Friday, November 14, 2008

Suchness

Dearest,

days move by with increasing intensity.
intensity, not out of 'action',
but un-action. or non-action.

alone in the Alone.
but no boredom. and no despair.


and then, an unexplainable mercy fills the heart.
no,not plain ol' vanity.
but omniscient Suchness,


Suchness.

there is no dukka.
all there is,
is Karuna.
unquenchable wetness.
and love.

*-*-*

the bong girl from manipal
who is trying hard to be that hippie-in-her-mind.
the sad, sad little girl trying to move beyond the burdens of her little self,
and let her hair loose.
the drunken philosophers,
who crack foucault jokes all the time.
and wondering within themselves,
why don't they ever get high!
the introspective Luddite from Germany,
tingling the beer glass and lost in deep thought,
worrying about the performance for the night,
of the shame & void that the premature creates.

all the superfluousness, the shallowness, the self-pity,
of which i would be shrewdly judgmental about,
there is none of that now.
the random chatter inside is, somehow, off.

all there is,
is pure Suchness.

the gigantic play of identities.
and their constant orchestrated negotiation,
to be the Self that they truly are.
the unconscious, ever-present
search for the unifying, coherent whole
from the fragments.

is there such a thing called a 'coherent, unifying identity'?

i dunno,

but every time,
my
eyes,
invariably,
helplessly,
become wet.

zillion life histories dawn in front of me.


Sunrise at Hampi.
Sunset at Varkala.
NYC from the top of Empire state.
Snowflakes. And crushed Coke tins.

the mountaineer whom i met at kannur.
and Appa's asthma.
the Spaniard traveling all around the world for 16 years.
and Amma's everyday crushed bus rides.
Paul Gaugin.
and Paati carrying her tamarind bag on head.

where the world
and the-other-world
meets,
there is no space, non-space and negative space,
no culture, counter-culture and a-culture,
and there is no being, non-being and un-being.

All there is,
is just,
the alone
in the Alone.

Friday, August 08, 2008

"
...
...

I try to find a way to make
all our little joys relate
without that ever-present hate
but now I know that it's to late, and...


The game of life is hard to play
I'm going to lose it anyway
the losing card I'll someday lay
so this is all I have to say


The only way to win is cheat
and lay it down before I'm beat
and to another give my seat
for that's the only painless feat


The sword of time will pierce our skins
it doesn't hurt when it begins
but as it works its way on in
the pain grows stronger...watch it grin but...


A brave man once requested me
to answer questions that are key
is it to be or not to be
and I replied 'oh why ask me?"

- N.D.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Silent Melody

Ave Maria - Schubert

From where does
Symphony 40,
or Moonlight Sonata,
or Pink Moon,
Arise?

from where does
that flower,
which blossoms
day and night,
blossom?


i want to touch that flower
and mix in its frangnance
and become the music
which arises
day and night.

but there is a river
which runs between
me
and the music
and the flower.

i could never cross the river
and touch the flower

but the flower blossoms
every day and night

and the music arise
from some unknown abyss

If you meet Nazarene on the road, Kick him

the recluse fixed up
an appointment with
the good ol' yogi
from Nazareth.


'redeem me you scum, you fukin delivery boy', recluse said

The Nazarene smiled and said,
'From where?
To where?'

recluse got angry and said,

'you fukin boorshua..
ur making spineless slaves outta ordinary men..
you and your phony preachings...
you are the fukin biggest economic hitman...
gloryfying misery and hunger and starvation.
and givin false beliefs to people
that suffering is the path to salvation..

there is no redemption
there is no salvation
there is no soul
there is no nothing..
you are a fukin CIA agent' .

He got up
and kicked the yogi.

And then went on and
wrote a book,"If you meet Nazarene on the road, Kick him!"

a practial guide on Kicking, it was even used by ManU football coach, which became a bestseller.


Nazarene smiled.
and said

'ji is us'

On How to Run Over a Calf and give an Elevator pitch in 30 seconds

the recluse became a champion in givin Elevator pitch,
and thereby
became a superstar Salesman.

he was riding his bike
thinking about writing his
next bestseller
on,
'How to give a stellar elevator pitch in 30 seconds'.

while he was deeply thinking
and thinking deeply about this impending bestseller,
a Calf strolled across the road.
the recluse ran over it
and its hind leg got caught in the wheel.
it dragged itself along with the bike
for a full 30 seconds
until the recluse pressed the brake hard.

and then,
the Calf released itself from the wheel
and walked across,
as if nothing happenned.

The onlookers were puzzled.

the recluse,
thus,
got Enlightened.



The End.

On How To make friends and Influence people

the recluse poked and tickled Sisyphus
and stole the rock from him
and tied it to his leg.

he brought it to the town
and threatened to throw it over people,
if they refused to be his friends.

they obliged.
and thus,
he wrote the book,
a practical guide on
'How to make friends and Influence people',
which became a best-seller.

On how to stop worrying and start living

the recluse thought of writing a gloomy poem,
but gave up
laughing at the futility of writing one.
and the recluse thought of not writing a gloomy poem,
but gave up
laughing at the futility of not writing one.

it struck him that if writing one is as futile as
not writing one,
then,
why dontya hang himself!

and from there on
the recluse thought about hanging himself.
but gave up
laughing at the futility of hanging himself.
and the recluse thought of not hanging himself,
but gave up
laughing at the futility of not hanging himself.

And from thereon
he thought of writing a gloomy poem.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Friday, May 23, 2008

A Book of Gaalis

My friend is going to write something called 'A Book of Gaalis'.

It is an indepth study on the ontogeny and phylogeny of 'Gaalis' and on how 'Gaalis' evolved from the Neanderthals to the Cro-Magnon to the Pleistocene to the Pre-Modern to the Modern to the Post-Modern to the Post-Post-Modern.

He says it is about the epistemology of 'cuss words' and examines the ever illuding relationship between 'Gaalis' and 'Gnosis'. Also, the humble attempt tries to interpret the ontological design behind the *being* and *becoming* of 'Gaalis'.

Heavily drawn upon concepts ranging from Heidegger's 'Dasein' and 'Throwness' to Marla Singer's 'Putness' to Michael Foucault's 'Hermeneutics of the Subject' to Julia Kristeva's 'Intersubjectivity', it tries to bringforth a framework to understand the ontology of 'Gaalis' and henceforth, the human condition(or the condition of being 'human').

He would like to extend his thanks to Prof.Jack Norton, Lucassian Professor of Philosophy,Economics & Drudgery & honorable Chair of the Saponify Center for Advanced Studies at Fincher School of Business, Ann Arbor and to Prof.Tyler Burden, Professor of Bio-Chemistry, Chair of Raymond.K.Hassel Center for Alternate Psychotheraphy at Palahniuk School of Medicine and co-founder of 'CounterCulture LLC' (private equity spinoff of Bukowski Corp., Bay Area, CA) for their constant support, guidance and inspiration. He would like to dedicate this book to them.

Since the author of the book is not contended with *mere* theoritical approaches, he has also tried to seamlessly move beyond the realm of *theories* and plunged into the spheres of practice as well. Each chapter has this no-holds-barred attempt on throwing "Gaalis' at his friends, relatives, the people they knew and other such losers. Watch out!


*-*-*
Excerpts from the book

Chaper 6

Do I give you the ass or the crotch? - A question of Etiquette
An Ontological Study


His name is Patel.
but people call him Pattu
and you can call him Pony boy.

he was the roomie
whose life I made miserable
and thus,
I became
the Rumi.

Pattu would be Jesus,.
if god had a really nasty sense of humour,,
or a tumour in the balls

Now. Cut-to-the-chase.

Pattu is a pig, ney he is a cow.
an ugly fat two headed cow.
You think that is a joke. NO . Pattu is a joke.
Pattu thinks bats are like cows,

Pussy cow Pattu
MOO MOO Pattu


Pattuisms:


"I dont smaaake ... I only rooll"

"You knaaawwww.. in raichur it snows ...its sooooo caallllldd...
you have to wear eskimo suit all the time...
raichur is taller than the himalayas..."

"i cant waaaalk aaaand smaake man.,its naat good to waaalk and smaaake..."

"aaaaimmm a leoo.....leoos are lioooooooons...
I aaaaaaam naaaaaaaaat a GUUJJJU"

" if u daant smoke up u are no moore my fraand!
old time sake maan "

" capris are very cannning,,,very calculating,
you maaatherfaaaking capri"


" heeey machha,
chaaek aaaout maaah saaide baarns.
daaant i look jaaast like Sandy(Sandeep Shenoy)...
I aaam jaast laaaike hisss twaain saaaister"

"you pastard"

"aam naat draaank.....i caan draive ma baaaaaike...zzum bolke ..zup bolke..
naaonee caan drive faaster thaaan meee" (and a chic in scooty overtakes..)

" pleaaase daaaant hit me on the haaaeddd..
i daaant likee it...
it iss very soft and delicate
come macccchaaa give my haaedd some haeeed"

"You knoooowww.. in ramakrishna they milk the cows with music.
they plaay music cause their own calfs sing this music"

"Madrassi hogaaaa tera baap!!"

" You knowww ... its written on the road (the road next to 5th block going down to haunted house) that BEWARE HINDUS WE WILL KILL YOU ALLLLLL....
i swear i know perfect kannada.."

"Laaaaaaast MAAAAAAAAN sTANNNNNDING......
WAAAAAAAAAAH"

*-*-*

Releasing this July!

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

A Bird Said, 'I'

A student asked a Zen master 'Master, when will the 'craving' ever stop?'

Master replied, 'When the fruit is ripe enough!'

'But, when-oh-when will the fruit be ripe enough?'

'Well, when the craving stops'.
*-*-*


The river of time drifts through. The fish which jumped out froze in space like an inverted U. From there, it looks at the river. It was struck by the monotony of the river and got bewildered seeing its lengths and depths. It saw the river flowing southward. It meditated with the flow and saw the second, third and fourth dimensions of the river. The river was flowing in 4 directions, it realized. All at the same time. But as soon as it saw the fifth dimesion, it jumped back into the river again.

*-*-*-*-

The construction of space-time in one's mind and how one starts to make sense of it is still one of the most pressing question in various fields - from Developmental psychology to Cognitive Neuroscience to Cultural Anthropology. Developmental theorists and Genetic epistemologists like Jean Piaget came up with few theories explaining the 'Ontogeny' of this i.e. how an *individual* organism grows organically and the biological unfolding of events involved in an organism, leading to the ways and means of how one makes sense of 'space' and 'time'. Piaget's famous studies on 'Stages of Cognitive Development' and Margaret Mahler's profound works on 'Theories of Child Development' and on 'how children arrive at the concept of "Self"' gave some brilliant insights.

Jean Gebser explained the 'Phylogeny' of this i.e. sequence of events involved in the evolutionary development of the *species* explaining how the collective consiousness evolved and how it made sense out of space-time in each major passing epoch. The *pre-temporal* 'slumber in subconsiousness' of the 'Archaic' age, wherein there was this material adualism, an absense of distinction between the self and the environment, the inside and the outside evolved into the *proto-temporal* Neanderthals and Cro-Magnon man, wherein there is a faint differentiation between self and the environment, with the lack of the concept of 'tomorrow', which was marked by the frequent tribal wars to survive that day, the simple-present. Language evolved during the 50,000 BC, during the late Pleistocene, which led to 'palaeologic thinking' and thus consiousness became *tensed*, with an 'extended time', beyond the just-simple-present. Around 12000 BC, language enabled to think interms of abstract, non-present entities like 'future', which gave rise to a change in how people looked at *space-time*. Hunter Gathers saved food *today* thinking of an non-present entity called *tomorrow*, which was a profound shift in the way space-time was looked at. This evolution went on and on and moved from the classical mythic age to the Era of civilizations to the Age of the Pre- modern to the Age of the enlightnment and to the Modern and the Post-modern and so on leading to varios twists and turns , resulting in egoic consiousness and concepts of 'permenance', 'linear time', 'mind-body dualism' etc.


On the other hand, popular Cognitive Neuroscientists like Steven Pinker, V.S.Ramachandran gave alternate explainations, wherein everything is explained in terms of pure 'biological' evolution and 'neuronal' fireworks. With all due respects to Pinker and Ramachandran(There studies and books and talks are extremely profound and amazing), I find this particular approach extremely reductionist - wherein the 'mind' is reduced to the 'brain'. Though there are definite correlates and corresponding maps between the 'mind' and the 'brain', reducing one to the other is like diluting the depth of the things.


And then, we have the post-modernists and the 'cultural studies' folks. Thanks to their grand hermeneutic tradition (which sure has given some great methodologies for conducting unbiased, all-encompassive qualitative research and proposed an alternative approach to the tyranny of rigid empiricism and logical positivism), now everything is seen as mere socio-cultural constructs, where nothing is pre-given. The mind is no 'tabula rasa' and nothing is just innocently *perceived*. Rather, everything is actively *constructed* and *co-created*. Thus, the reality we see and operate is also a socio-cultural construct. While there is some definite truth to this, taking this to the extreme brings us to the conclusion that, 'Since the reality is in-itself a *mere* socio-cultural construct, then 'no' worldview or opinion or artwork is better than the other'. There are no levels. No hierarchies. No 'better'. While I do agree that levels and hierarchies ultimately end up as 'Power centers', as history has shown up in the past, negating the *natural hierarchy of things* (or 'Holarchy', as coined by Arthur Koestler) altogether might end up in a kind of one-dimensional flatland. Then, it becomes - Gustave Flaubert is no better than Shoba De. 'The Magic Flute' is the same as 'Ashiq Banaya Aapne' and so on. (As a sidenote, there is this increasing tendency among the boomeritis 'buddhists' and Gokarnic 'Tantric Heads' tend to confuse the claims made by extreme post-modernism(Nothing is better than anthing. Reality is a social-construct) and equate them to Vedanta (Everything/Everyone is the same for the all-encompassive Brahman. Reality is a Maya). While the latter is about the *absolute* plane, the former deals with the *relative* plane. The latter is trans-rational, which is an 'experience' (or 'a lack of experience' or an 'awareness of the experience' or 'Shunyata/Emptiness') and once we try to put that into *words*, it ceases to be what it is(as you could clearly see here, I am struggling to explain this through *words*) and thus, we enter into the realm of the *relative* plane of words and images and symbols and meanings. Equating these two is only amusing!)


While all these approaches have some profound significance and truth to it, they do have their lacks. While I personally prefer Piaget's theories and Gebser's 'Cultural Worldviews' over the others, for their *integrative* and *non-reductionist* approach, I think that even they offer only fragmented truths and there are still many unresolved pieces to the puzzle.

While all these approaches are one way to look at the order(and disorder) of everything, literature sails in a totally different path and looks at all of these as a dance of personas through the music of words and imagination.

*-*-*


Giridharan goes to a forest to oversee his uncle's roadway construction business. The serenity and the green of the forest reflects the green which is deep within himself. Green, being the color of life, resonates deeply within him. The wildness of the green mirrors the restlessness of his adolescent self.

Having been a failure at school, due to his almost maniacal interest in 'Sangam Poetry', he sees the tenderness, intensity and the rhythm of all those poems coming alive in the form of the Forest. He sees a thin blue stream of smoke raising up from some part of the forest and he spontaneously remembers a line of poem, which occupies him for the rest of the day. He sees a mad elephant running around the forest in ecstasy and he remembers another line. The rhythm and the imagery of those lines occupy him thoroughly. It keeps playing within himself over and over again. Almost like a neurosis.

On the other hand, he succumbs to the drives and urges of his body, which keeps arising, however hard he tries to suppress them. Infact, the more he tried to suppress them, the more it arose.He vents them out and then, resents with guilt and self-hatred.


Torn between these two ends, he meets several people in the forest. Resalam, an aloof mason. Kuttapan, the lead constuction worker. While Resalam is forever lost within the gloom surrouding his mysterious life, Kuttapan actually spearheads the entire construction work. The entire forest, to him, is his own play field. He makes wonderful black coffee and ginger tea with the limited things available. He tricks and catches wild cats and makes delicious food out of it. The way he does all that - the way he cooks, the way he cuts the wood, the way he mixes cement with sand and wayer, the grip in his walk, the breeziness in the way he talks - all of these makes him so full of life. He knows every nook and corner within the forest. Along with all these, he enjoys casual sex with the women construction workers. The entire episodes of sex among the men and women in the forest is shown as a grand 'Gandharva', a celebration of life without any moral qualms or the nausea surrounding it. He lives the life of a forest and at the end of it, he even gets killed by an elephant, which was his ultimate wish.

Giridharan watches all these and he is fascinated and bewildered looking at the ways of the forest.He has a wild admiration towards the world of Kuttapan. During the evenings, once all the work for the day is done, after the workers leave, he takes a quick dip in the river and watches the thick fog, which suddenly comes out of nowhere and covers the entire forest. While Resalam smokes his ganja stuffed beedis and undecipherably cries out the pains of his life and while Kuttapan tries to pacify him, Giridharan enters into his hut. He lies down and his body speaks to him the language of the forest. He tries to control it, but the more the control, the more the craving.He thinks of the women workers he saw that day and vents out the craving. Immediately after this, immense self-hate and self-pity.

This cycle continues for a few weeks. He wanted to be like Kuttapan. To let go. And just be. But he just couldn't.He roams around the forest and he subconsiously craves for something transcendental, that would take him out of this drudgery, anxiety and insecurity. One day, he sees a tribal girl . He saw in her the wilderness of the forest, the unhindered beauty of Sangam poetry. He falls in love.


During the same period, he meets Iyer - a forest officer cum civil engineer, who is in his late-30's. They both share their love for *Sangam* poetry. Iyer voluntarily chose to live in the forest and visits his family in town once in a while. Giridharan visits his forest bungalow. They talk about Kabilan and other Sangam poets. They listen to M.D.Ramanathan and G.N.Balasubramanian and Madurai Mani Iyer in one old rickety gramophone. They drink unadultered fresh arrack from the forest. They watch a zillion insects feeding on a dead elephant. They go for a walk during the night and they watch the glowing dance of the fireflies and the rhythm of the insects screech, which was like the heartbeat of the forest. They talk about women. Women in the town. Women in the Sangam era. Iyer talks about a women construction worker whom he met in the forest and falls in love with the back of her neck and talks about about the the soft and tiny hair on the back of her neck and the sweat which shimmered on it, as sunlight diffused through the giant trees. Giridharan was amused and wonders what the heck is that man doing here? What on earth is he searching in the forest instead of living comfortable in his town?


One day, he accidentally encounters the tribal girl again and he speaks to her. Though she hardly speaks back, his love intensifies to an insane extent and he starts to see things around him in the light of the girl. He ponders over it and he speaks to Iyer on this and asks him whether he is truly in love or is it just another attraction to a women, whose intensity might tone down after some time? Iyer bluntly asks him whether he masturbates thinking about her. He was a bit shocked at the brusqueness of the question and he says 'no', which is the truth. Iyer then kinda congratulates him and says it is indeed true love and he should be happy about it, since it happens pretty rare in one's lifetime and Iyer confesses that he himself is uncapable of such a thing now.

Events just flow by.

Resalam finds out a 'devangu' (a sloth) and he adopts it as his kid. Despite the efforts of Kuttapan, it gets brutally killed by a tiger and Resalam goes insane. Giridharan drops him home and finds his uncle there at Resalam's place. Suddenly, the gloom surrounding Resalam's life becomes clear to him.

Various people pass by. Giridharan sees the wild dance of the forest in each one of them.

Gay twins who are wildly in love with each other; An old women at town who goes insane and once her unconsious reaches the consious, she starts cussing everyone vehemently. Giridharan was amused at the way she equally cusses the genitals of a 70-year old man and a 2-year old kid - where, for her, every male is nothing more than their genitals ; A middle-aged converted christian and a virgin who scrupulously reads his Bible at a pace of 10 words per hour and who cries at the end, filled with bliss. Initially, the words lose their immediate semantic meaning. Then, the semiotic meaning. And finally, all the meanings dissolve and all the words becomes 'the *word* which was there at the beginning'.

Giri goes to the tribal girl's hut in some interiors of the forest and he meets her again. This time, she mocks him, but atlast, she reciprocates and they often meet near the river. They go in search of the rare 'Kurunji' flower, which they eventually find out. But to Giri's disappointment, the flowers looked very ordinary.

But his self is entirely occupied by her thoughts and there are some intense moments within the book wherein he even proclaims that no human could ever know God without ever falling in love. That love is the prism and only through the prism of love we could the lights and colors and depths of life.


This perpetual ecstasy within which he was drenched for a few days was abruptly stopped by a wild rain in the forest and the floods due to that. Giant trees gets uprooted. Animals go crazy. An elephant gets lost from its tribe and unable to cross the flooded river, it screams its heart out. People fell ill. People die.The grand 'Tandava' of the forest continues for a few days.

He goes in search of the tribal girl but he is unable to find her. He goes home to get some medicines for the missionary hospital in the forest. He returns back to the forest, but finds out that his uncle was stabbed to death by Resalam. He also finds out that the tribal girl dies during the floods. Iyer too, gets chased out of the forest by the locals.

Utterly dejected, he returns home. But soon, he comes back to the forest and has his first freak affair with the new forest officer's wife. He then marries his uncle's daughter, whom he resents.He retroreflects on his unfulfilled love and sexual desires time and again and forever chaces his own shadow, making love to himself and masturbates till his mid-40's.

He becomes a grand failure at business too. The more he tried to hold on to something tight, the more it slipped out. Like holding a vessel with the hands drenched in foam. After he was totally lost and hammered in his business, he goes to a local temple to kill the monotony of the day.He finds many such so-called 'losers' and 'low-lives'. Temples, he realized, are the meeting havens of such people. A 40ish man who comes to temple seeking male partners for oral sex, another chap who sleeps in the temple and goes daily to various marriage halls for his lunch, posing as a guest and many such people.

Soon, he befriends them and he even becomes one of them. One day, when he was about to leave to the temple, his wife calls him a drifter-loser. he gets pissed off and hits her hard. She tries to commit suicide and gets admitted to the hospital. Eventually, she recovers.

With endless self-hate and self-pity, he goes to the forest again. He visits the forest bungalow again, where his friend stays now and rests near the window for couple of days. he feels the forest again, remembers his past romanticism, filled with an endless love towards the forest, towards the Sangam poetry and towards the tribal girl. and he starts to weeps.

What he lacked within was all there out.

He hears that Iyer has moved to the top of the mountain in the forest and the locals even took him as a Godman. He goes there to meet him. Iyer looks old and was not dressed in any orange robe . Iyer smiles at him and tells him that this 'godman' thing is just an excuse for him to stay in the forest.

'I am doing nothing here. just watching the forest, trying to keep quiet', Iyer says.

'But is your mind still?', Giri asks.

'I don't know.I just keep watching the forest. Sometimes..slowly..the mind does still out'

'Do you still get aroused by your desires, which you used to talk about?'

'I do. Desire is like that old goat which keeps licking the empty ground, craving for the litle juice within the unseen grass. But I don't have any guilt or remorse associated with it now. I just let them come and go'

Giridharan recounts his story to Iyer. And asks,

'I started out well.. but..What do you think is the mistake I did? '

'The mistake which everyone does. Ahangkar. thinking about people and things while keeping yourself at the center of gravity. A continuous, ever-present craving that people should look at you and appreciate your thoughts and tastes and intelligence...'

There was dim moonlight. The forest reverberated with stillness. A bird flew from nowhere, sat near them and proclaimed, 'I'.

*-*-*-*

The novel 'Kaadu' (Forest) by Jeyamohan begins with Giridharan recounting his story. It moves back and forth in time and does not necessarily follow the linear sequence, as told above. The novel is filled with rich imageries of the sounds and textures and hues of the forest.On a very subtle level, it is also a ecological commentary on the rise of the concrete and degradation of the forest.There are also vivid descriptions about the various life forms in the forest. It also tells about the 'Gandharvic' nature of the life of men and women in the forests. Also, the role of the 'Church' and the unsurpassable effort and dedication of various Christian missionaries within the forest is beautifully brought out.


But all these apart, it is about love in its purest manifestation. It is about the life sketch of a die-hard romantic, who gets utterly beaten down by life and becomes a so-called 'low-life'. Infact, it changes our very perspective about 'low-lives'. We could never think of a person who idly chatters and sleeps in the temple all day and who poses as guests and eats secretly in some unknown marriage fest as someone who was an avid reader of 'Sangam' literature, to the extent that he even had a neuro-linguistic disorder and as someone who listened to Madurai Mani Iyer or G.N.Balasubramanium and talked about Kabilan and Freud ?

Kuttapan and Iyer are extremely different personalities and yet, two sides of the same coin. Giridharan is somewhere between the two ends and this becomes his eternal problem, which he chases throughout his life. Neither drenched in ground. Nor defying gravity & levitating in space. Dithering along in time with anxiety and insecurity. Beaten down by life. Chasing his own self image and trying to define and control space-time and ultimately, getting crushed by his own Shadow, his ungratified desire. The life of this forlorn loser..which, when viewed without any judgements, is same as the life of another big loser from Nazareth.



*-*-*-*

Most of the time, we live our lives with a constant anxiety for something or the other - mostly for a 'place' in the overall scheme of things. a place for our body, a place for our mind.a place for our soul. craving for security. craving for attention. craving for the secretive drive for praise and admiration. That people should look at us, and remember us. a place in the river of time. .

Time, thus, is segmented. Space, thus, is framgmented and meant to be captured and to be in control of. The Self image is illuding. It fills and empties us. Drenches and chokes us.

Will the craving ever stop? Will the mind be still and rest in the *here-now*?

Can't we just drench ourselves with the simple feeling of being? What is it that we are searching and why all the restlessness? Why all the words? Why fill the mind with words? Why try and fill everything with something? I really don't know. Maybe, even this whole damn stuff which I write is just another attempt to seek attention. Crave for praise. I feel like deleting the whole thing, but I know I wouldn't be able to do it. It took me four fuckin hours to write this and the 'I' wouldn't let go of this. It is here to stay. For eternity. And so, 'I' am here to stay. *Time-Space* fucked up. 'I' drenched in misery and suffering, eternally craving for attention.

The Dance of Prajna and Karuna

i still wonder whether the 'self' which writes down all this is different from the 'self' which sat down to write few minutes back which again is different from the 'self' which thinks about all these. perhaps there is always this gap between the real self, the thinking self and the writing self. maybe, that is why there is always this gap between self, thoughts and words.

Writers, throughout their lives, keep fighting to minimize this gap. to seamlessly bring out their pure, radiant self as words. but even after they do this, there is still a gap. the 'self' which they so strainfully brought out as words somehow doesn't actually seem to reflect their 'Self'. there is this constant agony, anxiety and dissatification. whenever i read Kazantzakis or Jeyamohan, there are amazing moments of absolute presence, music, silence, clarity and transcendence. however, most of their works end with this huge, giant gasp - an aching, a longing, which they are unable to define. maybe, maybe, they feel that their is a deeper Self, a quiescent Self which Witnesses all these and sleeps beautifully in some unknown depth.

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over the past few months, read three extraordinary novels. kaadu, ezham ulagam and vishnupuram. all three by jeyamohan. probably the best of the novels i've read so far. sad part being, the experience the novel gives would be confined to the tamil speaking world, as these are difficult novels to translate, due to the local Nagerkovil dialect(Kaadu, Ezham Ulagam) it uses. Unless we could have someone like a A.E.Asher or an A.K.Ramanujan, these works would remain largely unnoticed by the mainstream.

Even the relatively small Tamil literary world (which, including the readers, is limited to a maximum of 10000 people across the globe, majority of which being the Srilankan Tamils spread across Canada, UK and France) is filled with numerous factions - schools, groups, sects, cults, sub-cultures etc. Where people identify themselves as someone who belongs to the Pudumaipithan/Sundara Ramaswamy school or the Nakulan/Pramil school or the Jayakanthan school. They proclaim themselves as hardcore Marxists, Extreme leftists, Existentialists (which is not-so-cool nowadays), Freudians, Foucaultians, Absurdists, Post-Modernists, Post-Structuralists, Dalit activists, Subversives, Counter-Culture buffs, Pop culture analysts, Sulaltern historians, Mystics and combinations of some of these (Imagine - a pomo Foucalt workshipin subaltern historian belonging to the Jayakanthan school or a Subversive counter-culturist cum pop culture analyst cum mystic belonging to the Pramil school and so on) . Each one caught in Identity politics & politics of identities and proclaiming their own versions of history and trying to reinforce their truths. In the due process, they keep trigerring up ugly mud slingings and verbal warfare against each other, which is comparable to (and in some ways, worse than) the mud slingings happenings in the world of TamilNadu politics. (However, having said all that, it is indeed an undeniable truth that only due to the efforts of these people and due to the amazing movement of 'small magazines' that any kind of meaningful dialogue and discussion still prevails in TN. It is the most profound 'cultural movement' running for the past five decades)

Amidst all these..Rather, inspite of all these, there are numerous extremely beautiful and profound works, which keeps coming out often - mostly due to the vitality in the personalities which creates such works which moves beyond the bleak socio-cultural and economic conditions.

Jeyamohan is one such writer with such an amazing vitality and energy surrounding his personality, which inspires me till this day. Sadly, critics and fellow literary buffs paints his works with orange and he is contantly misintrepreted and linked to the RSS/Hindu Fundamentalists/Petit bourgeoisie variety, largely due to the transpersonal realms and motifs in his works. (Much like how O.V.Vijayan was misintrepreted as a bourgeoisie by a gang of critics in Kerala)

He started writing at a very young age, where he used to write pulp short stories and send them to popular magazines like Vikatan. Most of them got published and with the little money he got, he used to roam around the interiors of Kerala. He used to be one happy-go-lucky person till then, until his close friend died in a freak accident, which broke him apart completely. He ran away from home and spent the next 3 years roaming around various places - from Palani to Thiruvanamalai to Kasi. He returned home after that, and within the next few years, both his dad and mom committed suicide for reasons unknown. He was mentally disturbed and was on the verge of breakdown for the next few months. It was Sundara Ramasamy(SuRa) who rescued him and redirected all the energy and madness he had towards literature. As any true student, he outgrew SuRa and went ahead of SuRa.

It would be rather an incomplete picture of Jeyamohan without mentioning about SuRa. SuRa, who ventured into literature many many years before Jeyamohan, started out with translating Thakazhi Sivashankaran Pillai's 'Thottyin Magan' in Tamil. Like most other people at that time, SuRa was a staunch communist. But after hearing the various speculations of the Stalinist tyranny which happenned at that time, he was disillusioned with the entire movement. As an alternative, he was naturally attracted to 'modernism', which though looks passe now, was the avant-garde movement at that time. he slowly embraced it and attached himself to it. As the flavour of the age goes, logic, rationality and science was looked up with respect and it was reflected in literature as well. Carefully constructed prose. Extreme scrutiny when it comes to uttering facts and politically correct statements. Skepticism towards anything which too idealistic. And more importantly, there is absolutely no room for anything which is not *rational*. the order of the day was to scorn at anything pre-rational as well as trans-rational. Or rather, modernism(and modernists) confused pre-rational thinking with trans-rational awareness, since both of them were *non*-rational.

this, probably, led to a deepening divide between SuRa and Jeyamohan and eventually, leading them to part ways. However, Jeyamohan still aserts that SuRa was one of his major influences of his life. Infact, the very first book I ever read of Jeyamohan was the obituary he wrote for SuRa, which turned out to be a 200 page book. Perhaps, the best ever personality sketch filled which could be ever written.

The years Jeyamohan spent on the footsteps of Palani, amidst numerous invalids and disabled people, was culminated into a novel 'Ezham Ulagam' - a wrenching tale of invalids and disableds and the grand industry of 'begging' coupled with the harrowing effects of institutionalization - be it institutionalization of Palani Murugan or Karl Henirich Marx.

The novel is set near the towns of Nagerkovil and in Palani and it is mostly about a man who (excuse me for using the crude term) 'breeds' invalids and disableds, so that the offspring would invariably turn out to be another 'potential' invalid/disabled and could be put in front of temples for begging and sometimes, when they are old enough, sell them out for organ transplants. He does all these most industriously, with the sole notion of geting his daughters married off. What follows is one extremely profound story told with equanimity.

But the novel is definetly not yet another tale-told-to-expose.It explores the grand narratives beyond the surface of this drama of life. It just moves over and above the wreckless turmoil and suffering experienced by each of those men and women and children and new born who beg for a living and who are mercilessly enslaved and oppressed. with vivid portrayal of the interior landscape of those lives, it shows us the ways they try to be happy inspite of the horrendous conditions and the merciless live shoved up their throat.. on how they have fun, how they make fun of each other, make fun of the pilgrims, of the temples, of the henchmen and even of the good ol' Palani Muruguan himself. On how they secretly share their ' 'beedis' stuffed with 'ganja' leaves. On how they long for love and want to show their love and care to someone. All these, told with sublime beauty embedded in each and every word of the text.

Contrary to this is the life of the 'breeder', the man who owns and sells and makes money out of all these disabled people. Despite the material wealth, how wretched and insecure he was was the other end of the story. Infact, none of the characters were painted in all-black or all-white. There would be a sequence where he would take all his people to the Palani festival to beg and when he returns back, it would strike him that he did not even pay a visit to the temple . Involuntarily, tears gush out of his eyes.

There used to be one unforgetable character in the novel named "Mangadi Saamy', who is yet-another invalid, with disabled legs, extremely fragile body and a small head. But, he is a mystic of sorts, wherein he hardly ever speaks. Whenever he is hungry, he starts to sing some songs of Kunangudi Masthan Sahib, in a stoic, metallic voice. There used to be innumerable sequences which involves Mangadi Saami, which were absolutuly hilarious and deeply profound at the same time. Once in Palani, a saint from North India - who apparently is a well read man- accidentally meets him. Watching 'Mangadi Saamy' poised, glittering eyes and the way he loses himself in one effortless trance, the saint gets jealous and bruises his ego. He shouts 'Being and Nothingness', 'Being and Nothingness' a couple of times. Mangadi opens its eyes and smiles a heart wrenching, embracing smile. The saint gets pissed off and leaves the place. On another occasion, when a Commie businessman from Kerala sees him sing, and he instantly recognizes the marketable value he would possess and buys him out from the 'breeder' paying a hefty sum, with the plan to start a cult ashram in Kerala. He then opens a grand ashram in Kerala, marketing Mangadi saami as a divine messenger child of God. Visitors flock into the ashram, waiting to listen to Mangadi saami sing. Whereas, all they hear from his was - 'Amma thaaye, magarasi, pitchae poduangae!'


Ambitious to the core, all his novels are full of grand questions, which it poises to itself and acts it out till eternity. Is there anything else in life apart from Power, Oppression, Oppressed, Work, Struggle, Lust and Suffering? Are human relations (family, friends, love et al) just an order of convenience or is there anything more that that? Is 'intellect' , 'idealism' and 'thrist to seek & experiment' just power drives which tries to satiate our egos, so that we can feel better off and inturn, tries to differentiate, establish and institutionalize ourselves among others? Is there a deeper Self to our various other fragmented selves? Worse, is there such a thing called 'Self'? Is there any depth at anything at all? Meaning? Life? Love? Passion? How many roads does a man walk down?

Reading the novel is like a purgatory cleansing of one's own self. It relooks at the traditional narratives of good vs evil and the way the West looks at 'self' as one cesspool caught infinitely between the drives of the id and the conformity enforced by the society-at-large. It goes above the concepts of exchange theory and factors of production and the oppression/oppressed dichotomy. It moves beyond the traditional analytical/depth psychology and the Adlerian way of looking at self and enters into the realms of the transpersonal humanism.

Infact, most of his novels, apart from the profound and lively stories and vibrant and distinct characters, are deep studies on Identities and the illusionary dualisms inherent in everything around us. The effort in the novel is to move beyond the dualisms through dualisms - by precisely speaking about it and acting it through its characters over and over and over again and thereby, trying to move beyond it.

Like most of Kazanzakis works, Jeyamohan neither rejects 'this-world' nor it soley identifies with 'the-other-world' . There are umteen number of Zorbaesque characters throughout his various novels, which totally embraces 'this-world' and lives it out with passionate equanimity and thereby, living an extremely fulfilling and spiritual life devoid of any religion or God. 'Kuttapan' is Kaadu is one such example of such a lively life embracing the earth. On the other end, there are richly textured characters who are seekers, intellectuals, activists. Infact, all of his novels progess through the dialectical force between such distinct characters.
On how a so-called 'ordinary', 'this-wordly' person like a Kuttapan could live such a spiritually fulfilling live wherein 'the-other-worldly' seekers, intellectuals and mystics stumble repeatedly and struggle hard to reach there is the constant thread which runs throughout his works.

The relation between knowledge/intellect and ego/pride/ahangkar is one of the other recurring motifs. On how 'ahangkar' follows 'intellect' like a stalking shadow, like a giant burden on the shoulders.

Indeed, like any good writers works, his novels defies categorization. And likewise, this note about his works is just a snapshot and could never ever equal the actual experience of reading it. And the joy of reading his works is that, there is room for everything. It embraces and includes all and thereby, transcends each one of them. Agape and Eros. Ascent and Descent. Samsara and Nirvana. Up and Down. Prajna and Karuna. Heaven and Earth. Making love passionately.

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p.s: there are no translations of his novels in English. Few are translated to Malayalam. some of his short stories, including the one which won the 'Katha award' was translated into English. I tried searching them on the net. However, found none. Some of his breezy short stories, which could serve as a good introductory reading..

http://www.thinnai.com/?module=displaystory&story_id=10207282&format=html

http://www.thinnai.com/?module=displaystory&story_id=10304062&format=print

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

Flatland

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Unbearable Heaviness




Silence and Impermanence

roopam shunyata, shunyataiva roopam.
Form is emptiness, emptiness is form.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

The Marriage of Golf and Football

First, this - 'Golf in the Kingdom of Shivas Irons':




and then, this

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me thinks marriage of Golf and Football is THE need of the day!

Golf and Football are NOT opposites.. they are two sides of a broken coin, which was once the same.

if only one understands what 'Golf' is and what 'Football' is, only then they could get the grave need for this marriage..

in a broad sense, golf and football could mean any (or all) of these...


  • Golf = Apollo , Football = Dionysus;
  • Golf = Yin , Football = Yang
  • Golf = aesthetic of the bourgeoisie; football = aesthetic of the proletariat/subversive
  • Golf =Borge's 'Aleph', Football = Borge's 'Zahir'
  • Golf = Hesse's 'Siddhartha', Football = Kazantzakis' 'Zorba the Greek'
  • Golf = Bergman's 'Seventh Seal', Football = Fincher's 'Fight Club'
  • Golf = Wong Kar Wai's "In the mood for love", Football = Wong Kar Wai's 'Chungking express'
  • Golf = Maugham's 'The Razor Edge', Football = Maugham's 'Moon and Sixpence'
  • Golf = Satyajith ray, Football = Ritwik Ghatak
  • Golf = Gandhi, Football = Ambedkar
  • Golf = the sensual goddess 'MahaLakshmi', Football = Chandi Chaamundi / Kaali
  • Golf = Narayana Guru, Football = E.V.R. Periyar
  • Golf = Maharajapuram Santhanam / Aruna Sairam, Football = the Chemical Brothers / Eminem
  • Golf = Beatles, Football = The Doors
  • Golf = Anna Karenina , Football = Tereza (Unbearable lightness of being)
  • Golf = Wine appreciation workshop, Football = Saturday group cult booze/dope/orgy
  • Golf = Tendulkar / Damien Martin / Dravid, Football = Andrew Flintoff / Gilchrist / Afridi
  • Golf = Sideways, Football = Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
  • Golf = Coen brother's "Fargo", Football (!) = Coen brother's 'the Big Lebowski"
  • Golf = Glen Mc.Grath Football = Shoaib Akthar
  • Golf = Derrida's 'Frame' , Football =Derrida's 'Window'
  • Golf = Hampi, Football = Varkala
  • Golf = Roger Walsh, M.D , Football = V.S.Ramachandran, M.D
  • Golf = Ramachandra Guha, Football = Ranajith Guha / Partha Chaterjee
  • Golf = Sundara Ramaswamy,Football = Nakulan
  • Golf = Nizami, Sadi (the miniaturists) Football = Vincent Van Gogh / Picasso
  • Golf = Tolstoy , Football = Dostoevsky
  • Golf = David Robert Joseph Beckham, Football = Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite a.k.a Kak√°,
and so on...

p.s: i neither know the rules of football nor the rules of Golf. But does that matter, eh? As some old fool said,'nothing could stop an idea whose time has come' , nothing could stop me from bullshittin!

The Blinding Absence of Light



Sunday, February 10, 2008

The Witness




alone in the Alone
walking the weightless walk
the Witness
sees it all!