Islam

An article appeared in the Hindu dated July 5,2010 on  Muslim identity in multi cultural society. It dwelled on the outcome of a poll amongst a cross section of the British society. I guess the outcome of a similar exercise here in India would not be any different. The basis of the poll was how the rest of the society outside Islam view their Muslim brethren in the present over cast and stormy times of religious strife and terrorism,

A pertinent point  was mentioned in the article,   ‘It is a bit like the Americans who never tire of moaning how everyone is against them but seldom pause to ask’, “why”?.

I personally am strongly against Islam phobia and oppose any move to single out Muslims as purveyors of ill.

But the statement mentioned in the article is valid, and the opinion poll is matter of fact. The Muslims must introspect on the subject. When Muslims, extremists or otherwise term people of other faith,” non believers”, the fact is that they are being prejudiced. We do not see or hear a Christian, Hindu or a Buddhist describe followers of other faith as heretics, non believers and infidels. Such adjectives and labels are palpably used in the Muslim world against followers of other religion. Does this not starkly point to a dogmatic and constricted outlook towards the society that is not Islamic? When such sentiments are rampant then how does Muslims expect the rest of the world to react besides being sceptic and suspicious?

And, is it not a fact that in the present world, terror and extremism are practised by followers of Islam? This is vivid if one goes by the number of terror activities that have taken place over the past many years and identify who the perpetrators where. If apathy and discrimination towards Muslims are the reasons that Islamic world showcase as the root cause and genesis of extremism and violent acts, then they must also take note that injustice is inflicted on the weak and meek sections everywhere and, not just on Muslims. That has been the ill that befell human race right from the times of the cave men. Billy Joe summed it famously, “we didn’t start the fire, it’s been burning since the world’s been turning’’. The colour of blood and suffering are the same all over. They must learn to see people of all faith as their brethren and not just the ones who swear by the holy Koran. They have to open their eyes wide, have a broader mind and deeper conscience and only then can the Muslim world genuinely and rightfully feel outraged when injustice is committed be it anywhere ,and upon any one in this world. And not just when only on Muslims! They have to be universally inclusive. And for that they need education and not outlandish, bizarre and dangerous dogmas camouflaged as religious diktats at madrasas.

It really doesn’t matter what the Prophet preached. But it is hard to believe that a messenger of peace and harmony would have given a caveat to invoke violence and mayhem upon people of other faith and opinions. Muslims will be judged by what they are and not by what is attributed to the Prophet .When frenzied Muslim mob indulge in death dance and in violence at a perceived innuendo or against an innocent caricature, alleging blasphemy, it is Islam which will be derided. They must solemnly think for a moment whether their faith and Islam is so fragile and brittle that it will be endangered by some stray opinion or suggestions.

I was astonished when I put down after reading the book”lajja” by Tasleema Nasreen. I found the book quite ordinary and more of a documentary in print .It merely stated in prose form the tribulations of a Hindu family in Bangladesh in the immediate aftermath of the Babari Masjid demolition. The style of writing was neither captivating nor the descriptions. It did not anywhere through the book blaspheme Islam or its followers. If a documentary was done on similar lines on Gujarat the essence will be only very similar and not unparallel. But yet Muslims all over the sub continent woke up furious and damned the writer.

Muslims in Britain, the US , the European mainland and in India enjoy without an iota of doubt a far more freedom, respectability and the fruits of democracy than in any country that are founded on Islamic code and faith.

The Muslim society must after these years of violent upheavals introspect why the world as they perceive watch them with suspicion or are against them. Like the Americans it is time to look in their own backyard.

The Super Salesman

This is the story about a sales man, a Super salesman!

Into a department store in the English country side, one late summer day, walked in a salesman. In fact he was not a salesman yet. He was prospecting for the position. The young guy managed to get to the General Manager of the store and put forth his resume and his case. All that he could tell the general manager from a persuasive point was that he is a sales man and he would appreciate the sales job in the store. Though the credentials where vague and rather plain the General manager decided to have a call on the apprentice sales man and conclude on his judgement of the fellow for the job. The general manager walked into the floor of the store and saw at a distance the young lad selling a fishing rod to a customer. The young fellow was elucidating about the fishing rod and smartly convinced the prospective client about its quality and value. He concluded the sale. Then he continued and offered the customer a choice of buying a can of superior quality fishing worms. The sale was done too. The young fellow was in no mood to let the client go. He suggested that the week end might be a bit cold and nippy as it being the fag end of autumn and would be perfect if he could keep a mackintosh, which would be handy while he fishes by the stream in the woods. It did not take long to convince the customer about the comfort and quality the mackintosh can offer. The sale was done too. The young sales apprentice continued,"Sir we have some fascinating new books to choose and you can read them in comfort while you fish and wait for the bait to do its job. I strongly recommend you buy one and enjoy the week end fishing".The customer was enlivened and he chose and bought a book as well.

The General manager who was keenly observing the sales was awed and went to the sales man and tapped him appreciatively on his back. “Well done young fellow! But let me ask you how the heck you managed to sell all these assortments to a guy who came in here to buy a fishing rod”.

The apprentice sales man politely said, “Sir he did not come in here to buy a fishing rod! In fact he came here to buy a pack of sanitary napkins for his wife and I suggested that he go fishing this week end”.

Requiem for a Turkey

I picked her from a vendor who sells gallinacean birds. In fact she was marked for slaughter. Her whitish feathers and plumes where mud brown out of dirt and the cramped existence in the abattoir. It has been three months since.

I and C used to talk to her when she, out of her curious and inquisitive self ventures on to the veranda of the house.. We used to tell her that she is a lucky turkey. And that seldom will people by fowls from an abattoir and domesticate them. Wonder if she understood us. Perhaps! She, along with the tom turkey we have, always preferred to be near us when we are outside the house. She with her mate  used to follow us around the compound . Twice she fell into the pond, and had to be pulled out. She leans over the edge looking for insects by the ledge of the pond and also to quench .The good thing that came out of her two adventurous falls into water was that her muddy brown plume were washed off the dirt. and became milky white. She even started growing new bright white feathers. We called her ‘Old lady’. Because we did not know her age and presumed that since she was kept for slaughter she must be pretty aged. Sometimes she kept an imperious air. She was agile and some times ran quite fast when chased by the male or the ubiquitous guinea fowls.

She often jumps on to the chair in the verandah and purr. She I guess wanted to be seen sitting next to us. This happens most often in the morning when I and C sit on the verandah with our morning tea. She stretches her neck long and looks at us inquisitively.We felt she is a turkey with human sensibilities.

She had a very annoying habit of teasing the dogs especially Blacky, the Labrador. She used to entertain herself at the dog’s annoyance. She used to stay very near his meshed enclosure and stare at him with a mocking air. The dog gets annoyed and absolutely exasperated that he barks and jumps all over wanting to pounce on her. The acrimony of the dog gets unbearable and we will have to shoo her farther away from the kennel.. C warned her of the danger of getting close to the dog enclosure and irritating it. But I guess she was indifferent to that advise.

Yesterday, strangely she decided to do something she has not done before. Take on the two Rotweillers at the other end of the compound, Rambo and the hyper bitch Emma.

The old lady perhaps found irritating the two dogs at the same time, quite enjoyable. She was moving around close to their enclosure teasing them and enjoying their irritated bark. But then she did the unthinkable. She pushed her head through the metal mesh into the enclosure and clucked at the dogs. And before she could wink or yelp Rambo the Rottweiller had her head in its mouth! It did not take longer than a couple of  seconds. The old lady was limply flapping her wings, and head gone- decapitated – pulled out. The head was gone into the mouth of the Canine. It was ripped off from the torso. The strong jaw bones of the Rotweiller clapped the canines deep into the sides of her head and the force of the pull severed her head along with the strand of the wind pipe.She may not have realised the pain  of the gruesome and brutal manner of death. It was swift!

It was stupid and casual of her to have put her head into the enclosure. Well then she did not realise the reprieve she got when we took her away from the slaughter house. Like many of us she took her life a bit casual and paid the price for the indifference in very, very dear terms.

She now is cleaned and dressed and in the freezer waiting to be meal for the dogs tomorrow.Sadly we found that she had been laying eggs some where in the compound and the crows where feasting on them- she was full of maturing eggs when we cut her open to remove her entrails.

Meenakshi

Some faces can never go away from memory. They are etched in us. And elapse of time seldom eclipses or erases the face.. Even before adolescent days, I was sent to my ancestral house to spend summer vacations. The white sands of that place bordering the sea, with its un- demarcated boundaries between families and homes was indeed a vast expanse, a canvas that an adolescent mind saw as a never ending horizon.

It was there that I happened to know Meenakshi. This must have been in my early teen.

She was pretty and cute little girl perhaps thirteen or fourteen of age. her facial expressions where captivating and her eyes always seem to tell  the wonder the world is .She was sparkling and loaded with life. She used to join us (I and a retinue of cousins) when we venture out to the mango groves and the lily ponds that where strewn all over. She was always effervescent amongst us and in what ever we did and where ever we went. The day used to begin at around 6 in the morn when we children from different house holds used to scamper around the vast expanse and beneath the mango trees in search of  ripe fruits that may have fallen down during the night. And Meenakshi was always the first to be around. It was a sort of early bird gets the food kind of situation.. Hours used to be spent in the ponds frolicking and yelling, splashing water and diving deep and surfacing from nowhere. Meenakshi was ubiquitous in all and every where. She was the daughter of Kaikeki Amma..  Kaiki as we used to call the elder woman used to do house hold chores there. She used to venture to around four houses that where spread around .Meenakshi was the last child of her long line of seven children. Being the youngest of the siblings she had to at times absorb the audacious attitude of some of her big ones. Meenakshi used to tell me how much she loved her family her, mother, father and the sisters and brothers. The family was maintaining on a kind of collective pooling of resources that they bring home. And Meenakshi being the little one was let to enjoy some of the spoils and indulge at times, (but all that was free was always with a rider).

Every visit to the land of fun and frolic during each summer holidays, and Meenakshi  seemed to be growing in splendour  and lure. During one summer, I noticed that Meenakshi was not around to charm the holidays. I was told that she was married and had gone away with her spouse. I felt a bit forlorn for not only having lost her presence,but out of a bit of envy as well.

Years went by and I met her again during one of my visits to the ancestral home. She was into the mid forties and the travesty of life, I felt had corroded her beautiful face. There where streaks of grey on her forehead. The cheerful girl who used to charm and pleasant with her presence was now doing house hold chores for sustenance. Where she always used to sport a saffron hot red sindhooram , her fore head  was pale.. Her family had hit it rich and moved away .They where now free from all the trappings of the country side and was immersed in affluence and pomp. Meenakshi told me that she visits her mother on most week ends. The old woman Kaikeki Amma who used to vex to meet ends working as house maid now employs a retinue of servants at her beck and call. She owns a rich farm as well. Meenakshi’s life had fallen by the wayside to ill luck and bad times. And she had to come back from the city she lived after her wedding, and take up what Kaikeki Amma , her mother did long before- work as maid at various house hold.

I asked her if she could not approach her family for assistance. She smiled wryly and said nothing. Then she whispered with a faint sob, that she went to see her mother to pay for the half liter of milk she takes home for herself from her mother's dairy farm. And all that her mother could tell her was to remind that she did not pay the month’s bill on time and that the price of milk is not what she pays. Her mother did not see that she was devoid of even the last strand of gold chain she used to wear. And that she had to sell it as a last resort to burn the kitchen stove. Kaikeki Amma  either failed, or did not notice or simply turned her eyes away from the glaring fact that how bereft her daughter Meenakshi  was.

Machiavelli

I have the book “The Prince” by Nicholas Machiavelli. And I have been reading it off and on. Though the book is of a hundred and odd pages and was bought from ‘Land Mark’ Chennai some years ago it has taken me all the while to even reach any where near the end page. Now that I get frequent calls from R and she keeps reminding me of reference books she wants for her political science class, I decided Machiavelli’s ‘Prince’ would be an earnest choice of reference. I have to give her the book when she comes home in a few weeks time.


However to me, a lay person, with little understanding of political treatise and political science, the book was more telling from a social point of view vis a vis myself as a social being and the others - friends, relatives, acquaintances, business accomplices etc.What  is told in the 'Prince' is ipso facto seen happening all around in various relationships.in the present world.

Machiavelli did not precede father figures of political science like Aristotle and Plato but he lived centuries after .He lived in the fifteenth century in Italy, and, is  considered as one of the pillars of political science and the art of  political dispensation, a la Chanakya in ancient India. The “Prince” was published only a few years after his death, though he shared the treatise with his close people.

It is trifle unjust that Machiavelli’s name must be identified with or taken as synonym for wickedness, furtive and be seen as a repelling trait or character in a person.

Machiavelli was born during a turbulent time in Italy. And the Papacy was at one end trying to dominate the Princes and assert divine dispensation. Whilst the princes and the wealthy elite where sceptical about one another and were at loggerheads and war.Machevellie was trained by his strong father and he entered Florentine bureaucracy as junior. He later was sent to French court as envoy. He soon got absolute authority in war related matters and the militia. After a grievous coup de tat he was imprisoned, tortured and let free. He retired and retreated where upon he wrote the “Prince”.

The Prince is a discourse of prudent and crafty political dispensation. It is simple in context, how a ruler can achieve control over his domain. Scruples and values have no meaning when it comes to struggle and perpetuation of power. Though morality is given a pedestal it is seen in the context of political dispensation and necessity. The criteria are acceptable cruel action, decisive swift and short lived. The book is a manual which explains how to acquire and keep power.

The church proscribed 'The Prince' as it has always done to thoughts .Machiavelli’s   treatise is based on his observation while in the government and the ways and means by which Princes conduct themselves.

 Interestingly Machiavelli did not believe that virtuosity brings happiness.. And terrifyingly he says the ruler better be feared and loved, and better be feared than loved, that he can rule. It is no wonder that taking the Machiavellian cue many coups have seen total annihilation and rooting of the surviving members of a dynasty. Let it be the Bolshevik revolution, the French, or the Mujib family annihilation in Bangladesh, brutal and swift action has been the thumb rule.

 Machiavelli documented his observations as to how, if , when and why . He valued virtue. He valued individual freedom and hence a republic. But he warned, that for freedom and liberty to thrive the citizenry has to be virtuous, courageous and on guard. Though he believed that it is difficult to achieve an assembly of these idealism and they rarely existed anywhere.

Machiavelli believed that human nature was immutable and led by passion.

What is strikingly contemporary is the cunning and deviousness that is orchestrated in day to day life in our society. The usage “Machiavellian”, as an adjective and a synonym  for stealth and wickedness to achieve once end though was only commented upon by Machiavelli is now practiced in his name .The immutable nature of human beings is incorrigible as well. In every aspect of human society and life we can notice the prophecies and inferences of Machiavelli zealously practiced. .If Machiavellian thesis was about drama that would be enacted in courts of princes, and their wily ways to harbour power, in our present day society, it is in fact a daily facet of life be it in politics, business or social and personal relationships.

WHY???

Since sometime I identified two activities that would personally relieve me of stress and strain of the day or the moment. One is cooking and the other, pen my thoughts.

Cooking has not been strange to me. As I learned the subject through practical follies and little success, while I was living in Cochin in the early 80’s.And now cooking, which also includes chopping and cleaning of meat or vegetables are so helpful to relieve stress. Perhaps it is because one is engaged in an act in which full attention of the mind and limbs are directed. And that involvement outside the factors that trigger and contribute  towards stress and strain helps in alleviating the later.

Writing down my thoughts and feelings is another trusted engagement that helps me get over the persistence of stress. And when the electronic aid of Blogging was free at the door step, I thought why not post it as well.

I write this on this Sunday morning sitting at my table in my office. There is no distraction, and no body around except the watchman outside at the gate. And I’m free to type what I feel. And post it as well.

Do I have to trouble and worry if others read my blog post or choose not to? Do I have to worry if others eat what I cook? Well I decided not to,(though the cuisines have not been disapproved yet by any person).And I certainly do think that I must not care an iota  if someone disapproves what I write only because he or she feels that I’m blunt and use strong words and touch upon inconvenient subjects. Honestly, I repeat again, that I write for myself. It is a sort of relieving. Strong emotions evoke strong words and comments. And any one may, and has the right to disapprove. I do not in any remote way want to infringe on that right of a person.

I have in this short span of two odd years of finding the solace in blogging has not in any way directly mentioned any person by name. Though at many times the subjects that I commented and spun can or may be real life characters. It is the experiences in the outside world that provoke ones thoughts. It is the people that you were fortunate or unlucky to be in contact that creates reactions in you. And that is exactly what is helping me pen.And if anybody opines that when I m negative in my blogging or when I harp upon characters that are to be kept away or left alone ,I m in  a way corroding my thoughts , well I have this to state- "in fact on the contrary,when I do exactly that, I m scraping off  the corrosion that may possibly have coroded my mind".

I have no regret about that and I do not see any reason to offer apology. If  I sounded negative it is only a natural reaction to a mendacity and impiety of the subject or people I write about. So who should fret and wonder why I write such?

People of little or no understanding of the situation, thought or the experiences of the other are more apt to be upset when they feel that their sensibilities are questioned by the other through words or letters. And that again is not to be contested. Feeling offended is also ones birth right!

So I will continue to pen and post my thoughts, experiences and feelings. If any body out there feels offended or peeved, skip my blog. I write as I said, like I cook to share invisibly with myself. And intent to continue that lonely journey till biological factors supersede.

"Christ of Saint John of the Cross”

While aimlessly browsing the internet, I stumbled upon a section dedicated to Salvador Dalí, the surrealist artist and iconoclast who redefined the concept of art. Though I can’t draw a straight line, I’ve always been captivated by Dalí’s unconventional appearance. I first encountered him years ago in the obituary column of The Hindu. His striking facial expression and meticulously waxed mustache were as esoteric as his creations. Later, I came across a few of his paintings and an article in a magazine highlighting his whimsical, unpredictable persona.

Delving deeper online, I uncovered fascinating details about his life and work. One painting, in particular, seized my attention from the first glance: Christ of Saint John of the Cross. To me, it’s an extraordinary piece that feels more like vibrant cinematography than a traditional canvas. The bold colors and unique perspective create a powerful, almost otherworldly effect. This depiction of the crucifixion—a subject so familiar and frequently explored—stands out as strange yet uniquely compelling, showcasing Dalí’s ability to transform the ordinary into the sublime.

Like many of Salvador Dalí’s creations, Christ of Saint John of the Cross offers a glimpse into his temperamental and unconventional personality. Intrigued, I delved into his biography. Dalí was born in Figueres, a Spanish town near the French border, not Cantilena, Italy, as some might mistakenly assume. Raised by a strict, disciplinarian father, Dalí grew up alongside two siblings: an elder brother, who died young, and a younger sister. When Dalí was five, his father took him to his brother’s grave and declared that Dalí was his brother reincarnated. Dalí internalized this belief, which profoundly shaped his psyche. He later described himself and his brother as resembling “two droplets of water with different reflections,” a poetic reflection of how this early experience molded his eccentric and surreal identity.

Salvador Dalí’s life was marked by turmoil and tragedy. He lost his mother to cancer in his teens, a loss he deeply mourned. Dalí described her as a revered figure who helped him cleanse the “blemishes of his soul,” shaping his emotional and artistic core. Later, his wife, Gala, reportedly administered unprescribed concoctions that exacerbated the nerve damage caused by Parkinson’s disease. A mysterious fire in his apartment, still unexplained, led some to speculate that Dalí attempted suicide. In his final years, he deliberately dehydrated himself, seemingly to hasten his death.

The painting Christ of Saint John of the Cross emerged from an inspirational dream. Dalí portrayed the crucifixion with striking originality, omitting bloodstains, nails, or a crown of thorns. The figure of Christ appears to float above a serene body of water, with fishing boats in the foreground and a dark sky overhead. Guided by his dream, Dalí chose an extreme, almost cinematic angle for the cross, creating a surreal and transcendent vision of a familiar subject.