Infernal Spirituality

In the hell, as one would reasonably speculate, virtually everything is infernal. The inmates of the hell are perpetually possessed by the seven infernal ghosts. And when an infernal speaks, a gray lizard leaps out of mouth and spits dark venom fuming with an infernal hatred. In an infernal complicity, the nostrils would burst out black lathers of smoke, and the eyes would lash out infernal violence.

In the hell, ugly is not untrue. If it sounds terrible, so it is.

Perhaps worse than that, since hell is name of the Shawshank where even hope of redemption is mocked at. Even the God has been, so to say, infernalized. After being carved in gold and glittery, He has been given a kingdom, a virgin, a gun, and an absolute power to do whatever He would like to do with them. His sloth is salvation for Man. His gluttony is waited on, His pride is flattered, and His wrath is pacified. His phallus is washed by milk.

He was reportedly heard saying "yada yada... sambhavami yuge yuge". Perhaps Dharma has not decayed enough for Him to descend. Perhaps He is waiting for the Dharma to decay more enough, and meanwhile, He is getting His phallus washed.

On the other hand, oblivious to their sins, or incorrigibly impenitent, the inmates of hell cross their hearts and pray - "O almighty Lord! Please accept my humble offerings. And have mercy on me. I will come to your shrine on your next eleven birthdays if you bless me. Give her to me; if you can not, then kill her so that no one gets her. Amen."

To the infernal God - the God of gold and the God of gore - they bring their hard-stolen herd of cattle to sacrifice. They cross their hearts, make the bleeding obeisance, and cross their hearts again.

As Shaw would swear, hell is hell of an interesting place, where sacrifice is not only painless but also delicious. Hell has life, especially in night, with loud-speakers blaring on. With neon-light dinners more than making up, even fasting is fun. In hell, religion has work-arounds, and short-cuts. You just need to have the right resources.

Home and Home-Coming

Any sincere search of truth must begin with a confession. Let me confess - I am home, and I am feeling homesick.

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I lie down on my bed and wonder - What is home? Where is it? Was it home that I had left years ago? Was it home that I have lost in the years bygone? I guess so, no matter how strange it might seem to me now. I have left home multiple times, though leaving home was never easy for me. Taking that fearful step, the step from the perch into the vast depth of air was never easy. I dreaded it, and I took considerably long time to get used to it. But now when I am finally used to the vastness of air, I don't like sitting on the sticky perch anymore.

Till recently, home has never been a simple word in my dictionary, till I finally decided to simplify its meaning in order to get rid of an unworthy inconvenience sitting heavily on my back. Now, I have finally decided to choose brevity over the labyrinthine details of an irrelevant truth, for which no one, including me, had any patience.

To me, home is not a place any more, it's a memory - the home to all the home-towns. Every winter, sitting on a silent ray of a morning sun, or on a tiny droplet of a piano tune, my memories come to visit me. Lifting me in their white feathery arms, they would touch me tenderly, ruffle my hair, and make me feel like a child in the warmth of their embrace. Safe home, I would fall fast asleep.

But when I would wake up, I would be homeless again. When monsoon arrives, I would go home in search of my memories, looking for anything that could remind me of my lost past, but I wouldn't find anything familiar.

"...and that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end." - One Hundred Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

When I would visit my foster home, people there would ask me, "where are you from?" And I wouldn't know what to say to that. In an imaginary nostalgia, I would look around to find the traces of my childhood, but I would see nothing. In the end, I would end up feeling like an outsider in my own home.

I have certainly experienced the sweet forgotten feeling of home-coming. But ironically, and miraculously, I have experienced home-coming only when I was exiled away. It's a rare, and a distinct feeling, which is vague but equally intense, and which I cherish in the innermost safe of my heart. When I have felt it, I have felt it in the air. I have felt it in my blood, on my skin, everywhere. Around 5 years back, on June 27th, the day I had set my foot in Pune, I had felt the same. I knew I was home, but I didn't know how.

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While I was in IIT Delhi, I had visited JNU by chance. And I had instantly felt that "this is the place to be". Away from the frenetic war-cries of our campus, where the rats burnt their youth running in a blind urgency to be yet another brick to fit in the wall, JNU was a forested haven, where the ceiling didn't seem to descend on your head to suffocate you, where air was less oppressive and breathing was easier, where mind was allowed the minimum peace and leisure to unfold itself. It felt like a home to me.

But I couldn't stay there since I had to return to the kiln.

After years of oblivion, I came back to JNU. Though Tapti could hardly afford the comforts I had corrupted myself with, I didn't mind and the discomfort didn't matter. For I had come back to a beloved's arms, after all. And I didn't feel like going anywhere else. While sitting under the black umbrella, on top of the rocks resonating string sounds, in the warmth of the hundred flames burning dimly all around, I knew I was home.

Life is a Marathon

"If you want to win something, run 100 meters; if you want to experience something, run a marathon." - Emil Zatopek

Last year, I had participated in the 10K marathon, which is conducted every year in Hyderabad. The spirit of Hyderabad was showing itself even before sunrise. At 5:30 on a Sunday morning, when the only place one would like to be is his bed, there was virtually no place to stand on the Necklace road. People of both the sexes and all ages had covered every inch of the road. The mood was festive and refreshing, and the atmosphere was enthusiastic - as it would probably have been on the 15th August, 1947.

I had completed that run without any problem. In fact, I completed that run with a sprint in the end. When I do that, I feel that the conquest was comprehensive.

This year, last Sunday, I participated in the half-marathon - 21.1 kms.

Like last year, I had made my own set of rules for the run - no water, no walk, and no rest in between. It might sound rather arrogant, but it was not so. Though I concede that it was a little ambitious. In any case, I kept my rules only to myself. To make this all possible, I allowed myself a little leniency - I chose to overlook my speed, or the lack of it. I decided to run, nay jog, slowly. In long distance run, I tactically maintain such a speed that I may not run out of breath. And in doing so, I allow others, including old men and women, to run past me. I don't take hurt usually. I don't feel defeated. In unusual times, I find a ready consolation in the severity of my rules.

As a matter of principle, I would rather keep competition away from the marathon track. Not because I am not competitive enough, which may or may not be relevant to the point, but because I believe that the nature of marathon is primarily introspective, in which the presence of others is merely incidental. Besides, unless I am excited, I do not put too much premium on winning anyway. Especially in marathon, in my opinion, speed shouldn't matter much. All that should matter is running with the spirit of marathon, and taking the pain in the marathon way.

Why do I run? As far as I am concerned, I run because I enjoy running. I love to sweat. If that doesn't sound literary enough, then I have alternative explanation - I run to soothe my curiosity. I run to seek an answer, to probe my perseverance in an optional crisis. I run to try my will and test my endurance - my response to pain, as it were.

As I have mentioned earlier, running is introspective in nature - like praying, or preening. It involves an interview with self. As far as others are concerned, if I ever feel anything for them, I feel a sense of pride. I feel proud of them because I witness each of them fighting his/her case hard against his/her own private prosecutor. At the same time I feel a sympathy for them because I look at them in terms of their pain, and their response to their pain. With fellow sufferers, there can be no rivalry.

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The event started at 5.30 sharp from KBR park main gate, and I started with my tried and tested plan. Just a matter of time, I assured myself. The sun was still behind the bushes. Though the sky was clear, and clouds were playing truant, it was a timely and therefore an auspicious start. I was not afraid of getting tired, but I was bit wary of getting bored. So I plugged my ears and played on the music. Don't crib and don't cry, I told my body as I pressed the play button, for I won't be able to listen to you. The finishing line beckoned me. Today was my day.

I jogged slowly through the Jubilee Hills area, without water, without walk, and without rest of course. Many lesser runners ran past me, and I forgave them thinking "Life is a Marathon" and hoping to set the records straight in the last laps with my "eye-opener" sprint. Apart from my plan, I found solace in my imagination.

I imagined myself as an unsung tail-ender who walked to the pitch with a will to save a test. He batted bravely, in an empty stadium, for a lost cause, with an intensity so unfamiliar that it seemed rather grotesque to the onlookers. But he was well aware of his rights, and he had willed to make them wait. He had willed to surprise the dressing room. This day was his day, a hero was about to be made.

Keep watching, people. Keep running, hero.

No matter how ridiculous it was, I was serious about it. I wanted her to be present at the finishing line to behold my post 21.1 kms sprint with eyes opened wide with awe and surprise. However, there was a little problem with that prospect. I didn't want to wake her up. And she had no means to know when she should reach there, unless she was called up and told. But I was determined not to stop for any call, any reason, any excuse, any temptation. "Keep Running", her sms had said.

Unlike last year, there were no rock bands flanking the track, and drumming and singing to boost our morale. But it was still a special event. The policemen were everywhere and the traffic was made to wait for us. On both sides of the road, as I passed the HiTech City, I saw people watching us with amused eyes, unless they got something to ogle at. And there was something to ogle at. I heard that people from many places, especially Bangalore and Bombay, had come only to take part in this event. There were vans and wagons passing by, carrying banners and cheering the runners. There was never so much fun in the run. I was delighted to get so much matter for my next post. Little did I know then that matter was no less tyrannical and no less rapacious than man. It could eat a man alive. I was running dangerously.

"Marathoning is like cutting yourself unexpectedly. You dip into the pain so gradually that the damage is done before you are aware of it. Unfortunately, when awareness comes, it is excruciating." - John Farrington

I wish I knew that earlier. But life is not known to offer any crash couse. In fact, it has a reputation of a strict teacher who tests first and teaches later. After 12+ kms of test, by the time I neared Novotel, I was able to listen to the cries of my knees despite the music plugged into my ears. I chastised myself for the hectic yesterday followed by the half-slept yesternight. To buoy up my spirit, I suspected that it was the crape-bandage that needed to be redone. I slowed but that didn't help me much. I had to stop. The pain was unbearable. I couldn't ignore it, and I couldn't respond to it in any other way. As I sat down to untie my bandage, my oath was broken.

Relax, every rule has its exception, I tried to rationalize. I untied the crape and tied it again, hoping change would make things better. But things were to be worsened further. My private prosecutor was hostile and his arguments were cogent. I could not refute my 5 years old ligament tear, which had returned to implicate me right in the middle of my half-marathon. My knees had kneeled me down.

I obeyed Khalil Gibran, rested a while in reason, and after having the situation reassessed, I was ready to compromise. I was anxious to negotiate a deal, but nobody answered the door when I knocked. My body denied ears to my cries. I could hardly walk, and I could not walk without a limp. The finishing line seemed too far to beckon me anymore. In 10-20 minutes, my case was lost.

Thankfully, though I had lost it, I was not looking like a loser to others. I was one of them, dawdling along with pedestrian expectations. However, when I looked into the mirror of my mind, I saw a miles long walk towards the pavilion. The tail-ender had failed again. The hero was spanked, lined up, and was made to wear his underwear over his trousers. It was humiliating. And it was surreal - neither tired, nor bored, and still not running. The despair, weighing heavy on my mind, demanded its logical conclusion; and the wise idea of giving it up crossed my mind. I called her up and confessed - I am walking.

Disappointed with the mirror, I looked elsewhere. And as it happens, the indiscriminate fell on the immediate - a woman who looked in her late thirties. With thick glasses over her eyes and a water-bottle in her right hand, she was a spectacle struggling her way despite all problems possible. "Only for ladies and handicapped", I reflected with a bitter cynicism. Real men were nowhere to be seen. Even the unreal ones had moved on. Only housewives and handicapped men like me were hanging around. I wasn't proud of my company anymore.

As I passed close to Whitefields, my home, I saw the marathon staff and policemen standing there and giving direction to the johnny walkers. I half wanted to leave, but couldn't gather enough shamelessness to break the line, run away and go home. Had I turned anywhere, I would have turned traitor. I had to walk straight. I could not fail my fellow sufferers. I had lost my pride, but I had to save my dignity, and others' too. The lady reminded me - the marathon was still on, and I couldn't fail its spirit. Even in my crippled capacity, I still had to do my best. There was no other choice. This was life. "Life is a Marathon" - I was beginning to understand it.

Lazy Initialization

A well-dressed, rather well-fed kid with thick glasses on his eyes walking with his gray-haired, grand-fatherly father is becoming an increasingly common sight in our postmodern establishments and colonies. When I see them - the kid and his arthritic father - I feel more and more certain of the opinion that the generation gap is increasing with every generation. I wonder how often they talk, the kid and his old father. And how much they share, or understand, when they do.

On the other hand, at 30 something, SM - one of my good friends - is young enough to play football and dabble in photography, while surviving in an industry which is full of hopeless workaholics. For a man who is married and whose son is old enough to be in intermediate, his youth is a refreshing sight.

He got married when he was still in his teens; when he was still innocent and his wife was still charming. Today, when his innocence and her charm has depreciated, he says he regrets his marriage, but only to the extent any married man does. Not more, he smiles. Perfect marriage is a myth anyway, he says with his post-marriage wisdom, and it is idiotic to wait for the perfect match. Early marriages might be old-fashioned but at least they allowed the couples to adjust with each other before they are stiffened by rigor mortis.

He feels satisfied that he can connect to his son much easier than many fathers of his son's friends. After all, SM is still a young man! And he is hopeful that he will be able to take his passion - photography - more seriously once he gets rid of his fatherly responsibilities, in next 5-10 years. But what about the grand-fathers?

Late marriage leads to larger generation gap and adjustment nightmares. But that's not all.

Deprived of sex, men and women lock themselves in their private rooms, where they indulge in their sweet sex-thoughts. We corrupt ourselves with an abandon, fearing nothing but exposure. The civilization converts a man into a metaphor - we know what to show and what to hide. Under the aegis of a fetish called career, we abstain till we get sick with what we abstain from. But it's alright, since it's an individual choice - to be or not to be (a pervert). But unlike physical sickness, perversion is not completely individual - it has social consequences.

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Nityanand, the IITK graduate and a GE engineer, who was caught last month by US police in case of cyber-pedophilia, might not be less conscientious than you and I. He was just less lucky than us - he got caught in his private room act. He did chase a child, but does that make him a child-chaser, a wolf? Was he an inveterate pervert who just happened to be good at Math? Perhaps not, perhaps he was a regular pervert like you and I, but got caught in his weak moment.

Whatever, he will be known forever as a child-chaser. He was chasing a child, wasn't he? But what was it that chased him? What was it that played tricks on his mind. What was it that took him near the edge, and in that weak moment, pushed him down, making him a random victim - when he was found fallen, his face looked distorted with lust. He looked like a deterrent.

The idea is not to go too close to the edge. The idea is to realize that if you deny drinking clean water when you are thirsty, you will end up drinking dirty water when the thirst becomes irrepressible. We have collectively chosen to deny clean water. That's why we are flooded by dirty water everywhere. Now the dirty water is leaking into our homes. What do we do now?

My 10 Favorite Monsoon Songs

I am one of those ordinary millions who can feel the beauty but can not express beauty beautifully. All I can express is my heartfelt gratitude to those who burned their nights and churned their hearts to discover beauty for us. This little list is a tribute to all such artists, even to those who have not got a mention here. I plead guilty of ignorance.

1. Ghata Ghanghor Bhor (Tansen, 1943)

Music - Khemchand Prakash
Lyrics - Rajender Kishen
Singer - Khursheed Bano

Which contemporary musician can even attempt to work on a musical, in which the protagonist is the mythology of classical music - Tansen! There is no one that I can think of.

Tansen was brought to life on silver screen, in all glory and opulence, amid the sound of temple bells tolling and Sitar resonating till the halls of heaven. In 1943 we had a man called Khemchand Prakash, who promised, and delivered us a credible Tansen.

Tansen showcases super-prowess of the legendary K L Saigal, in and as Tansen. And his reel consort - Khursheed Bano - matches him well. The prelude casts a spell on you as soon as you press 'play', and her earthy rendition keeps you mesmerized throughout. Unknown to the ordinary, this gem is an explorer's delight.


2. Hariyala Saawan Dhol Bajata Aaya (Do Beegha Zameen, 1953)

Music - Salil Chowdhury
Lyrics - Shailendra
Singers - Lata Mangeshkar, Manna De, and Chorus

Which feeling can be more liberating than feeling of relief? And who can feel more relieved by the promise of rains than the poor Indian farmer? Do Beegha Zameen is rooted deep into the soil, and so is its music. The way I look at it, this song is a musical translation of a rainy afternoon. When you play this song, monsoon plays vividly in your imagination. Every note is fragrant with rustic innocence, and though shehnai is sparingly used, it is lovable wherever it is used.


3. Kaare Kaare Baadra (Bhabhi, 1957)

Music - Chitragupt
Lyrics - Rajinder Kishan
Singer - Lata Mangeshkar

Whenever I relax my reverence for Lata Mangeshkar, she comes up with something like this! Vibrant, vivacious, and contagiously so. Pure joie de vivre! The mood of this melody is coquettish and cute at the same time. And for me, there is something more - nostalgia.


4. Kaali Ghata Chhaye (Sujata, 1959)

Music - S D Burman
Lyrics - Majrooh Sultanpuri
Singer - Asha Bhosle

Asha Bhosle, in her early days, sounded (tried to sound) very much like Geeta Dutt - mellifluous, as if she kept honey in her mouth while singing. Or is it love? For her voice is seductively lazy with a monsoon desire. While Senior Burman's compositions have always been distinguished by their compelling visual elements, this one goes further - and veritably fills your lungs with the petrichor of an Indian village.


5. O Sajna Barkha Bahaar Aayi (Parakh, 1060)

Music - Salil Chowdhury
Lyrics - Shailendra
Singers - Lata Mangeshkar

My opinion doesn't matter much. This song makes an appearance in Lata Mangeshkar's favorite-20 list. Need I say more?


6. Zindagi Bhar Nahi Bhoolegi (Barsaat Ki Raat, 1960)

Music - Roshan
Lyrics - Sahir Ludhianvi
Singers - Md Rafi

A beautiful confluence of a common fantasy and a sublime poetry. Unforgettable stuff! You can almost live through this night while you are into the song. Waking up can be heart-breaking. You wish this night to have really happened. But no night, real, surreal, or unreal, can be as fascinating as this one.


7. Tum Bin Sajan Barse Nayan (Gaban, 1966)

Music - Shankar Jaikishan
Lyrics - Shailendra
Singers - Lata Mangeshkar and Md Rafi

After K L Saigal, if anyone has shaped Hindi Film Music, it was this duo. Their success was phenomenal, and therefore inspired subsequent music directors.

In the later years of their career, they sometimes overdid what made them hit - orchestration. But this song is typically SJ stuff - hearty, melodious and simple. The simplicity is ensured by their choice of lyricists - they would hardly ever team up with a Gulzar or a Sahir.

Coming back to this song, this is the only sad song in my list of favorite monsoon songs. By the way, why do we hear sad songs? Why should a good sad song is better than a bad happy song?


8. Rimjhim Ke Geet Saawan Gaaye (Anjaana, 1969)

Music - Laxmikant Pyarelal
Lyrics - Anand Bakshi
Singers - Lata Mangeshkar and Md Rafi

Listening to this song is like sitting near a fire-place inside a quiet wooden house, on a cold dark winter night pouring and storming outside. Besides everything else, there is something vaguely claustrophobic about rains, which makes you feel enveloped in its embrace, and makes you feel drawn to the flame. This song is about this vague awareness, its charm, its dread, and a paradise lost. This song is a story of a beautiful dilemma - you hope it happens as much as you pray it doesn't.


9. Rimjhim Gire Saawan (Manzil, 1979)

Music - R D Burman
Lyrics - Yogesh
Singer - Kishore Kumar

Another gem from the Burmans, this time from the junior Burman. And how he shines in rain! Lata's version is a stillborn; although she is technically OK, she doesn't make up for her lack of passion, and I can't imagine a facile-hearted rain song in my favorite list. Thankfully, Kishore does justice to the tunes. You can raise your expectations as much as you can, this one will meet them all.


10. Rimjhim Rimjhim (1942 A Love Story, 1994)

Music - R D Burman
Lyrics- Javed Akhtar
Singers - Kavita Krishnamurthy, Kumar Sanu

The 80s were the worst years of Pancham's career, and coincidentally for Hindi Film Music as well. 1942 came at a time when melody was exiled out of fashion. With "Ek Ladki Ko Dekha" and "Kuchh Na Kaho", 1942 marked the return of melody to Hindi Film Industry.

With Javed Akhtar, Pancham composed one of the most romantic rain songs ever. Divine. Do they play this in heaven? They must.



the other side of page - I am lousy enough with descriptions. And this section made this post even more difficult for me. They almost made to the list.

11. Jhoole Ke Pawan Mein Aayi Bahar (Baiju Bawra, 1952)

Music - Naushad
Lyrics - Shakeel Badayuni
Singer - Lata Mangeshkar and Md Rafi

12. Thandi Hawa Kaali Ghata (Mr and Mrs 55, 1955)

Music - O P Nayyar
Lyrics - Neeraj
Singer - Geeta Dutt

13. Megha Chhaye Aadhi Raat (Sharmili, 1971)

Music - S D Burman
Lyrics - Neeraj
Singer - Lata Mangeshkar

14. Nahin Saamne Tu (Taal, 2000)

Music - A R Rehman
Lyrics - Anand Bakshi
Singer - Hariharan

and let's be honest...

15. Tip Tip Barsa Paani (Mohra, 1994)

Music - Viju Shah
Lyrics - Anand Bakshi
Singer - Alka Yagnik and Udit Narayan

Being Gay

Reverend Father, I want to make a confession - I find men attractive. I have always found them attractive.

Have you seen Sir Viv Richards? No, no, not his face. I mean have you seen Sir Viv Richards walking? Well, leave alone his batting, I find his swagger more attractive than any catwalk any day. Classic stuff!

Oh come on! Don't be prissy about it. You should know that it's not illegal anymore. While you were busy getting outraged, the caravan of mankind was progressing to the better side of Brokeback Mountain. Open your eyes father, and look at the vast valley of freedom stretched as far as your eyes can see.

Personally speaking, I don't care about this legal thing much. What difference does that make anyway? Do they keep an eyes on us in bathroom? I guess they don't. You can sing as you like when nobody is there - classical or punk. That's nobody's business. Why so much fuss then?

Some people are talking in drawing rooms about how Indian democracy has matured and how it has listened to the voice of minority. Since they are well-read people, there must be some sound reason behind all this fuss - one involves adoption rules. Perhaps homosexuals are now eligible for adoption. There is a big plus point there - kids will not be emotionally tormented by questions like who do you love more - mummy or papa?

Now the lovely little wars of favorite will be fought between papa1 and papa2. That sounds funny, but at the same time my heart goes out for the poor kid. Among other things, I don't see too much of shopping happening in this household. I would pray to God to give him faith.

I wonder if gay marriage can be reconciled with arranged marriage. Given the falling gender ratio, the rocketing school fees, and above all - the aversion of parents towards court marriages, it looks possible. I wish to see that happen in my lifetime. I am optimistic, for Linda Goodman says that we are living in an Aquarian age - the age of unisex. I am waiting to see description of a male bride in "Grooms Wanted" section - that will be real blend of tradition and modernity. Democracy will sing "Jai Ho" that day, not in bathroom but out in the open.

Drawing-Room Discourse

1. How do we counter soft power without using hard hands?

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Suddenly her face twitched in anger. I couldn't guess why. We were sitting in Subway and munching our favorite sub-of-the-day and doing what we love to do - being with each other. And then all of a sudden! I was blank for a moment.

- What happened?
- Listen to the lyrics.

I do not like western music and my ears are not used to their lyrics. But even I couldn't miss that word - F***. In the song being played, the singer wanted to f*** the woman he was singing for.

Those who know me won't have any problem in guessing what must have happened after that. In no time I found myself standing up and snapping my left-hand fingers and ordering them to stop that nonsense "NOW".

They stopped that nonsense "now". But my peace of mind had gone by then.

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A few days later, a visit to a Levi-Strauss showroom exposed me to another hyper-western atmosphere - which consisted of topless models on the wall posters, F-Tv models parading half-naked on the TVs, and maniquins with their nipples popping out of their clothes.

I fail to understand why somebody must open his fly to sell something as simple as jeans. Needless to say, I found that atmosphere vulgar and distasteful. But more than that, I found it ridiculously out-of-place. "Why these people - these models and these maniquins - have been brought to half-Muslim, and full-orthodox, Hyderabad?", I wondered.

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The instances are multifold, but the question is singular- How do I confront soft power without resorting to rudeness/crudeness?

Though I hate the methods adopted by the fundamentalists like RSS and Sena, I do share their angst. It is easy to hate the fundamentalists since they are loud and crude. They make noise and wake you up. They alienate you from them and their cause. But not all our enemies are idiots like them. In fact, most of them are not - they lull us to sleep by soft hands and then...

To begin with, it's hard to see the soft power - the silent, the slow, the subtle, and the sophisticated power - the cultural power, and it's harder to hate it. Its apparent innocence and innocuousness only makes it more effective in its execution. The cultural weapons inflict cultural wounds (and cultural wounds don't even bleed) and the victims die a cultural death; a quiet, unconscious, cultural death.

"I have traveled across the length and breadth of India and I have not seen one person who is a beggar, who is a thief. Such wealth I have seen in this country, such high moral values, people of such calibre, that I do not think we would ever conquer this country, unless we break the very backbone of this nation, which is her spiritual and cultural heritage, and, therefore, I propose that we replace her old and ancient education system, her culture, for if the Indians think that all that is foreign and English is good and greater than their own, they will lose their self-esteem, their native self-culture and they will become what we want them, a truly dominated nation." - Lord Macaulay (British Parliament, 1835)

I do not want to sound paranoid and xenophobic. We have to be open and outgoing. But we can not allow ourselves to be driven by others. So hate we must no matter how hard it is to hate the soft power.

Or may be we can love ourselves rather than hating them. After all, cultural power can not be defeated by brute physical force.


2. Our daughter - a perfect blend of traditional and modern values.

That's a matrimony cliché - which amuses me often, and sometimes irritates me to no end. Worst - it reminds me of hypocrisy at its best - a hideous woman (in a hideous movie) wearing short skirt and singing "Om Jai Jagadish Hare" in front of the most hideous man who has ever walked on silver screen.

Let's skip that horrible experience. Let me ask you a few questions. Let us see if we even understand the meaning of the words that we speak beyond what is superficial and what is kitschy.

What does tradition mean for us? To what extent it pervades our thought, our behavior, our decision-making process in our everyday life? Or is it just another word, just another idea, just another ideal, which is only to be worshiped in temples but not to be welcomed in homes? How many of us know or even try to know what is tradition beyond wearing ethnic clothes and lighting candles on Diwali?

What makes modern modern? How many of us know (or even try to know) what is modernity beyond what they show in M-Tv? Is it just an urban phenomenon, or something more? Does it have values only? Or does it have anti-values as well? Is it an alternative or is it a socioeconomic imperative?

Both wage a war in our minds to occupy our mental space. Do we ever stop and think about the areas of conflict between tradition and modernity, if there exists any? Perhaps those who claim to have blended the two successfully might explain how they achieved the reconciliation. Or did that happen automatically, unconsciously?


3. We should try everything*.

And everything* typically consists of things they sell in discs and pubs. As far as I know, urban India is not famous for producing rock climbers. Correct me* if I am wrong, but I have been to many cities and I have not met too many rock climbers.

*Spare me if you are one of those suckers who believe that reality shows like M-Tv Roadies are really real.

What's all this fuss over trying? What's there to try anyway in doing something that doesn't need any effort? Do you see any effort involved in drinking? I do not. I see indulgence.

Well, all you dudes and dudettes, wake up and splash your face with cool water - and remember - there is nothing bold in shedding clothes, and there is nothing to try in gulping tequila shots. Any jerk can do that. And every jerk does that.

Perhaps taste would be a better word there - we should taste everything*, if only the lack of taste would not have been so evident in the context we are talking about.

Hampi - an unforgettable Romance

There is nothing I can say that has not already been said about Hampi (or anything else for that matter). The frequency of my posts should vindicate my conviction that keeping quiet is better than repeating, unless repetition is necessary.

Not much can be heard in noise anyway; and I suspect speech has been reduced to another form of salesmanship, to another type of promising investment for a careerist, to a vehicle that takes people places, and pollutes the air in the way.

Due to the excess that characterizes modernity, words have begun to arouse distrust as soon as they are spoken, precluding any possibility of meaningful communication, something which can not take place without basic credulity. The alternative of speech - silence - is also seen with suspicion, as it is traditionally considered as a mark of hubris if not malice. In this dilemma, language must be released from its appeal mania if any appeal were to be left in it. Meanwhile, till appeal is dethroned and meaning is restored to words, sense of futility must be countered with Sisyphean sense of duty, and honesty.


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Tungabhadra might not have been blessed with mysterious Himalayan herbs or mythological favors, but she can also heal wounds; she can also wash away our sins as the sacred Ganges does. This secret was not known to me before I parked my bike, took a dip into the cool currents of the river and saw my memories (and with memories, sins too, for where else do they reside?) fading away in water. You just have to dip your head and lo! your brain is washed clean; and when you look around, the world looks beautiful once again.

That's precisely why we go to distant places - to forget the pains and banalities of the life we live, to get rid of the ghost - the Betaal - sitting on our back. Traveling is nothing if it doesn't involve forgetfulness, and elements of meditation. And that's why I see traveling as a pilgrimage in a truly spiritual sense.

When I came out of her waters, I came out clean; and when I started my bike to leave, I heard her parting message - "don't fear. if your freedom is limited by your needs, so is your bondage." While riding back, I realized that my needs have never been extravagant - more than anything else, I still needed clean air, clean water, a moon in the sky, and peace of mind to feel poetic about the moon. And they were all there in plenty, ironically for those who could not afford the fancy items that are sold in big malls.

It's hard not to meander when rivers flow in your mind. So let me disclose another secret before I meander with the flow - Hampi is green*, so much so that your eyes might acquire a lovely greenish tinge if you stay long enough on the right side of Tungabhadra. Unfortunately, we couldn't. But fortunately, Hampi was in best of her moods - an unseasonable drizzle on our very first night made our second day a veritable romance to remember. Being there, enveloped by that earthy fragrance was delightful enough, but with those banana and coconut trees around wherever you go, biking in Hampi was something dreams are made of.

And so is sleeping on a rock after a tiring day. It was a joy to sit at the top of hill and see the sun sinking in silence of the forest. Looking at the sunset, I got the impression of Holi - the festival of colors - being played in sky. It was such a beauty to behold! I was so mesmerized that I do not remember when I fell asleep there.

With the night-fall my friend and I used to climb up the stairs of ''Roof Top Cafe'', where we dined as long as we stayed there. After a series of bitter disappointments with Idlis and Vadas, we had come to a conclusion that North Karnataka can not offer eatable South Indian food to save its grace. The celebrated ''Mango Tree Restaurant'' was good for lunch because of its lovable ambiance, but it was the cafe that served dinner at its exotic best. In three nights, I had had Arabian Thali which contained mainly Israeli items (Humus, Pita, and Falafel), an Italian delicacy called Lasagne, and finally a Nepali Thali in honor of our hosts. I admit that if I feel like going to Hampi again, it is primarily because of this cafe.

Does that mean that Hampi can not engage us? The truth can not be farther from it. Hampi might not entertain our multiplex generation, but it does have a potential to engage us at many levels - archeology, architecture, epics and mythology, photography, and the list goes on. The more important question is how deeply we can engage with Hampi. A weekend is sufficient to see this place with reasonable satisfaction. But when you come back, you know that you have only been picking shells at the shore; you know that the pearls are still lying on the bed, down in the depths of a world you never cared to explore, a world that is respected even by its destroyer - Time, the hand of Shiva.

*the recommended time to visit Hampi is from November to March.

The photos can be seen here.