Shhhh!

I'm grateful that I was led to discover the teachings of Ramana Maharshi last December. The words below planted a seed within, that has been nurtured repeatedly since:

"Silence, the unique language, ever surging in the
Heart, is the state of grace."

After eight months of incessant writing, I'm ready now to take a break to immerse in the sounds of silence and obtain if a glimpse of this state of grace. Enough has been read and said; time it is to listen, meditate upon, and internalize. I hear it takes 21 days for the brain to form new neuronic pathways. Just to be safe, I'll give it a month :).

I wish you all a joyous month of silence.

June

The Zen thought for the month, according to my calendar, is the following:

Our practice is to help people, and to help people we find out how to practice our way on each moment.

I pray that this month is fruitful to this end, for me and for you (should you wish it so :)).

May

The month comes to an end, but trust, I trust, will be endless :). Some of my thoughts on the virtue of this month are mashed together below.

Trust is believing
in the powers that be,
in the people around us,
in me.

Trust is discovering
that love is without end;
it grows old with the heart
of a friend.

Trust is waiting
sans the pain of the wait.
Life comes always on time -
never late.

Trust is knowing
that all is ever well -
no matter this heaven,
this hell.

Trust is forgiving
and loving all things,
embracing this life,
what it brings.

Trust is hoping
in the dark, in despair
the light will shine through,
'cos He's there.

Trust is being
one one can rely on,
a pillar of strength and a shoulder
to cry on.

Home, Sweet Home

As I start packing for Bangalore and Business, the following song (that I discovered in Light from many Lamps, among several other treasures) feels rather apt. No doubt you'll identify with it just as well. [And incidentally, in the brief time since I conceived of this post, I've come across the blessed phrase twice already.]

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that come at my call --
Give me them -- and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,
As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door
Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet, home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

-- John Howard Payne

Invisible Cities & Brida

I've been eating books not reading them, or it seems that way, at least these last couple of weeks. This has been a tremendous exercise, and in more ways than I can list. After Meditations, I went on to read Invisible Cities - a masterful creation of Italo Calvino (and pleasantly reminiscent of Alan Lightman's Einstein's Dreams). The ways in which this book exercises one's imagination is incredible. Poetic in its prose, its read journeys one through a myriad imageries cover to cover. The conversations between Kublai Khan and Marco Polo are deep and insightful, leaving one ever desirous for more. A must read.

After Invisible Cities, I read Coelho's Brida. While I was more dismissive of it to begin with, because both plot and philosophy seemed lacking, I've come to appreciate parts of it since. I've always liked Coelho's single-minded focus on following one's heart, and it resurfaces here. I also liked a paragraph towards the end where the Magus talks about loving things (and people) in the time and space where they belong, and not pulling them out of there and trying to possess them instead (I do paraphrase). I wouldn't call this one a must read, unfortunately. If you'd really like to read Coelho, read The Alchemist instead (or The Pilgrimage, fine), but don't read Brida. And if you'd really like to read Brida, make sure you're not trying to judge the book by its admittedly attractive cover.

On the side, I also went through a Selected Writings of Albert Einstein's at the IHC Library yesterday (it was a thin book). I've always found his words inspirational, and these were no different. A great exercise it is, indeed, to acquaint oneself more intimately with the lives of the great who have lived before us. For what may be a better example for us to follow?

More than just ordinary

A long, long time ago, a line from a poem had appeared in a column of a newspaper. My friend A and I swiftly lost our hearts to this line and the article. Then, it was a novel read for us. And although the article was quick to leave my memory, the line occupied a permanent place within because it quickly became a favorite for A, thereby revealing to me a side of a friend I was moved to discover. We were twelve then.

And then last evening, A and I talked after ages, and the joys of tried and tested friendship announced their presence once again. After I ended the conversation with a deep and grateful sigh, I returned to Brida, the book I was reading yesterday, and before me I found that very line, from lifetimes ago. Imagine my surprise, and then to find that it was part of a living, breathing poem. A Yeats poem, no less.

These little coincidences rock my world. Random or divine, my heart rejoices at their generous presence in this one-in-six-billion life and I know only to be grateful. To the forces that be, to her, to the author of that news article (though he omitted to credit Yeats), to Yeats of course, and to the tender love he brings to life in this poem:

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with the golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams beneath your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams...

Aurelius, again

God has been rather kind, for in my most unsuspecting moments has he sprung upon me life-altering philosophies, earlier with Swami Vivekananda and Thich Nhat Hanh, and now with Marcus Aurelius. When I embarked upon Meditations, I knew almost nothing about it or its author: I did not know that Marcus Aurelius was a Roman emperor, nor that he lived as far back as the second century (AD). I also had no idea that Meditations was a compilation of this great emperor's journal entries and not even intended for an audience. Neither did I recall (after having studied in school, long ago) a thing about Stoicism (although Aurelius is not quite a confirmed Stoic, though he does largely adhere to Stoic thought). The last couple of days have seen a change in all this and more.

It is infeasible (even) for me to type out the entire text of Meditations, but I would like this post to encapsulate its essence. In no particular order, then, do I include the excerpts below. Know that this is a mere scratching of the surface - twelve arbitrarily selected quotes to arbitrarily average one per book.

People seek retreats for themselves in the countryside, by the seashore, in the hills; and you too have made it your habit to yearn for such things with all your heart. But this is altogether unphilosophical, when it is possible for you to retreat into yourself at an hour you please; for nowhere can one retreat into greater calm or freedom from care than within one's own soul, especially when a person has such fine things within him that he has merely to look at them to achieve from that very moment perfect ease of mind.

Everything that is in any way beautiful is beautiful of itself and complete in itself, and praise has no part in it; for nothing comes to be better or worse for being praised. And I say this even of things which are described as beautiful in everyday speech, such as material objects and works of art. As for what is truly beautiful, has it need of anything beyond? Surely not, any more than law does, or truth, or benevolence, or modesty. Which of these is beautiful because it is praised, or becomes any less so if it is criticized? Does an emerald become any worse if nobody praises it? Or gold, ivory, purple, a lyre, a sword, a blossom, or a shrub?

'To what purpose, then, am I presently using my soul?' Ask yourself this question at every moment, and examine yourself as follows: what is the present content of the part of me which is commonly called the governing faculty? And whose soul do I have at present? That of a child? That of an adolescent? That of a woman, of a tyrant, of a domestic animal, of a wild beast?

The idle pageantry of a procession, plays on the stage, flocks and herds, the clashing of spears, a bone tossed to puppies, a scrap of bread cast into a fishpond, the wretched labors of overladen ants, the scurrying of startled mice, puppets pulled about on their strings. You must take your place, then, in the midst of all this, with a good grace and without assuming a scornful air; and yet, at the same time, keep in mind that a person's worth is measured by the worth of what he has his heart set on.

'Do you suppose that human life can seem any great matter to a man of elevated mind who has embraced the whole of time and the whole of reality in his thoughts?' 'Quite impossible', he replied. 'So to such a person not even death will seem anything terrible?' 'Not in the least.'

The light of the sun seems to be poured down, and to be poured, indeed, in every direction, but not poured away; for this pouring is an extension, and that is why the sun's beams are called 'rays', because they are extended. And what kind of thing a ray is you can readily see if you look at sunlight entering a darkened room through a narrow opening. For it stretches out in a straight line and comes to rest, so to speak, on any solid body that intercepts it, cutting off the air that lies beyond; and there it rests, neither slipping off or falling down. The pouring forth and diffusion of our understanding should follow a comparable pattern, and in no way be a pouring away, but rather, an extension; and it should not make a forcible or violent impact on the obstacles that it meets with nor sink down, but stand firm and illuminate the object that receives it; for that which fails to welcome it will deprive itself of its light.

If you can, show them the error of their ways; but if you cannot, remember that kindness was granted to you for this. The gods themselves are kind to such people, and even help them to certain ends, to health, to wealth, to reputation, such is their benevolence. And you could do so too; or tell me this, who is standing in your way?

Today I escaped the power of circumstance, or rather I cast all circumstance out; for it was not outside me, but within me, in my judgments.

But above all, when you condemn somebody for disloyalty or ingratitude, turn your attention to yourself; for the fault is clearly your own, whether for trusting that a man of such a character would keep his word, or for the fact that when you bestowed a favor, you did not grant it unconditionally and in the belief that you would immediately reap your full reward from the very action itself. For tell me, man, when you have done a good turn, what more do you want? Is it not enough that in doing this, you have acted according to your own nature, that you should go on to seek a reward for it? It is just as if the eye sought compensation for seeing, or the feet for walking. For as these were made to perform a particular function, and by performing it according to their own constitution, gain in full what is due to them, so likewise, man is formed by nature to benefit others, and when he has performed some benevolent action or accomplished anything else that contributes to the common good, he has done what he was constituted for, and has what is properly his.

Will there come a day, my soul, when you are good, and simple, and at one, and clearer to see than the body which envelops you? Some day, will you enjoy a loving and affectionate disposition? Some day, will you be satisfied and want for nothing, yearning for nothing, and coveting nothing, animate or inanimate, to cater to your pleasures? And not wish for more time, to enjoy them for a longer period, or a more pleasing place, or country, or climate, or more agreeable company? Or will you be contented instead with your present circumstances and delighted with everything around you, and convince yourself that all that you have comes to you from the gods, and that all is well for you and will be well that is pleasing to them and that they shall grant hereafter for the sustenance of the perfect living being, the good and the just and the beautiful, which generates, upholds and embraces all things, and takes them into itself when they are dissolved to allow others of like nature to come into being? Will there ever come a day when you are fit to dwell in the common city of gods and mortals so as neither to bring any complaint against them nor to incur their condemnation?

...for the pride that prides itself on its freedom from pride is the most objectionable pride of all.

Where is the hardship, then, if it is no tyrant or unjust judge who sends you out of the city, but nature who brought you in? It is just as if the director of a show, after first engaging an actor, were dismissing him from the stage. 'But I haven't played all five acts, but only three.' Very well; but in life three acts can amount to a play. For the one who determines when it is complete is he who once arranged for your composition and now arranges for your dissolution, while you for your part are responsible for neither. So make your departure with a good grace, as he who is releasing you shows a good grace.

On Fortune Good and Bad

When the duality of 'good' vs. 'bad' is transcended, neither does the distinction between 'good fortune' and 'misfortune' remain. When a certain fate crosses paths with us, I cannot say with any conviction that the laws of karma cause it to be, or that it is all part of God's grand plan, and that everything always happens for the best. Honestly, I don't know. In this, however, my conviction does lie - that in every moment, we have a choice - towards freedom or bondage; whether we're aware of it or not - we're choosing one over the other, all the time. And what is (binding perhaps or) still more liberating, is that this awareness too, is of our own choosing. It is up to us. Then this bondage becomes the 'misfortune', and freedom - the 'good'.

Here's an excerpt from Book 4 of Meditations that speaks to this oft-engaging thought process:

Be like the headland with wave after wave breaking against it, which yet stands firm and sees the boiling waters round it fall to rest. 'Unfortunate am I, that this has befallen me.' No, quite the contrary: 'Fortunate am I, that when such a thing has befallen me, I remain undisturbed, neither crushed by the present nor afraid of what is to come.' For such a thing could have befallen anyone, but not everyone would have remained undisturbed in the face of such a blow. So why is this a misfortune rather than something fortunate? Or do you generally say that human fortune can lie in something other than a deviation from man's true nature? And do you suppose anything to be a deviation from man's nature if it does not conflict with the will of that nature? Well then, you have learned to know that will. Can what has befallen you prevent you in any way from being just, high-minded, self-controlled, prudent, deliberate in your judgment, empty of deceit, self-respecting, free, or from possessing any of the qualities which by their presence make it possible for man's nature to come into it's own? So henceforth, in the face of every difficulty that leads you to feel distress, remember to apply this principle: this is no misfortune, but in bearing it nobly there is good fortune.

On Meditations

The cover of the book says it's a Wordsworth classic of world literature. I'm not sure what it means for it to be a Wordsworth classic, to be true, but I do agree that it's quite the masterpiece. Here's what wiki has to say about it.

Book 1 was a series of tributes to people who influenced Aurelius's life. At first, I was in awe of the abundance of positive influence around him. On greater introspection, I realized that it was his ability to see this goodness that made it so abundant, for we are all just as surrounded by goodness, though perhaps in varying measure and manifestation. If we chose to, made even feeble attempts to, we would see it everywhere and in fact, in every interaction we share with nature. This book quickly then became my most humbling read in memory.

Book 2 is where I'm at now, and I share with you its first paragraph.

Say to yourself at break of day, I shall meet with meddling, ungrateful, violent, treacherous, envious, and ungrateful men. All these vices have fallen to them because they have no knowledge of good and bad. But I, who have beheld the nature of the good, and seen that it is the right; and of the bad, and seen that it is the wrong; and of the wrongdoer himself, and seeing that his nature is akin to my own - not because he is of the same blood and seed, but because he shared with me in mind and a portion of the divine - I, then, can neither be harmed by any of these men, nor can I become angry with one who is akin to me, nor can I hate him, for we have come into being to work together, like feet, hands, or eyelids, or the two rows of teeth in our upper and lower jaws. To work against one another is therefore contrary to nature; and to be angry with another and turn away from him is surely to work against him.

I cannot say this is my favorite paragraph, only because I find each one surpasses the previous and stimulates in its own unique manner. Meditations has quickly moved into my top 100 book-list, and while I would be only too happy to write out passage after passage for you, I do urge you to read it for yourself as well. MIT has been kind enough to put a translation online.

A week of firsts

The week that just went by was my second week of the summer, and first week of this vacation. Apart from being the first of this vacation, the week brought several other firsts as well.

• For over a year, I haven't spent an entire week without a shred of work on my mind. This was that.
• I slept blissfully, abundantly, and helplessly - during the day, during the night, really anytime and all the time. My mom even came to wake me up once asking if there was something wrong and whether I needed her to take me to the doctor. (I slept through that as well, thinking it was but a dream until I checked later.) And this when just a few weeks before I left, I chided a friend for spending several hours of his vacation in bed. I could hardly believe it at first, for really, I've never been this sleep-crazy. It couldn't even have been sleep deprivation or jet lag beyond a point... I just freely willed it to come and it came.
  
• I read a book a day (and each book had 200+ pages). Given how much I was sleeping, this really is surprising.
  
• I learned how to work the Indian TV system - remote et al. - certainly the first time in years.
• I drank coke - again a first in years. I'm good for another few though :).
• I'm officially over my craze for Indian Chinese food. This was almost disappointing, because now I have nothing to pipe on about in terms of food in India. I'm not sure what happened, but it just doesn't do it for me anymore.

There were more, I'm sure of it, but I can't think of any now. Anyway, I shall look forward hence to a week of seconds :).

@Time Out

By a stroke of unplanned luck (yes, the luck that is usually unplanned), I found myself at Time Out this morning - the Time Out that is Reliance's gift to mankind, or book-lovers at the least - at Ambience mall in Gurgaon - affectionately known as 'Ambi' mall by its frequenters. I looked for Nine Lives by Salinger, and was promised a copy would arrive for me this Thursday. Other purchases were largely based on the 'calling-out-to-me' phenomenon belabored upon in last week's post. Here's the list:

1. Meditations by Marcus Aurelius - I've encountered mention of this book many times of late, each time with a quote or passage that has left its mark. Excerpts I met in Light from many Lamps this week firmed the resolve to read. As I browsed through the Philosophy component of the Religion and Philosophy section (the Religion more-than-half was covered last December), I was thrilled to find one lone copy of it. Am on page 7 now and can safely say it has (already) altered the course of my life.

2. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath - This was the first book I picked up, again motivated by excerpts I've read though I can't remember where. I've always had great respect for Plath too, though I can't remember why. I do, admittedly, have a soft corner for poets, but I suspect it was more than that...

3. Brida by Paolo Coelho - I'm not (yet) the die-hard Coelho fan who reads every one of his books; in fact, I've been quite content with having reading three thus far, which is why I looked past this book every visit to the bookstore of late. This time however, mom was with me, and when she explicitly brought my attention to it - aware that I'd just read The Pilgrimage - I felt the need to acknowledge it somehow... and my hand, without my knowledge, picked it up and added it to my pile.

4. Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino - This comes by recommendation. A trusted source. It helped that I have great faith in Calvino somehow, even if his book of Folk Tales that I own is not one I would wish on anyone save for obnoxious amusement (I kid you not).

5. Five Moral Pieces by Umberto Eco - An(other) impulse purchase. I've been meaning to explore Umberto Eco for a while, and this one didn't seem to demand too much of a commitment at first sight, unlike most others I've seen (i.e., size factor). The hope is that this will drive me closer to them.

6. My Friend Sancho by Amit Varma - I bought this at the counter where it sat staring me in the face, reminding me of a blog post I read very recently. The post drove me to check out this book for obvious reasons and I enjoyed the read (yes, it was read within hours of purchase). It was witty in parts and hilarious almost always, but the 'plot' lacked punch and I found myself longing for longer conversations, greater detail, and deeper introspections. I've obviously been generously spoiled by my recent readings though, and certainly not every read need drive me into the depths of my soul. In fact, laughter, they say, is where it's at. I take back my whining then. Go ahead and read it. It's only Rs. 195 anyway :).

The House By the Side of the Road

Here is a lovely poem I just read (and it has a lovely story to go with it, but I'll save that for a later time). A touching real-life encounter lent inspiration to the writing of this poem, now apparently the second most popular in America! (You've already seen the most popular, at least according to the book I read at present.)

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
And the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak,
They are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I;
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

- Sam Walter Foss

It is said that Foss's life was true to these words of his. Definitely a source of inspiration, don't you agree? I wonder if it would be wishful thinking to make this the goal of my life just as well... but solace is quickly found in the words of Robert Browning - "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp - or what's a heaven for?"

Emerson on Self-Reliance

I was just reading about Emerson in Light from Many Lamps, and it includes an excerpt from his essay on self-reliance, one of his most famous. There is much to be gained from his writings, by a soul if only it is willing. Wouldn't you agree?

There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better or worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. ...

Trust thyself; every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so. ...

My life is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady. ... Few and mean as my gifts may be, I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the assurance of my fellows any secondary testimony.

What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after your own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.

The rest of his essay can be found here, and the rest of his essays here.

The Chambered Nautilus

I am reading Light from many Lamps these days - a treasury of inspiration indeed (as it claims to be on its cover). It includes, with commentary, some of the greatest writings there have been - stemming from the depths of the human soul and therefore documenting its many journeys through the vicissitudes of life. This morning, I was, in particular, moved by the following verse from Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes's famous poem:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

While it is lovely indeed to come across a written word that pleases us, it is an exercise more illuminating, I find, to enquire into what it is that appeals to us really. Is there a need of the soul that is thence satisfied? And what is this need? Where does that stem from? The process is endless, and endlessly instructive. Is not the self a source of endless entertainment thus?

And one more...

Somehow, this excerpt found itself on the top of my list and wheedled its way into a post of its own. What was amazing about the book, I realized at this point of reading it, was that the plot - what was really 'happening' was sort-of just on the side and didn't really matter. What really mattered (to the author and thus to me) was the change in his spirit that he was so consciously living himself through.

I woke at dawn and walked rapidly along the beach towards the village; my heart was leaping in my breast. I had rarely felt so full of joy in my life. It was no ordinary joy, it was a sublime, absurd and unjustifiable gladness. Not only unjustifiable, contrary to all justification. This time I had lost everything – my money, my men, the line, the trucks; we had constructed a small port and now we had nothing to export. It was all lost.

Well, it was precisely at that moment that I felt an unexpected sense of deliverance. As if in the hard, somber labyrinth of necessity I had discovered liberty herself playing happily in a corner. And I played with her.

When everything goes wrong, what a joy to test your soul and see if it has endurance and courage! An invisible and all-powerful enemy – some call him God, others the Devil, seems to rush upon us to destroy us; but we are not destroyed.

Each time that within ourselves we are the conquerors, although externally utterly defeated, we human beings feel an indescribable pride and joy. Outward calamity is transformed into a supreme and unshakable felicity.

I remember something Zorba told me once: ‘One night on a snow-covered Macedonian mountain a terrible wind arose. It shook the little hut where I had sheltered and tried to tip it over. But I had shored it up and strengthened it. I was sitting alone by the fire, laughing at and taunting the wind. “You won’t get into my little hut, brother; I shan’t open the door to you. You won’t put my fire out; you won’t tip my hut over!”’

In these few words of Zorba’s I had understood how men should behave and what tone they should adopt when addressing powerful but blind necessity.

I walked rapidly along the beach, talking with the invisible enemy. I cried: “You won’t get into my little hut, brother; I shan’t open the door to you. You won’t put my fire out; you won’t tip me over!”’

And with this excerpt, Zorba, I bid thee farewell.

Zorba and Me

I finished reading the book a few days ago and dearly wished I could be a Zorba too... Here are some excerpts from my excerpts:

‘What happened to the crow, Zorba?’
‘Well, you see, he used to walk respectably, properly – well, like a crow. But one day he got it into his head to try and strut about like a pigeon. And from that time on the poor fellow couldn’t for the life of him recall his own way of walking. He was all mixed up, don’t you see? He just hobbled about.’

We stayed silent by the brazier until far into the night. I felt once more how simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else. And all that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple, frugal heart.

Because, as my master, Buddha, says: “I have seen.” And as I have seen and, in the twinkling of an eye, have got on good terms with the jovial and whimsical, invisible producer, I can henceforward play my part on earth to the end, that is to say coherently and without discouragement. For, having seen, I have also collaborated in the work in which I am acting on God’s stage.

I walked along the water’s edge playing a game with the waves. They ran up to try and wet me and I ran away. I was happy and said to myself: ‘This is true happiness: to have no ambition and to work like a horse as if you had every ambition. To live far from men, not to need them and yet to love them. To take part in the Christmas festivities and, after eating and drinking well, to escape on your own far from all snares, to have the stars above, the land to your left and the sea to your right: and to realize of a sudden that, in your heart, life has accomplished its final miracle: it has become a fairy-tale.’

‘What is your favorite dish, granddad?’
‘All of them, my son. It’s great sin to say this is good and that is bad.’
‘Why? Can’t we make a choice?’
‘No, of course we can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there are people who are hungry.’
I was silent, ashamed. My heart had never been able to reach that height of nobility and compassion.

‘Once when I was a kid – this’ll show you – I was mad on cherries. I had no money, so I couldn’t buy many at a time, and when I’d eaten all I could buy I still wanted more. Day and night I thought of nothing but cherries. I foamed at the mouth; it was torture! But one day I got mad, or ashamed, I don’t know which. Anyway, I just felt cherries were doing what they liked with me and it was ludicrous. So what did I do? I got up one night, searched my father’s pockets and found a silver mejidie and pinched it. I was up early the next morning, went to a market-gardener and bought a basket o’ cherries. I settled down in a ditch and began eating. I stuffed and stuffed till I was all swollen out. My stomach began to ache and I was sick. Yes, boss, I was thoroughly sick, and from that day to this I’ve never wanted a cherry. I couldn’t bear the sight of them. I was saved. I could say to any cherry: I don’t need you any more.’

We are little grubs, Zorba, minute grubs on the small leaf of a tremendous tree. This small leaf is the earth. The other leaves are the stars that you see moving at night. We make our way on this little leaf examining it anxiously and carefully. We smell it; it smells good or bad to us. We taste it and find it eatable. We beat on it and it cries out like a living thing.
‘Some men – the more intrepid ones – reach the edge of the leaf. From there we stretch out, gazing into chaos. We tremble. We guess what a frightening abyss lies beneath us. In the distance we can hear the noise of the other leaves of the tremendous tree, we feel the sap rising from the roots to our leaf and our hearts swell. Bent thus over the awe-inspiring abyss, with all our bodies and all our souls, we tremble with terror. From that moment begins …’
I stopped. I wanted to say ‘from that moment begins poetry’, but Zorba would not have understood. I stopped.

I could not and would not sleep. I thought of nothing. I just felt something, someone growing to maturity inside me in the warm night. I lived lucidly through a most surprising experience: I saw myself change. A thing that usually happens only in the most obscure depths of our bowels was the time occurring in the open, before my eyes. Crouched by the sea, I watched this miracle take place.

‘Well, as I was saying, this Hussein Aga was a saintly man. One day he took me on his knee and placed his hand on my head as though he was giving me his blessing. “Alexis,” he said, “I’m going to tell you a secret. You’re too small to understand now, but you’ll understand when you are bigger. Listen, little one: neither the seven storeys of heaven nor the seven storeys of the earth are enough to contain God; but a man’s heart can contain him. So be very careful, Alexis – and may my blessing go with you – never to wound a man’s heart!”’

Food for Thought

Below is the part that first endeared Zorba to me as I read the book.

'Look, one day I had gone to a little village. An old grandfather of ninety was busy planting an almond tree. “What, granddad!” I exclaimed. “Planting an almond tree?” And he, bent as he was, turned round and said: “My son, I carry on as if I should never die.” I replied: “And I carry on as if I was going to die any minute.” Which of us was right, boss?’ […]

I kept silent. Two equally steep and bold paths may lead to the same peak. To act as if death did not exist, or to act thinking every minute of death, is perhaps the same thing. But when Zorba asked me the question, I did not know.

‘Well?’ Zorba said mockingly. ‘Don’t worry, boss, you can’t argue that out. Let’s talk of something else. Just now I’m thinking of the chicken and the pilaf sprinkled with cinnamon. My brain’s steaming like the pilaf. Let’s eat first, ballast up first, then we’ll see. Everything in good time. In front of us now is the pilaf; let our minds become pilaf. Tomorrow the lignite will be in front of us; our minds must become lignite! No half-measures, you know.’

The Butterfly

My reading of Zorba... continues to be slow and easy. I read and re-read paragraphs often, just to drink in the beauty of the writing, the formulation of thought. I hope I always remember the lesson the following passage serves to instill:

I remembered one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the bark of a tree, just as the butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out. I waited a while, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient. I bent over it and breathed on it to warm it. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened, the butterfly started slowly crawling out and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled; the wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath. In vain. It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings should be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had forced the butterfly to appear, all crumpled, before its time. It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.

That little body is, I do believe, the greatest weight I have on my conscience. For I realize today that it is a mortal sin to violate the great laws of nature. We should not hurry, we should not be impatient, but we should confidently obey the eternal rhythm.

I sat on a rock to absorb this New Year's thought. Ah, if only that little butterfly could always flutter before me to show me the way.

Broken Dreams

Times of India has a 'Sacred Space' where it publishes inspiring poems, quotes, and prayers daily. Here is an adorable little poem that was published in today's sacred space, highlighting the importance of trust and patience:

As children bring their broken toys
with tears for us to mend,
I brought my broken dreams to God
because He is my friend.
But then instead of leaving Him
to do His work alone,
I hung around and tried to help
in ways that were my own.
At last I snatched them back and cried
"How could you be so slow?"
"My child," he said, "What could I do?"
"You never did let go."
- Anon

Zorba the Greek

Am reading Zorba the Greek now, and since I'm still reading it, this won't be a listing of all the quotes I liked in the book. Today, just one will do.

'Confucius says: "Many seek happiness higher than man; others beneath him. But happiness is the same height as man." This is true. So there must be a happiness to suit every man's stature. Such is, my dear pupil and master, my happiness of the day. I anxiously measure it and measure it again, to see what my stature of the moment is. For, you know this very well, man's stature is not always the same.

'How the soul of man is transformed according to the climate, the silence, the solitude, or the company in which it lives!

As I draw parallels between this book and Narcissus..., I realize that the beauty of both, as I see them, is that they bring out the dualities of life so wonderfully well. And truly, without any one of these aspects unrepresented, neither book would be worth a read.

This excerpt, in particular, made my mind rush to thoughts of acceptance; of truly living in the present with what we have. It also made me think of the fluidity of life, how it constantly transforms itself, when we feed it right.

I love this book.

Bridges of Madison County

It was a sweet and endearing love story; simple yet profound. It also served to remind that there is still 'magic' in this world, should one ever need one's faith restored. There is no single quote I could find that captured this magic, to be true, for the essence of the story lies not in its words (for me). The single lesson I drew from it was that of genuine, selfless, and unconditional love. And that lesson I shall forever hold close to heart.

franny and zooey

when i read salinger first (the catcher in the rye, that is), i didn't like him much, even though i knew i was supposed to. i just couldn't. i took refuge by saying that it was a great book, i just didn't identify with it very much.

i'm glad i needn't qualify my praises for him anymore. i loved franny and zooey. i love his writing. and i identify with it just fine. in fact, i identify with both franny and zooey. how's that for identification?!

the book is cleverly and creatively crafted (the alliteration was seriously unintentional), the characters are developed to perfection, the conversations are mindblowingly funny, and the 'plot' could scarcely have been of greater interest to me. i'll leave you to discover the rest. if you do plan to read it though, please don't read this post any further. all that has to be revealed in the book is pretty much revealed in these excerpts:

Concerning the Gods, there are those who deny the very existence of the Godhead; others say it exists, but neither bestirs nor concerns itself, nor has forethought for anything. A third party attribute to it existence and forethought, but only for great and heavenly matters, not for anything that is on earth. A fourth party admit things on earth as well as in heaven, but only in general, and not with respect to each individual. A fifth, of whom were Ulysses and Socrates, are those that cry: “I move not without Thy knowledge!” – Epictetus

"How in hell are you going to recognize a legitimate holy man when you see one if you don’t even know a cup of consecrated chicken soup when it’s right in front of your nose? Can you tell me that?”

“You can say the Jesus Prayer from now till doomsday, but if you don’t realize that the only thing that counts in the religious life is detachment, I don’t see how you’ll ever even move an inch. Detachment, buddy, and only detachment. Desirelessness. ‘Cessation from all hankering.’ It’s this business of desiring, if you want to know the goddamn truth, that makes an actor in the first place. Why’re you making me tell you things you already know? Somewhere along the line – in one damn incarnation or another, if you like – you not only had a hankering to be an actor or an actress but to be a good one. You’re stuck with it now. You can’t just walk out on the results of your own hankerings. Cause and effect, buddy, cause and effect. The only thing you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act. Act for God, if you want to – be God’s actress, if you want to. What could be prettier? You can at least try to, if you want to – there’s nothing wrong in trying.” There was a slight pause. “You’d better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around. I know what I’m talking about. You’re lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world. … and if you don’t know by now what kind of skull you want when you’re dead, and what you have to do to earn it – I mean if you don’t at least know by this time that if you’re an actress you’re supposed to act, then what’s the use of talking?”

“But the thing is, you raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddamn ‘unskilled laughter’ coming from the fifth row. And that’s right, that’s right – God knows it’s depressing. I’m not saying it isn’t. But that’s none of your business, really. That’s none of your business, Franny. An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection and on his own terms, not anyone else’s.”

"I just damn well wasn’t going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn’t see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again – all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. … This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and – I don’t know." … “He told me, too,” she said into the phone. “He told me to be funny for the Fat Lady, once.”

“I don’t care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I’ll tell you a terrible secret – Are you listening to me? There isn’t anyone out there who isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. … Don’t you know that goddam secret yet? And don’t you know … don’t you know who that Fat Lady really is? … It’s Christ himself, buddy.”

from ulysses

this powerful excerpt from tennyson's ulysses features on page 1 of kurien's i too had a dream.

Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
... Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
... Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

I Too Had a Dream

This is the autobiography of Dr. Verghese Kurien - the architect of 'Operation Flood', which made India the largest milk producer of the world. The story is inspiring and humbling, to say very little. Not only did I enjoy the details of India's progress from prevalent milk shortages to self-sufficient milk production, I loved learning about them from the eyes of this wise, honest, and unassuming leader - a leader who truly believed in the strength of his people, of India's farmers.

Reading this account was almost like reading a synopsis of India's political history as well, as Dr. Kurien mentioned the visits of the different prime ministers and presidents to Anand, where it all began. Some of the inspiring bits and a couple of interesting anecdotes (there were many more) are included below. And a poem which deserves a post of its own.

I have often spoken of integrity as the most important of these values, realizing that integrity – and personal integrity, at that – is being honest to yourself. If you are always honest to yourself, it does not take much effort in always being honest with others. I have also learnt what I am sure you, too, will find out someday.

Life is a privilege and to waste it would be wrong. In living this privilege called ‘Life’, you must accept responsibility for yourself, always use your talents to the best of your ability and contribute somehow to the common good. That common good will present itself to you in many forms every day. If you just look around you, you will find there is a lot waiting to be done: your friend may need some help, your teacher could be looking for a volunteer, or the community you live in will need you to make a contribution. I hope that you, too, will discover as I did, that failure is not about succeeding. Rather, it is about not putting in your best effort and not contributing, however modestly, to the common good.

And in the end, if we are brave enough to love, strong enough to rejoice in another’s happiness, and wise enough to know that there is enough to go around for all, then we would have lived our lives to the fullest.

Jawaharlal Nehru arrived at Anand to tremendous fanfare. His daughter, Indira Gandhi, accompanied him. We first took them to my house. We had already received detailed instructions about his breakfast, and how he liked his coffee and milk piping hot. However, we were faced with the slight problem of getting the right trademark rose for his buttonhole. It had to be got in advance but had to be kept at the right temperature because it must look absolutely fresh. It had to be the right shade of red, the right size and in just the right degree of bloom. Molly had to experiment with many a rose. She finally figured out that we would have to store the flower in the fridge for a certain time and keep it at room temperature for a certain time before offering it to the Prime Minister. We did all this and had the rose all ready for him. To our surprise, when Jawaharlal Nehru came out of the bedroom, he already had a rose in his buttonhole, picked from the flower vase in his bedroom. Then he saw us with the rose on a platter. He immediately removed the one from his buttonhole and put on the one Molly offered him.

One day while I was on one of my unannounced rounds in the cold store, I spotted an old employee, with a big moustache and a beard, who had opened the lid of one of the milk cans and was sucking the cream. Suddenly, he looked up and saw me. We stared at each other for a moment. There was cream dripping from his mouth, onto his chin and he faltered, ‘No, no Saheb, I am not drinking, I am not drinking.’ I just turned around and walked away. But the very next day, I told the Manager that every worker had to be given half a litre of milk. These men were handling vast quantities of milk all day long and they were hungry. It was not fair that they did not have a share of the milk.

I remember then explaining to Nirmala that it is terrible to have too little money because you will not even have enough to eat and appease your hunger. But it is far, far worse to have too much money because then you will surely get corrupt. Our family, I think, was truly very blessed because we always had only just enough.

On Symmetry

This morning, I read "The Equation That Couldn't Be Solved" by Mario Livio - an interesting book on symmetry from a mathematical perspective, also including considerable historical knowledge on some of the greatest mathematicians this world has known. I'd have loved to read this book before I took Abstract Algebra in undergrad, for it covers the introduction to Group Theory really well, also filling one with awe for Galois's short but productive life.

Although this book too featured famous quotes that were pleasant and enlightening, I shall, instead, leave you with one of its puzzles that I enjoyed:

Imagine that you have six equal-length matchsticks. Can you form four equilateral triangles out of these?

(PS: Have you noticed the slow and steady incorporation of caps into my typing? It's what they call change :).)

An evening expedition

As I sat twiddling my thumbs, out of books, I found that the car was available and I could make a quick trip to KM to get myself something to read. I set out within a minute, and after painstaking navigation through the traffic that KM is ever afloat, I entered Faqir Chand's. Wanting to meander through the book aisles on my own as I am accustomed, the privacy of my thoughts felt a little invaded when it was suddenly asked, "What are you looking for, Ma'am?" Out came "Fiction," and I was led to the latest and the greatest. But the latest and the greatest wasn't what I had in mind. It was the tried and tested that I was looking for, something that had, mmm, journeyed through time. After looking through the shelves distractedly, pausing briefly at Vikram Seth's "Two Lives," I decided to explore other aisles (though I felt guilty doing so under said invader's nose). I could've asked, but I didn't know what to say. "Old fiction" perhaps, "NOT the latest and the greatest, please" - unlikely. I did my own looking, squeezing my way through the narrow spaces between towering bookshelves. Found nothing that pleased, and wanted nothing more than to get out and rush to the next store. Irrational instinct, but what is one to do about instinct? One must resignedly obey.

At "Bahri Sons," I was more hopeful. I can hardly remember walking out of here empty-handed. But while I found numerous books on religion, my now-more-sustained less-crazed reading quest (certainly no offense, I look for Him now in subtler places), 'old' fiction I found none. I know Bertrand Russell awaits, and Vikram Seth just couldn't get enough of my attention, but there was something else I was looking for. I was driven out, either by said instinct or by the boy who dropped the ladder on my foot (but not as you think - my subsequent glare and characteristic slowness in uttering an "It's OK" made me groan inside... I quickly made an exit).

Next stop - Full Circle. I was here just yesterday (ha ha, life does indeed come 'full circle'), and I knew there was something to be found here. The thing is, when you know, you can't possibly not find anything and prove (what you think is) your instinct wrong. I walked back and forth through the shelves, mentally issuing commands for the books to call out to me. If instinct had brought me here, and instinct had filled me with hope, the calling out had to happen.

And it did. While I was open to being pulled to any book that wished to call out to me, I had in mind Hermann Hesse in general, and Bridges of Madison County in particular. Both made sense. Hermann Hesse has taken my life by storm lately, and Bridges... was just recommended by a thoughtful reader (and when recommendations enter the picture, serendipity enters the picture, and we all know how I feel about that).

So, it did. First, with Zorba the Greek. Not a recommendation but a stumbling upon first led me to read about the book. And then to quote from it here. Serendipitously. And if I'm quoting from an unread book, it does make sense to mark it read, yes? One down, and one (possibly two?) more to go.

In a flash, my eye fell on two copies of Bridges of Madison County sitting one atop the other. No, I didn't even look at the synopsis. It was a recommendation, and one doesn't question recommendations. Welll (let me qualify that), not when instinct backs it up so fiercely. Who's to question instinct?

Instinct also said I was done. But I decided I could still look around for more. I found a book on Tagore and Kabir. Lovely! Pick? Instinct said no, they don't know how to spell 'diverse', and on the back of the book, of all places. OK, I looked morosely, as I wistfully turned the pages and saw the word 'helmsman'. Helmsman. I guessed this would've read 'manjhi' in another tongue... and 'manjhi' was so much more attractive than 'helmsman'. I wasn't going to buy Kabir in English when I was soon to be surrounded by Kabir in Hindi, was I? It made little sense, you will agree.

I handed these books over at the counter, offered a 1000 rupee note, and waited. As I waited, I found these utterly fancy tour guides waiting to be picked up, looked at, but not bought. The one on Bangalore was more tempting than the others, but temptations such as these are easily resisted, phew! I thanked the book-keeper for the paper bag, but asked him to reuse it while I placed the books in my amply spacious and newly acquired (but old, old) Turkish handbag (a hand-me-down from the sister, of course). As I stepped out with a victorious spring in step, I was hit in the face by a sudden gush of dust being blown around in the air. Could it be? Heavens, this was a dust storm!

I couldn't stop smiling as I walked the long, uncovered route to the car. Oh, a dust storm after ages! And I was being stung by my first blissful drops of summer rain! All at the same time! The dust entered my eyes and I could barely keep them open, but I smiled regardless. And those cherished lines of the song came back to me...

'cos I'm free... nothin's worryin' me!

my antonia

my antonia is a present i was given by my aunt several years ago. her being a literary expert if there was one, i wonder why it took me almost 9 years to get to a book i was today done reading in a sitting! i had taken it with me on a flight from san francisco to bombay once, but when i started to read it, i was bored too soon. nebraskan prairies of the 1800s had not featured in my imagination before, and i was less than willing to make room for them then. i put the book aside, leaving it behind in india for better things to carry back instead. (this is where the familiar "oh gawd... was i really like that?" feeling creeps in).

the 'plot': antonia is an endearing little bohemian girl, who comes to live on a farm in nebraska with her immigrant family. here she meets jim, a lifelong friend in the form of a little boy who never falls short of adoration for her beauty and powers of endurance. the story is his, and no, it's not the kind of love story you'd imagine it to be.

while i enjoyed the life of farming, and the characters that made me wonder about years long gone, in mid-western (and perhaps other parts of) america, my heart went out to the lovely, strong antonia. i offer the very last paragraph which, for me, so quaintly encapsulates the essence of my antonia. mine indeed, for as jim says in the beginning, "It's through myself that I knew and felt her, and I've had no practice in any other form of presentation." it is through myself, and then jim, that i know and feel her...

This was the road over which Antonia and I came on that night when we got off the train at Black Hawk and were bedded down in the straw, wondering children, being taken we knew not whither. I had only to close my eyes to hear the rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by that obliterating strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near that I could reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of coming home to myself, and of having found out what a little circle man's experience is. For Antonia and for me, this had been the road of Destiny; had taken us to those early accidents of fortune which predetermined for us all that we can never be. Now I understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.

update

i'm tempted to leave the post empty, but it's been done before, so that would no longer be funny. although i'd like to say i was enforcing a no-internet/no-laptop policy to celebrate the end of my semester, i sheepishly accept that i'm too weak and unmotivated for that, but am glad to add that the three-day mtnl strike (wherein cables were cut and lines down) bestowed that kindness instead.

saturday brought with it the delightful election results that the country has gone nuts over (i'm talking about the stock exchange that went crazy yesterday!). and after all that whining about narcissus and goldmund, i couldn't put it down until i was done with the last page. that was past 3 in the morning.

most of sunday was spent at my sister's new place. i had hoped to offer some help with setting up their house, but jet lag hit again and i was overcome by the greatest desire to sleep. so sleep i did, until it was time to leave!

monday was my very first visit to khan market for the summer. ah, the joy! it was apparently 42 degrees, but i couldn't feel the heat at all. it was nice to bake, in fact, for a change. i took p and her cousin to cafe turtle, the choicest of cafes i have seen in delhi thus far. holds several candles to the cafes in berkeley :).

miscellaneous: yesterday was the k-day for movies: i saw kashmir ki kali, kate and leopold, and karz. as for books, i have devoured four since narcissus: franny and zooey, i too had a dream, the equation that couldn't be solved, and my antonia. not sure what to embark on next - suggestions and reminders are welcome.

Narcissus and Goldmund

Narcissus and Goldmund has been read and relived. It is ironic that a book I had been putting off for a while, and felt the need for a deeper source of patience to get back to, has turned out to be so special a read that I cannot think of many (if any) that I could (or would) place above it.

The book develops the characters of Narcissus and Goldmund so lovingly and with such tender detail, I have truly been able to immerse in the realities they bring forth. Indeed, I have recognized shades of myself in each, as every reader no doubt will. Hermann Hesse, in his true Nobel worth, speaks as though to voice one's innermost quests, leading to deep insights towards the same. Only an enlightened soul could possibly display such intent knowledge of the intricacies of duality that define human existence.

As always, excerpts do follow. Although I 'digitized' 3600 words in all, this may be an evil number to hit you with. I will share with you a fifth of the excerpts below and consider the left-over for a later time.

“We are sun and moon, dear friend; we are sea and land. It is not our purpose to become each other; it is to recognize each other, to learn to see the other and honor him for what he is: each the other’s opposite and complement.”

He thought that fear of death was perhaps the root of all art, perhaps also of all things of the mind. We fear death, we shudder at life’s instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do. Perhaps the woman after whom the master shaped his beautiful madonna is already wilted or dead, and soon he, too, will be dead; others will live in his house and eat at his table - but his work will still be standing a hundred years from now, and longer. It will go on shimmering in the quiet cloister church, unchangingly beautiful, forever smiling with the same sad, flowering mouth.

“Because when a man tries to realize himself through the gifts with which nature has endowed him, he does the best and only meaningful thing he can do. ... It is a philosophical concept, I can’t express it in any other way. For us disciples of Aristotle and St. Thomas, it is the highest of all concepts: perfect being. God is perfect being. Everything else that exists is only half, only a part, is becoming, is mixed, is made up of potentialities. But God is not mixed. He is one, he has no potentialities but is the total, the complete reality. Whereas we are transitory, we are becoming, we are potentials; there is no perfection for us, no complete being. But wherever we go, from potential to deed, from possibility to realization, we participate in true being, become by a degree more similar to the perfect and divine. That is what it means to realize oneself. You must know this from your own experience, since you’re an artist and have made many statues. If such a figure is really good, if you have released a man’s image from the changeable and brought it to pure form - then you have, as an artist, realized this human image.”

“Our thinking is a constant process of converting things to abstractions, a looking away from the sensory, an attempt to construct a purely spiritual world. Whereas you take the least constant, the most mortal things to your heart, and in their very mortality show the meaning of the world. You don’t look away from the world; you give yourself to it, and by your sacrifice to it raise it to the highest, a parable of eternity. We thinkers try to come close to God by pulling the masks of the world away from His face. You come closer to Him by loving His creation and recreating it. Both are human endeavors, and necessarily imperfect, but art is more innocent.”

“Neither of us can ever understand the other completely in such things. But there is one realization all men of good will share: in the end our works make us feel ashamed, we have to start out again, and each time the sacrifice has to be made anew.”

He knew nothing of the figure’s origin; Goldmund had never told him Lydia’s story. But he felt everything; he saw that the girl’s form had long lived in Goldmund’s heart. Perhaps he had seduced her, perhaps betrayed and left her. But, truer than the most faithful husband, he had taken her along in his soul, preserving her image until finally, perhaps after many years in which he had never seen her again, he has fashioned this beautiful, touching statue of a girl and captured in her face, her bearing, her hands all the tenderness, admiration, and longing of their love. He read much of his friend’s history too, in the figures of the lectern pulpit in the refectory. It was the story of a wayfarer, of an instinctive being, of a homeless, faithless man, but what had remained of it here was all good and faithful, filled with living love. How mysterious this life was, how deep and muddy its waters ran, yet how clear and noble what emerged from them.

He had not only sacrificed his horse, his satchel, and his gold pieces; other things, too, had gotten lost or deserted him: youth, health, self-confidence, the color in his cheeks and the force in his eyes. Yet he liked his image: this weak old fellow in the mirror was dearer to him than the Goldmund he had been for so long. He was older, weaker, more pitiable, but he was more harmless, he was more content, it was easier to get along with him. He laughed and pulled down one of the eyelids that had become wrinkled. Then he went back to bed and this time fell asleep.

sievings

the semester is over, the school year is over, the newness of the phd program is over, and with those, the journey of a thousand steps... leading seamlessly on to another. much has been gained, much has been lost, but all to immensely gainful end. rays of sunshine, fewer clouds - i am grateful.

election results were announced today, and as always, when the voices of the land have spoken, rich and poor alike, there is a deep satisfaction within that everyone has had their say, no matter which say it was in the end. hurrah for freedom! hurrah for democracy!

until yesterday, i did not know who to root for, though i was definitely anti certain forces in both parties. after spending hours in front of the tv listening to all kinds of critiques from all kinds of directions, i am feeling much happier to have discovered today's results. indeed, almost as happy as i was on the day that obama won. i trust that the best outcome has resulted from these weeks of phenomenal electoral effort.

after a fulfilling 4-hour nap this afternoon, i resumed my reading of narcissus and goldmund. i find it hard to confess that it was quite a challenge, as i struggled to keep my eyes on the book. in a flash i was reminded of a conversation with a last week, on her recently discovered patience with reading. and this is how inspiration takes effect - i thought to myself, "geez, why can't i?" i know i shall now finish the book, no matter what. thank you, a. the importance of role models is not to be underestimated!

after several days of largely evenminded peace, i've been in angst mode for a few. the best analogy i can concoct is that of a chicken that breaks out of the egg-shell, except to find herself in yet another egg-shell that she must grow strong enough to break out of, and so on. i'm feeling that angst of needing to break myself out of this current shell. however, what this shell or its breaking allude to, time only shall tell.

ruk jana nahi...

as dad and i drove home from dinner a few minutes ago, i heard this song on the radio. it used to be one of my most loved songs at a time, and i've always found the lyrics deeply inspirational. before i get back to the last 12 hours of my semester, i thought i'd add in my bit for the day (a modest attempt at translation alongwith).

perhaps some context would help. vinod khanna, in one of his far superior roles imho, comes to a small town as a professor in a local college. of respectable persona and intellect, he is loved by all. a little too much though, leading to jealous vibes that accuse him of a crime he did not commit. if i recall correctly, the misunderstanding is resolved, but he chooses to leave anyway. this song features as he says his goodbyes, leaving the audience in tears, but naturally.

ruk jana nahi tu kahin haar ke
kaaton pe chal ke milenge saaye bahaar ke
o rahi, o rahi...

o traveler,
don't lose heart before the journey is completed
walking on thorns will indeed lead you to beauty unimagined

saathi na karavan hai, ye tera imtihan hai
yohin chala chal dil ke sahare
karti hai manzil tujhko ishare
dekh kahin koi rok nahi le tujhko pukar ke
o rahi, o rahi...

without companion, without support - this is your test
to walk on ahead with the strength of your heart
your goal beckons
don't let anything keep you from it
o traveler...

nain aansoo jo liye hain, ye rahon ke diye hain
logon ko unka sabkuchh deke
tu to chala tha sapne hi leke
koi nahi to tere apne hain sapne ye pyaar ke
o rahi, o rahi...

the tears that your eyes hold, these are the lamps in your path
having given back to people what was theirs
you had set out, dreams in tow
if nothing else, these dreams of love are yours
o traveler...

suraj dekh ruk gaya hai, tere aage jhuk gaya hai
jab kabhi aise koi mastana,
nikle hai apni dhun mein deewana
shaam suhani ban jate hain din intezaar ke
o rahi, o rahi...

see, the sun has stopped to bow before you
whenever a hero such as you
follows his calling undistracted
days of waiting transform into beautiful evenings
o traveler...

more emerson

emerson has led to considerable ponderings with his beautiful language and exquisite thoughts. here is a quote i just stumbled upon. a lesson in selflessness, trust, and friendship:

It has seemed to me lately more possible than I knew, to carry a friendship greatly, on one side, without due correspondence on the other. Why should I cumber myself with regrets that the receiver is not capacious? It never troubles the sun that some of his rays fall wide and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the reflecting planet. Let your greatness educate the crude and cold companion. If he is unequal, he will presently pass away; but thou art enlarged by thy own shining, and, no longer a mate for frogs and worms, dost soar and burn with the gods of the empyrean. It is thought a disgrace to love unrequited. But the great will see that true love cannot be unrequited. True love transcends the unworthy object, and dwells and broods on the eternal, and when the poor interposed mask crumbles, it is not sad, but feels rid of so much earth, and feels its independency the surer. Yet these things may hardly be said without a sort of treachery to the relation. The essence of friendship is entireness, a total magnanimity and trust. It must not surmise or provide for infirmity. It treats its object as a god, that it may deify both.

i am reminded, also, of the olema retreat whence s, one of the retreatants, mentioned the trees as a source of inspiration. also as s had said earlier at the same retreat. that the trees, the leaves, the animals there - they are there only to give, and in that their presence is fulfilled. they never ask for a thing in return. likewise the sun, as emerson so truly points out. and so the earth, as this earlier post conveys through byron katie's writing. we have so many models of selflessness to guide ourselves with, a little refinement will do the trick.

"through thee the rose is red"

i was setting up my feed reader in my mail client (to have posts come to me rather than have me go to them... it was high time), and i ran into this soul-touching poem a had posted not too long ago. (no wonder i have so many posts, if i keep lifting poems from everyone else's thus!) another one of those things that, although i enjoyed on a first read, only hit home this morning. after all, there must be a cosy nook created within for the masterpiece to settle into. it was today.

Friendship
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs;
The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.
I fancied he was fled,
And, after many a year,
Glowed unexhausted kindliness
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again-
O friend, my bosom said,
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red,
All things through thee take nobler form
And look beyond the earth,
The mill-round of our fate appears
A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair;
The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.

on bread rolls and heidi

i haven't a clue if these bread rolls i've grown up with are an india-wide phenomenon or really only a home-wide phenomenon, but as a friend asked me to explain what they were the other day, i realized there was once a time when i'd think they were a worldwide phenomenon.

when i was 8 and reading heidi (the book my childhood loved above all others), i was clear as day that i wanted to be heidi in my next birth (this conviction lasted many years). i loved her home, the mountains that were her life, her grandfather, her peter, most of all her love and innocence towards life. i also loved the bread rolls that she loved when she went away to live with the family (names, places forgotten now). i didn't know what hers were like (and i suppose she wouldn't have known about mine), but i still retain my clear image of heidi eating these balls of potatoes wrapped and fried in slices of bread. i could never quite imagine why her bread rolls were white and fluffy (it is why she loved them best), because mine were reddish-brown and toasty. i remember asking someone (my mom or sister) for a clarification then, and being informed of this other kind of bread that existed in this other part of the world.

i haven't ever forgotten that story of the bread rolls. and each time i see something that conforms to the image heidi left behind in my head, i do indeed fill with fondness. it is that one thing that ties us together still, after all these years.

on reading the gita

this is a most adorable little story that was sent to me by a, who received it in her mail from s, and who in turn received it on a list initiated by the ramakrishna math in chennai. inspired thus, i look forward to many, many more readings of the gita :).

"An old farmer lived on a farm in the mountains with his young grandson. Each morning, Grandpa was up early sitting at the kitchen table reading his Bhagavat Geeta. His grandson wanted to be just like him and tried to imitate him in every way he could. One day the grandson asked, "Grandpa! I try to read the Bhagawat Geeta just like you but I don't understand it, and what I do understand, I forget as soon as I close the book. What good does reading the Bhagawat Geeta do?"

The Grandfather quietly turned from putting coal in the stove and replied, "Take this coal basket down to the river and bring me back a basket of water."

The boy did as he was told, but all the water leaked out before he got back to the house.

The grandfather laughed and said, "You'll have to move a little faster next time," and sent him back to the river with the basket to try again.

This time the boy ran faster, but again the basket was empty before he returned home. Out of breath, he told his grandfather that it was impossible to carry water in a basket, and he went to get a bucket instead.

The old man said, "I don't want a bucket of water; I want a basket of water. You're just not trying hard enough," and he went out the door to watch the boy try again.

At this point, the boy knew it was impossible, but he wanted to show his grandfather that even if he ran as fast as he could, the water would leak out before he got back to the house. The boy again dipped the basket into river and ran hard, but when he reached his grandfather the basket was again empty.

Out of breath, he said, "SEE.... it is useless!"

"So you think it is useless?" The old man said, "Look at the basket."

The boy looked at the basket and for the first time realized that the basket was different. It had been transformed from a dirty old coal basket and was now clean, inside and out.

"Son, that's what happens when you read the Bhagavat Geeta. You might not understand or remember everything, but when you read it, you will be changed, inside and out. That is the work of Lord Krishna in our lives." "

refining the mind's eye

thinking about photography led to an insight which, if i have mentioned before, do forgive my most un-photographic memory:

i've often said that in a photo, it's the responsibility of the photographer to bring out the greatest beauty in the subject (as opposed to it being the subject's problem). so when a photo is technically good, but not flattering to the subject, i'd say it was a photo ill-taken. the ongoing effort then has been to refine that photographer's eye so as to capture beauty to the highest degree possible, with every scene, in every circumstance.

it's true that there's no way to determine 'best' or 'highest' in any objective fashion. and so the most i can offer is that i do the best/highest as far as possible, given my current and ever-changing state of knowledge and experience, and with single intent.

should translation from the photographer's eye to the mind's eye be so hard? so that all that is captured, iteratively, is the beauty that is utmost?

[clarification: i refer to translation as from being with a camera to being without a camera. just as the photographer's eye attunes itself iteratively to seeing the greatest beauty, so would i like the mind's eye to attune itself iteratively.]

where the heart is

election fever is on. ipl fever is on. and if something isn't a fever, it will nevertheless feel that way on indian tv.

i've eaten alfonsoes, rasmalai, pav bhaji (x3), french toast, sambar, aloo capsicum, egg curry, nutre-nugget, bhindi, tori, aloo gobhi, kadhi, aloo parval, breadroll, aloo tikki, cold cofee, chai and rusk, mango shake... have there been this many meals?

i've taken a walk on the dew-laden grass on a pleasant indian summer evening with bare feet and experienced unbeatable joy.

i've taken my first cold shower in ages. a luxury i wouldn't afford myself across the world. i did, admittedly, shiver through it.

i've drifted in and out of naps at will (knowing i will be woken up one way or another) under the indian fan which sounds like a train sometimes (if you know what i mean).

i've been eaten by mosquitoes and reacquainted myself with hit, all out, and odomos.

i've seen a mouse run across my room. my mom says it's her pet mouse and it came to say hello to me :).

i've seen my sister - sans kids - for the very first time.

i still also have two papers to start writing. but all in all, life is great. stay tuned for more greatness ;).

the secret of the sword

typed up below are the green stickied parts of the pilgrimage (thank you, a). while they spoke to me in particular ways, i'll be grateful to have them speak to you in any way :). i suggest you skip reading, however, if you plan to read the book... or just be warned that the 'secret' of the book is revealed here. and with this post, the karma of the book and me resolves itself.

"Try to find pleasure in a speed that you're not used to. Changing the way you do routine things allows a new person to grow inside of you. But when all is said and done, you're the one who must decide how you handle it."

"When we renounce our dreams and find peace, we go through a short period of tranquility. But the dead dreams begin to rot within us and to infect our entire being. We become cruel to those around us, and then we begin to direct this cruelty against ourselves. That's when illnesses and psychoses arise. What we sought to avoid in combat - disappointment and defeat - came upon us because of our cowardice. And one day, the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we actually seek death. It's death that frees us from our certainties, from our work, and from that terrible peace of our Sunday afternoons."

"But it was useless to try to save the world: I hadn't even been able to save myself yet."

"The messenger performs only one function for you: he helps you with regard to the material world. And he will give you this help only if you know exactly what it is that you want."

"The other day we talked about the cruelty that people are capable of inflicting on themselves. Often, when we try to demonstrate that life is good and generous, such people reject the idea as if it came from the devil. People don't like to ask too much of life because they are afraid they will be defeated. But if someone wants to fight the good fight, that person must view the world as if it were a marvelous treasure waiting to be discovered and won."

"You are here, searching for a reward. You are daring to dream, and you are doing everything possible to make your dream come true. You need to have a better idea of what it is that you are going to do with your sword; this has to be clearer to you before we can find it. ... The language of your heart is what is going to determine the best way to find and use your sword. ... But you will find your sword only if you discover that the Road and the truth and the life are in your heart."

"We are always trying to convert people to a belief in our own explanation of the universe. We think that the more people there are who believe as we do, the more certain it will be that what we believe is the truth. But it doesn't work that way at all."

"There is no religion that is capable of bringing all of the stars together, because if this were to happen, the universe would become a gigantic, empty space and would lose its reason for existence. Every star - and every person - has their own space and their own special characteristics. There are green stars, yellow stars, blue stars, and white stars, and there are comets, meteors and meteorites, nebulas and rings. What appear from down here to be a huge number of bodies that are similar to each other are really a million different things, spread over a space that is beyond human comprehension."

C: "How do you manage to see the game when your back is always to the field and you are inciting the fans?" A:"That's what gives me satisfaction. Helping the fans believe in victory."

"It's a good idea to always do something relaxing prior to making an important decision in your life," he said. "The Zen monks listen to the rocks growing. I prefer fishing."

"But agape is much more than liking. It is a feeling that suffuses, that fills every space in us, and turns our aggression to dust."

"Don't be cruel with yourself, or you will not have learned the lesson I taught you before. Be kind. Accept the praise that you deserve."

"Still, being fragile creatures, humans always try to hide from themselves the certainty that they will die. They do not see that it is death itself that motivates them to do the best things in their lives. They are afraid to step into the dark, afraid of the unknown, and their only way of conquering that fear is to ignore the fact that their days are numbered. They do not see that with an awareness of death, they would be able to be even more daring, to go much further in their daily conquests, because then they would have nothing to lose - for death is inevitable."

C: "Actually, I was more frightened by the way in which I would die than by death itself." P: "Well then, tonight take a look at the most frightening way to die."

"... a disciple such as you can never imitate his guide's steps. You have your own way of living your life, of dealing with problems, and of winning. Teaching is only demonstrating that it is possible. Learning is making it possible for yourself."

"Our enemy always represents our weaker side. This may be a fear of physical pain, but it may also be a premature sense of victory or the desire to abandon the fight because we define it as not being worth the effort."

As we walked, I asked him what, in a battle situation, was a person's greatest source of strength in trying to defeat the enemy. "Your present. We defend ourselves best through what we are doing right now, because that is where agape and the will to win, through enthusiasm, are. And there's another thing I want to make very clear: the enemy rarely represents evil. He is an everyday presence, and it is he that keeps our sword from rusting in its scabbard."

"... people who consider themselves wise are often indecisive when command is called for and rebellious when they are called upon to obey. They are ashamed to give orders and consider it dishonorable to receive them. Don't ever be that way."

"If you succeed in finding your sword, you will have to teach the Road to someone else. And only when that happens - when you accept your role as a Master - will you learn all the answers you have in your heart. Each of us knows the answers, even before someone tells us what they are. Life teaches us lessons every minute, and the secret is to accept that only in our daily lives can we show ourselves to be as wise as Solomon and as powerful as Alexander the Great. But we become aware of this only when we are forced to teach others and to participate in adventures as extravagant as this one has been."

"Throughout our time on the Strange Road to Santiago, the only thing I had wanted to know was where it was hidden. I had never asked myself why I wanted to find it or what I needed it for. All of my efforts had been bent on reward; I had not understood that when we want something, we have to have a clear purpose in mind for the thing that we want. The only reason for seeking a reward is to know what to do with that reward. And this was the secret of my sword."

contd.

"Pity those who eat and drink and sate themselves, but are unhappy and alone in their satiety. But pity even more those who fast, and who censure and prohibit, and who thereby see themselves as saints, preaching your name in the streets. For neither of these types of people know thy law that says, 'If I bear witness of myself, my witness is not true.'

"Pity those who fear death, and are unaware of the many kingdoms through which they have already passed, and the many deaths they have already suffered, and who are unhappy because they think that one day their world will end. But have even more pity for those who already know their many deaths, and today think of themselves as immortal. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, 'Except that one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.'

"Have pity on those who bind themselves with the silken ties of love, and think of themselves as masters of others, and who feel envy, and poison themselves, and who torture themselves because they cannot see that love and all things change like the wind. But pity even more those who die of their fear of loving and who reject love in the name of a greater love that they know not. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, 'Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst.'

"Pity those who reduce the cosmos to an explanation, God to a magic potion, and humanity to beings with basic needs that must be satisfied, because they never hear the music of the spheres. But have even more pity on those who have blind faith, and who in their laboratories transform mercury into gold, and who are surrounded by their books about the secrets of the Tarot and the power of the pyramids. Neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, 'Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.'

"Pity those who see no one but themselves, and for whom others are a blurred and distant scenario as they pass through the streets in their limousines and lock themselves in their air-conditioned penthouse offices, as they suffer in silence the solitude of power. But pity even more those who will do anything for anybody, and are charitable, and seek to win out over evil only through love. For neither of these kinds of people know thy law that says, 'Let he who has no sword sell his garment and buy one.'

"Have pity, Lord, on we who seek out and dare to take up the sword that you have promised, and who are a saintly and sinful lot scattered throughout the world. Because we do not recognize even ourselves, and often think that we are dressed, but we are made; we believe that we have committed a crime, when in reality we have saved someone's life. And do not forget in your pity for all of us that we hold the sword with the hand of an angel and the hand of a devil, and that they are both the same hand. Because we are of the world, and we continue to be of the world, and we have need of thee. We will always be in need of thy law that says, 'When i sent you without your money bag, knapsack, and sandals, you lacked nothing.'"

Petrus ended his prayer. As silence prevailed, he gazed out over the field of wheat that surrounded us.

there's the end. sometimes i think we don't need a 1,000 prayers to guide us. just one of these will do. but the human mind was built to forget, and thank god that it is so. all we need then, is to constantly remind. it seems like a small price to pay...