she smiles when they clear.... I smile back and raise a toast. She does the same. Done with the coffee, I get up for one last look at the sky. The lone star is still a ways from the center. A little below it, another twinkles brightly and falls in slow motion -a dying star to die for...I go back in, and another weekend draws to a close.

Living alone lets one stand aside on the platform, sipping coffee and hop back on when the train moves again.

My favorite poetry

Going by the current DSS flavor, since I didn't have any poetry of my own to share, I want to share some of the poems that have brought me utmost joy and have grown within me through the years, with you all.

I started reading and enjoying poetry as a kid, and probably that's why my favorite pieces of poetry will always be that...childlike uncomplicated appreciation of the world and its ways.

As to what I think of poetry itself...

Poetry is simple, Poetry is a prayer,
Look at life anew, forget all your care,
It might be egotism, or maybe just a vent,
But for a moment, or eternity, it's a fresh scent.

Anyways, the first of these is "The Brook" by Alfred Tennyson. My mother introduced me to this poem, and I could never let go of the words " For men may come, and men may go, but I go on forever...". I remember how in an English class, the teacher kept chiding me for not being able to let go of a peculiar rhythm I would use when asked to read this poem aloud to the class. Now I think how ignorant the teacher was, about teaching poetry to a group of 4th grade kids. Read it, and tell me if you didnot hear the water or you didnot feel the movement and flow...

The second poem is also by Tennyson, and is a very short one. This one is called "The Eagle", and is the reason why I love poetry. Yes, six lines can be a reason to love poetry and delight in the splendor. The simple alliteration, an eye for beauty, and the pure veneration for that majestic bird, who appears to do everything in graceful slow motion, are what drew me to this verse.

The next poem is by the inimitable William Wordsworth, and you might have read this as children, The Daffodils. I would like to mention one line here - "...that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude...". Need I say more?

My favorite poet, though is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. He was a brood, one whose poems are not as light as the previous ones. Yet, the beauty is startling. By simple quiet semi-personification, extra-ordinary similes, and deep, deep thought, he paints a picture in The Fire of Driftwood, that lingers forever and ever...

In all of the above poems, the beauty is their simple eye for the world, an appreciation for the creative works of God, and the ability to impart sound, light, color and feeling to words. The best part, in my opinion, is that one can enjoy these at varying levels of comprehension, something what most post-modernist poetry is unable to accomplish. Hope you enjoy these as much as I have...

Well, finally, there is one poem which I enjoy reading over and over again, although many of you may not. Here it is...

Not so long ago - A reprise

This started off as a comment on Silk's blog of 02/21/05 ...but was suggested to put it here.

Not so long ago, I used to wake up to the warmth of the midday sun.
Not so long ago, I brushed my teeth making faces at the bathroom mirror but not looking.
Not so long ago, I sat with my RTFM coffee mug, poring over yesterday’s newspapers on the internet.
Not so long ago, my eyes never knew day, only night, when I would go to work.
Not so long ago, I only had to hug myself, to set right everything that was wrong with my torn winter jacket.
Not so long ago, I brought colour into my dismal grey world , changing forever the way I looked at life – for better for worse, when I got my laptop.
Not so long ago, I looked forward to the senseless calls and even more senseless messages on the phone, from my friends getting drunk in different parts of the world.
Not so long ago I took off on impromptu cycle rides to nowhere – that magical place where only the road and I existed .
Not so long ago, I held my hands up when asked about the assignment due that day.
Not so long ago, I pigged on bread and pickled green mangoes in the unhygenic joint I called the kitchen.
Not so long ago, I started snoring mid-way through my finals while all choked on unheard laughter.
Not so long ago, I tore the pillow I used to hug so I’d hug myself instead.
Not so long ago I was so much in love with myself, no-one else seemed important anymore.
Not so long ago, I foolishly thought this would last forever and ever.
Not so long ago, I counted myself fortunate.

And then....I graduated...

It all seems so long ago now.

I see him!

He brushes the unkempt hair from his face,
Rough hands touch her, softer than lace
She listens rapt; as though in a trance
As he expounds on the intricacies of dance.

I see him!

His feet kicking up snow, ash shaken off his chest,
Her brow wet in perspiration, his in Ganga's mist!
He rattles the drum, her anklets tinkle,
As they dance atop earth's oldest wrinkles.

I see him!

This lord of men, in the summer of virility,
Mountains for shoulders, swaying with subtlety,
I see him wholly with the eyes of my heart,
The king of dance, as he holds court.

Living alone...

Living alone brings us to love and hate ourselves at the same time. We start the day spread-eagled on the king-sized bed with the clear morning chimes of an alarm clock, patting it hard, to go back to sleep, but wishing that there was somebody to lend a voice to that nagging feeling saying "it's time to get up, you are late!". The day is spent in the pursuance of success and perfection, and yet, we loathe the man in the next office who goes home on the dot of five to go pick his in-laws up from the airport. We want to show off about the amazing speeds we achieved on our last snow-boarding session, or the speech we wrote for the wedding toast of a friend, but we would rather not have anyone telling us about how their poker night went. We are incredibly competetive about being the guys on every girl's mind, but cannot find the will to commit to the sweet lady who longs for us. We long for space, wanting to gain more and more for ourselves alone, and then, we are seldom home, because we can't take the silence. It is interesting what the complete rule over one's life can do to an individual.

About a girl

It was the month of January, and I was in the last throes of the time of life they call the teens. We were all in this beautiful town in the lap of the mountains. It was a crisp winter evening, and I still remember the sharpness of the breeze on my skin, although I have weathered several winters after that in the American Midwest. I had seen snow for the first time in my life, that morning. Those days are hard to forget.

We were all out in the main street of the town, called, rather presumptuously, 'the Mall'. It was a long winding road, pretty narrow for the main street, and paved just about enough to last the winter. On both sides of the road, were small tenements that shared walls on both sides with others. The constant change of slope added to the effect of a beautiful and cheerful walk. The walk was even the more agreeable because of the passersby. The girls had a singular red tinge to their cheeks, just like the apples the town is famous for. I remember chiding myself for thinking like a Bollywood lyricist straight out of the sixties for that comment, but it was true! I saw a woman wearing a long fur coat that was bright red. She herself was wearing a long black dress, and bright red lipstick. If I had seen that outfit on a mannequin, I would have laughed it off as something nobody would dare buy. That evening, I remember thinking how graceful and elegant it looked on her.

We kept on walking, for all had taken a liking to the laidback lifestyle that characterized this town. One of the very few shops where a large young local crowd was hanging out was that of a baker and confectioners. There was a phone booth in it, so, we started making our phone calls home to say that all was fine, and that we hadn't run out of money, yet. The wares were incredibly delicious. The cakes could not be lighter and the icing thicker.

I had had my fill, but I still wanted to buy a huge black-forest pastry. All through the walk, it had troubled me that there should have been someone else with us. But she wasn't doing too well. The cold had got to her. And I thought she would be delighted with a huge chunk of chocolate. She had told me that girls like chocolate. I was surprised when she had said that. I walked up to her quarters, and asked one of her roomies to call her out to the hotel receptionist's, which was also a TV viewing area. When she came, I was taken aback by the beautiful dark-brownish-black color of her hair, which landed comfortably on her shoulders. She would always tie it up, so I had never noticed. I motioned awkwardly to the box I had placed on the table. It had never occurred to me that somebody might shake a box to find out what its contents were. She did, and I let out a yell, so she dropped it. I picked it up and opened it. The old man did know how topack a cake to-go.

The look on her face doesn't fade quickly from memory, but I can not find any words to describe it. She later told me how she had felt very touched. I would like to believe so. The nearest I can liken my own feelings at that moment, are to those of one that has just found wings to soar into the heavens - Icarus taking off for the sun. One who has found the means to save the world from utter damnation. That night, we talked a long while, and shared the excellent confection, although the sweetness of the moments lingers. But those were special moments. Moments that can only be explained by a tranquil smile on a beautiful face with two gorgeous eyes, looking at me…..

Scriptures and their interpretation

Disclaimer: This kinda started out as a comment on this blog, but eventually I had to relegate it to its own space ;-). I do not wish to be didactic or presumptious or stand on the "soapbox", but just have something to say. Please bear with me

Any philosophical idea is open to interpretation. The true measure of the universality of a theory lies in its ability to be interpretable from any angle. The interpretation is but a review. It is modulated with the frequencies of the carrier ;-), the translator. Unfortunately, some interpretations have ulterior motives, and are presented with good or malicious intent. (Examples of this are the contortion of Jihad in the Quran, and the Vedas-Atomic bomb angle suggested). However, in order to understand the original idea you go straight to the original text and try and fathom it yourself.

The original idea of Hinduism is that God is everywhere, within oneself and without oneself. So one simply imbibes God and loves him. In order to do so, scriptures have suggested several clearly defined procedures (refer to the Gita, where Arjuna actually asks Krishna to outline a set of guidelines for him). Many people over the ages have followed these guidelines and reportedly attained bliss. Neither the content seems ambiguous nor the procedures undefined. The question is of proving authenticity.

It is true that the scriptures ARE just points of view. So are most scientific theories. The difference is just that a form of proof has been provided to these theories by experimetation and mathematics. For example, if you were to question the truth of Einstein's theories of relativity, one would prove it to you, but not before you had undergone several years of intense tutoring in math and physics to attain the level to understand these theories. Most people decide to take the easy route and take these as axioms, while others take the harder route and actually go all the way and understand them.

Similarly, people have announced themselves as having attained God by following the words of the scriptures. Some of us accept their word for it and accept the nature of the scriptures as axiomatic. Others experiment and are either successful or unsuccessful. Yet some more simply declare themselves sceptics without any experimentation. Any which way, it is a personal choice, based on how badly you want to understand God and for what reasons.

Finally, looking at various religions as competing perspectives would be incorrect, since all religions essentially preach the same thing. I would rather think of them as co-existing methodologies - some clear and some vague to the common man.

Tsunami

I stretch my hands and hug the wind,
Absorb the aroma of nature's breath,
Around me spotted hills of white sand,
Ahead, the sea is blue and in good health.

The venue of many pleasant reveries
Seems pensive and laden with hesitance
Sending forth frothy emissaries
That touch my feet with reverence.

I am honored, my friend, but I fear
I do not deserve your veneration, for
though I am bent and wizened, full of care,
I am no rival to your winter score.

Then the sea drew back and stood
To a wild stallion it was akin.
Ever restless, yet never crude,
It marched forth, steady, serene.

My feet wet, then my body, my soul,
In my ultimate violent ablution,
I knew the ripples were not just consuls,
But were entreaties for my pardon.

The white sands surround me and the blue water is eerily calm. I can feel no wind, and yet it is there above me. All around me, it's as empty as my head is, right now. The waves touch my feet as if with respect. I am humbled, for the sea has seen countless many more winters than I. Again and again, they come. I sit there, for I wish to be close to them. The sea has been my friend. For every answer in the past many years, I have come here and put questions to these waves. Sometimes I have found answers, sometimes, the waves have been frustrated and just retreated, never to rise till I have gone home. But, they have always come back. And so have I - With or without answers.

Today, I was no different. I had questions, burning questions which needed the quenching waters of the sea to douse them. I was angry, and I was sad. The waves were very gentle, but not forthcoming. They touched my feet again, and drew me closer. Then the sea displayed its beautiful head with graceful flowing strands of surf. It took the heart of me, and I knew I could not leave. I waited to be absolved of my life and for both our souls to entwine. I realized that the sea had been asking me for pardon for what was to be my fate....

From the cold to the wet

Well, here I am in my hotel room in San Diego. Left Kansas for good last afternoon, with mixed feelings. Definitely looking forward to the new life and new job. So, here's my life beginning again on the water's edge, where it began at the outset. San Diego with its beaches, hills and greenery reminds me so much of Vizag. Looking forward...!

What scares me, though, is the whole scale of it all. I am being awarded a hotel stay in a $400 a night place for 5-weeks. I get a convertible to drive around for a month, and all my expenses paid for. My car and all my furniture is being shipped here for me halfway across the country. Why the royal treatment? Are they expecting some Einstein? Further, can I live upto it??? I am just the geeky-looking kid with the million-dollar gab, methinks. I only hope that I am not being thrust into a current I cannot swim in. I don't want to be flotsam, would rather sink fighting.

I realize the meaning of the word "humbled", used by some people on podiums making grand acceptance speeches. It is the feeling of self-doubt when you realize (nay, just think) that you may not be worth your billing. How am I to learn the core concepts of emerging technology and contribute effectively in a short span of time? Well, lets find out, I guess...