The Legacy of Agony

Over the past few days two incidents happened in places distance apart. One, the tragic death of a young woman in far off Ireland and  the other, a timed out death of a volatile virulent man in Mumbai, India. Both the incidents, one a terrible tragedy triggered by religious dogma and the other the due process of a natural law that does not even discriminate tigers!

To tell my personal opinion, the sad story of the young woman in Dublin, Ireland, who was discarded to bleed and die an agonising death after being denied medical intervention to save her life during the miscarriage of her pregnancy and that too in a society and country that is seen as economically advanced and modern is quite distressing. Distressing and macabre because the premises the medical facility based its refusal to terminate the miscarrying pregnancy was on the didactic interpretation of a religious code that says man has no right to take away what God has given-”life”.

The Vatican Council holds the declaration, "Life must be protected with the utmost care from the moment of conception: abortion and infanticide are abominable crimes”. I went through much of Wikipedia and some sites that have posted Christian doctrines, but could not see any reference to Jesus Christ touching upon the subject of abortion. However, I notice that though the Bible gives direct guidance on many topics, but not on abortion. In fact the Roman laws in force during the time of Jesus did permit abortion and abortion was practiced from the times of early human history.

I do not intend to pour scorn on a moral code of catechism or asperse the faithful practicing catechism. But if laws are made to better life then they must be interpreted in spirit and not in a bigoted and outlandish way as the doctors in Dublin did. That was criminal and wanton negligence which will only defile the faith if faith is used as an apron to hide. The bane of scriptures is that the moral exhortations they give are all entwined in jargon and euphemisms, often liable to be interpreted by mortals whichever way to suit them. More often the self-acclaimed custodians of religions and zealots state their versions of a code to thoroughly ensure that the flock stay pliable and unfortunately gullibility is not in dearth. This  may be graver in the present day Muslim world.

The last knell orchestrated by the bigotry in Dublin was the outrageous statement of the Irish Government that they would provide all means for the widowed young man to rebuild his life. What would they do? Provide him with an Irish bride?

“Good riddance to bad rubbish”, was the general expression when told about the passing away of the self-proclaimed custodian of Hindu bigotry and Marathi manoos, Marthi asmita. A person who idolised Adolf Hitler and when asked by the Time Magazine soon after the Barbari Masjid demolition for his comments, infamously said, “kick em out”( meaning the Muslims of India).A person who seldom traveled outside Maharashtra just twice in the past forty years was certainly living in a well. To him perhaps the world was his carefully manipulated and cultivated frenzied following like the GM crop! He ran the State as if it were his fiefdom, his heirloom.  And the rest of the country and the world hardly existed or even mattered.

He was a man who exhorted Hindus to organise suicide death squads and hit back like the Islamic fanatics. Perhaps as a token of goodwill and willingness to sacrifice, as to ensure that charity and philanthropy starts at home and within the household he should have asked his son and nephew to lead the death squads to begin with. But like all such operators he ensured his safety and his family’s safety by assembling and expending the gullible and frenzied foot soldiers of the Sena.

He said after the demise of his wife, that he ceased to believe in God and even dislikes his favourite one of the pantheon Vinayaka, as even this God did not do enough to save his wife. What can one define this thought process- imbecile, demented, ridiculous?

Professional jealousy and rivalry is understandable. Infamously the professional jealousy of the late thespian M.R.Radha provoked him to shoot the late icon M.G.R. But this Sena supremo’s ire was towards the three Khans in Bollywood. He alleged that the Bollywood was being increasingly controlled by Muslim actors and he unleashed his Sena goons on theaters screening movies of SRK. The harrowing time people from South of India lived through in the Bombay of the late sixties and seventies will also be recollected by the Biharis and Northerners. He was a direct threat to the concept of the Union.

It is does not require maverick capability nor is it an achievement to harness and unleash anarchy and unlawful elements on the society and the commoner. Money and power can see to it. To subjugate and enslave by fear and terror is not supreme achievement and iconic. And this was exactly what the Sena Supremo did. He was no Mandela, no Gandhi, no Martin Luther King and no Mother Teresa who all could sway and enslave people not by terror but something apart and distanced that the late don and his ilk will not have known and will understand.

The bane is that bigotry and myopia are growing virulently amongst us sans religion, faith and race. If not, the tragedy in Dublin would be only a nightmare nor would a fanatic in Mumbai been a fact of our times for almost five decades. 

A Tale Of The Fallen Apple

His idiosyncrasies are not absolutely among the kind one can put up with. They are rather insipid and quite frivolous. They are often bore and also annoying. But what the heck, he has a diploma degree in mechanical engineering, which he is quite proud of. It is true that education perse and as it is imparted today would have no bearing on one’s character and behavioral attributes. Erudition is not a panacea and a carte blanche certificate for ills in the personality either. But somewhere they do blend and can have tremendous influence on one’s personality conduct and words. It multiplies and enhances the aura when the company one keeps from the formative period in life is not trivial.

The blissful thing about him is that he is oblivious to the faux pas  he brings about by his conduct and words. They are not offensive but annoying-something I sometimes wish I could do without. No malice meant but yet he can haul you over the barbed wire.

He does not acknowledge or may be not aware of his limitations. He would go to the White House and ask the President why his mansion is not painted white but yet he dares to call it the White House. I often felt it was a bit of audacity and over confidence out of ignorance that drives him. I shudder to think of his claims to the education he had. No spite meant.

His spoken  English is awful, but once he even boasted to his General Manager that no one can draft a communicative message in English as he can. His impudence once prompted the C.E.O, to observe that he was rather rude and has no reverence to him even. I always felt that it was not arrogance that made him comment and behave as he often does, but perhaps ignorance of etiquette or a way of eclipsing an inferior complex. But he always did a commendable conclusion to the jobs that were entrusted to him. That perhaps makes him the lieutenant of the C.E.O.

It was an occasion when we were at an official dinner and was in his brassy oratory self .I was seated next to him and he picked up conversation with a couple of ladies. I do not remember how the conversation began and how it progressed to the stage when the women almost dropped the glasses they were holding and I quivered a bit. I cowered because the women knew that he was in my company! But our presumptuous friend was in no mood to notice our gape and that of the quite a few heads that turned towards our table.

As I mentioned, I cannot remember the thread from where and how the conversation or call it monologue began. However he reached the stage where he wanted to use an assertive allegory. He said,“It is like the principle of why things fall down and how that was first found out. It was a scientist called Einstein who first found that out. One day he was seated on a bench in his garden and an apple fell down from the nearby tree. Einstein saw that and wondered why it fell down to earth. Have you folks heard about this story before?”

Mystic- Mystery

“Who am I ? Ask yourself.” She exhorted. “Are you the flesh and blood that you are now or are you the mind that is in you?” I did not see it even a shred necessary or imperative to fret and send my brain on a hunt seeking answer to this monumental ask. She continued her monologue at the group that we were, about a score of virtually bewildered people. Bewildered more because of the strange introspection the petite French lass with shaven head and in white kurta pyjama implored us to engage. We were all seated on the forest floor and in the opening strewn with dried leaves and a perfect canopy lend by huge trees to shade us from the noon sun.

The group was confounded and that enhanced their pleasure in a strange way. It happens when you are dumb struck with jargon and entwined sentences and meanings that are the arsenal of God men and women. Your bewilderment is fanned by virtual curiosity and hope of something about to break open as revelation. A fool’s paradise where ignorance is bliss and more mystifying more the bliss.

She continued her monologue in accented English. She spoke about SreeKrishna and dwelled on his alleged sorcery  She soon turned to lecture on a verse from the Gita and began to decipher for us its intricate meaning. It was amusing to think what depth of knowledge would life and experience besides the five years she spent in the congregation render this young woman in her twenties to indulge in the audacity of lecturing on Indian and oriental philosophy. It was a different coin when it was her master-her guru in the ashram. The guy had such powerful and haunting eyes that can only be surpassed by the pair of eyes of the late Rajneesh. He was tanned and brown complexioned. The turban on his head addressed the probable baldness. But the flowing white beard and whiskers added to the captivating gaze.

I was to live with the congregation inside the sprawling but Spartan ashram for three days as a participant in what was termed as engineering of the inner self. I was pulled in there by a distant acquaintance and had to shell out fifteen thousand Rupees as participant fee in the sessions and the chance to correct my inner self. (sic) To be fair the food was strict vegetarian but was heavenly in taste and richness. The ashram was at the foothills of the Western Ghats and was well designed. The guru or master as many called him was a Shivaite but I did not sense any bigotry or an iota of religious tone in his lectures. His discourses were matter of fact, thought provoking and distanced from conventional beliefs and had a syncretism that was encouraging. He was a master of yoga. I could hear and see inmates up well before daybreak and engage in asanas.

The first evening after dinner, I and my acquaintance went exploring the periphery of the ashram. We were warned to not wander far out as the periphery was frequented by wild animals. The surroundings with the mountains silhouetting in the late moon rise was fascinating and awe. At about five early in the morning, I was waked up by the live beat of traditional drums, cymbal and evoking flute. It was the ashram’s way of wake up call or alarm. It was a beautiful way of saying the day was about to dawn.

Some days after I was at the ashram I happened to meet a friend who was living in the city for a few decades and with whom I chanced to discuss about this ashram, its founder guru and inmates. His reaction was bordering derision. He said it was fine with just yoga but matters generally don’t end with that. “Ha that fellow, the Guru was roaming around this town a few decades back on a Java motor cycle. I knew him personally. One day he went missing and when the Rip van Winkle came back he was a master, a guru. He has a penchant for the good things in life; you know what I mean and the euphemism. There are a lot of innuendos about his abode and himself. He is a jet setting fellow and has high influence and contacts. Just leave things as it is and do not get entangled in the web they weave”. He said. The conspicuous part was he mentioned the man in the first person and used his name that was from his motor cycling days.

The captivating thing about the three days sojourn in the cloister was I was virtually levitating for a few days after. The amazing hypnotic effect of the man and his words will ensnare one in a trance, until the power of the opium and his aura ebbed away in the incessant pounding of matters of life outside.

I noticed that his eyes were hauntingly transfixed sometimes. I observed that he has the orgasmic look in his eyes and that is especially directed to women. The companion who was with me was ploughed under by his gaze. And I sensed that she was beguiled by him. She was wealthy and he has a knack for wealthy elegant women.

She chose to let the enchantment get better of her and began to frequent the ashram. She was obsessed. She wrote off a fat cheque for the ashram and that was not endearing to her family. She even went on a journey with the monk and his caravan of followers to the Kailas -Manasarovar in the Himalayas through the luxury route via Tibet. When matters began to threateningly move towards her getting embroiled with the ashram and when she was almost decided to write off her wealth to the Guru and perhaps spend her remaining life in the congregation, her people hit the panic button. I’m not privy to what transpired after, within her domestic confines. But her honeymoon with the ashram that was menacingly obvious waned at the combined onslaught from within her family. It is a guess what panicked them- her obsession or her apparent plan for largesse.

It will be unfair however to not  to accept the vast knowledge the monk seemed to have and his candid aversion to the traditional religious order and self appointed holy men.

Audacity of Youth

The audacity of times youthful has seldom a parallel. The gift of youth is to rejoice in youthfulness. I may have had my share of impudence in my youth. Now when I see it in my kids and in the ones their age (children of friends and relatives), I feel bewilderment, some consternation and steadfastly cling on to hope. Hope in their future.

The audacity often is in the form of seemingly arrogant retorts. This happens both from the boy and the girl, though the fellow is more subtle and careful in his reaction whilst the femme terrible is very matter of fact. I wonder if this is the case with their peers’ elsewhere. At least I wish so for my comfort.

I do not know if they have any fear of the morrow. Can one be obstinately sure of oneself? Why do not they have a plan B should there has to be a detour. I did not have a plan B for my life, in the first place I was vacuous to not plan at all. But that is not even in the least a consolation.

The fellow states in as many words that he has to be let free till the year winds out and he has to think, explore and know matters besides going places before he can with passion and singular purpose pursue his line of activity. And to cement his statement he signs off by reminding that nobody shall harbour the fantasy that he is pliable to others wishes. I feel helpless more out of this audacity than fear.

Light heart banter is more often pursued with the girl though her tongue in cheek retorts usually harnesses me. More because of her emboldened comments compared to the reticent nature of the fellow.

Surprisingly to me when I compare after delving into my past the kids of this generation are sure of their footing and fear less of the future. Vicissitudes are not in their lexicon, not yet!

I often remind A, the boy (a man now) to avoid by all means riding a two wheeler without protective head gear whether he is a motorist or a pillion. The advice which in fact is a pleading was generally laughed away by him with a comment that I’m too queasy. Last week K, his friend confessed on his Facebook wall that thanks to the helmet he wore , he could save his face from distortion , though his arm ached badly after bruising from the fall from his motor cycle that morning. K went further that he learned a lesson that day and was an experience. I could only sigh relief and say, “thankfully not an expensive lesson!" That night A, was travelling to his friend in Kozhikode, where he would certainly be going around on a two wheeler, I implored him with the experience of K, he did not pass his usual comment but sounded pensive and understanding.

Sometimes one wonders if there is an overdose of apprehension as a parent. Certainly it is not the best and enviable job one has to tackle in a phase.

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

It was in 1977-78, I guess that the University of Kerala conducted a film festival at the Tagore Theater in Thpuram.  Those were the days when the Hollywood genre held sway over young like I and in equal competitive measure with the Amitabh Bachan flicks. But there was much de ja vu about the retrospective that the University Students core was organizing.

There were a few Hollywood classics like the “Roman Holidays” and the marvels of Satyajit Ray and Mrinal Sen. But mostly the festival was of films that were till then unheard of-films from the Eastern Europe, besides classics of French directors. The one that stood out in memory all these years is a poignant film in black and white , that in fact help germinate a dislike and abhorrence to the  punitive punishment with death. Later the same film was screened by the Surya film society in their festivals.

“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”, was a French film from the early sixties. It was adapted from the short story of by Ambrose Bierece. Set in the times during the American Civil war, the film captures the lust of human mind for life.

A Civil war prisoner, a civilian and an alleged spy is to be hanged at the Owl Creek Bridge.

It recounts the illusion the poor man has as he precariously stood on the edge of the bridge with the noose around his neck. He is to be dropped down from the bridge. The rope breaks as he is dropped down and he finds himself breathless and struggling in the icy waters down. 

He senses a superhuman strength as he breaks free from the rope that bound his hands and legs. He swims fast and gets carried downstream by the swift current. The soldiers fire at him when they sense that he broke free. Evading capture he is washed on the bank downstream from where he takes to heels running frantically towards his home. The wild, fatigued and desperate run is through the woods and thickets. He is drained and his feet are with blisters. His clothes torn and tattered, wearied he reaches his home desperately wanting to see his wife and child. As he sees his wife walk towards him with smile, surprise and open arms, he runs towards her. As he is about to take her in his arms he senses a pang...... .The shot we see then is the cut to the incident at the Owl Creek Bridge......

 His great escape was .......

I saw this film again yesterday, from Torrent. Perhaps you would like to watch this short film (of about 15 minutes) in the link here The print is not good but the poignancy of the shots is never fading.

Wax

It is one thing to pat oneself on the back and proclaim that one is a pontiff of sorts; one is on a greater moral and ethical plateau than the ordinary denizens and even one’s spouse, children and friends. But it is a different matter to be humble to not proclaim oneself as the infallible, moralist hero. The pleasure one may sense by this sententious being and when patting on the back is narcosis and the state, narcissism-more so when an image of the wronged is created. This is not a liability found in the elite of the society or the celebrities who are caught with their trousers down, with foot in their mouth; it is also seen much amongst us ordinary souls.

Cheating on oneself is more dissolute than cheating on your spouse or the world itself. I do not know what would be for instance in the mind of Louis Armstrong now. Reading his autobiography, “It is not about Cycling”, I was impressed by the raw courage and perseverance he displayed from a terminally sick stage and come back into the world to inspire awe by winning the most grueling physically exerting sport, the “Tour de France”. I’m sure he would have felt empty within even when he proclaimed that he was wronged and unfairly handled or even when he wore the Yellow jersey of the winner of the tour seven times.

But Armstrong just happens to be another human being who perhaps led himself to be deluded. This deluding happens every day amongst many.

But I think not about deception perse as seen in the case of, say a Tiger Woods or an Armstrong. It is about the character we generally display to the world, the image that we create for public consumption and with some, for comfort of hallucination. What I’m, is best told by my spouse and my children. Mothers may be prejudiced in favour of their child. But I guess the wife/husband or the children may be forthcoming and candid. So what we are is best known from our spouse and kids. This is especially true in case of folks who claim a higher ground for themselves in character, outlook even in mundane or seemingly trivial matters. A person who champions in public the cause of women’s emancipation and equal treatment may be the most cantankerous and quibbling man at home. A man or woman who exhibits the air of a perfect partner may be the artist of malarkey and ruse back home. These fantastic revelations are closed circuited inside the walls of the house and privy to the spouse and the kids only. Some of them can be even misogynist.

I have known a close relative whose promiscuity was deftly covered up by his spouse all the while when she was alive. But it was shockingly made aware to me after her death, his profane indulgence with women and his disregard for his conduct being known to his teen aged daughters. When she was alive he used to assault his wife provoked by his temper and the matter seldom seeped through the walls of the house. He retired from a powerful position with a multi- national company. He was seen and known as a disciplinarian, a gentleman, an unfortunate bereaved, loving husband and affectionate father!

There are some who thrive by blaming the spouse, usually the wife. The image they create to the outer world is that of the gentleman, the tolerant and loving husband, a person who has much forbearance and patience with his spouse. It is a revelation that is opposite that we get to see if the wife chose to talk. Such people are always enjoying the image of the wronged.

It is true that we can find specimen in all matters in the society we live. This person a woman was a termagant - cantankerous and emotionally debilitating in attitude and conduct towards her husband that he was driven into alcoholism. His was not a case of silly excuses and self-justification to hit the bottle. He chose to drown himself in the trickery that inebriation and over dose of alcohol provides. Well his wife was in fact an image of friendliness and the wronged.

Why do I say so much? Because it is mentally comforting to have the image of what you are, of what your spouse or children would define you as.When you know you are a semi-outlaw and a fallible, an ordinary mortal who will stumble,who is not above infractions but moves on, rather than a contrived wax image of moralist and the wronged. 

Livin-in my jeans

Jeans have evolved over the years into apparel that blend, adapt and cannot be torn away from one’s skin, if one is used to wearing jeans. The longer it stays on you, you live in it and Jeans becomes an indestructible part of you. You cannot do without. It becomes your second skin! You feel naked when you cloth in other garments and when you are not in it. You come to live in it, to say figuratively.

Live-in-Jeans or Live-in-relationship! The later has an added advantage unlike with the jeans there is no emotional bond that would restrain you from jettisoning out. Is it more a matter of convenience, or am I being prejudiced and or biased?

The Live-in concept that is now commercially attributed to the denim wear may have originated from the live-in relationships human beings have come to adopt. Though, not a rage yet, it is gradually and imperceptibly catching the attention and impending to be the choice of the “Generation- next”. But the similarity between a jeans that we live-in and the new convenience relationship does not extend yonder.

Can one be critical of this new concept of living together without the sanctity of wedlock, legal license or social acceptability? In a world that is increasingly resonating with the voice of intolerance, prejudice and simultaneously the demand for individual freedom, freedom of thought and way of life, I feel an individual need not have to cede to the scrutiny of the Jones next door. I guess, what my son or daughter does with their life as adults are their choice. Can I put the straight jacket of conventions and the overbearing of a sententious father? I feel my nose should not extend beyond my hands. albeit! And indeed it is a capital “BUT”!

I began to wonder about the live-in-relationships and convenience partner concept that is now seen in many case, when a close friend to whom we enquired if she could refer from her circle of acquaintances any matchmaking proposal for my niece. She did not decline, but at the same time expressed fear that it is now considered akin to donning the cross and heavy mantle when such an exercise is done in earnest. The incidences of broken marriages- divorces, separations and in extreme cases suicide are many that people are scared or frightened to engage in match making.

Now I would like to think if marriage is worth all the risk, that is being attributed to the system and in certain cases, uncritically so. Soon after the World War II and when the Cold war gripped Europe it was not uncommon for young men and women to choose not to have children as they did not wager much survival chances for the continent that was then threatened by Armageddon. Some even decided to stay out of wedlock and its collateral commitments.

What is it that prompts the young to disregard conventions of marriage – something that all may have seen practiced by their parents and elders, an institution that has been thriving for centuries? True there are and have always been cases of baleful and unenviable living in wedlock. Perhaps as true and chancy as a violent misfortune that may befall on a travel by Air, Sea or land!

Whatever may be the raison d'être that bring youth into cohabiting and in a living-relationship with out what they perceive as entrapment of marriage, can I as an adult and in the afternoon of my life criticise the right of individuals to live their life as they deem fit? Have not I accepted the conventions of the society and lived a life in compliance to the accepted rules of matrimony? Was not that my personal decision? And what if a young fellow or lass decides to break the boundaries of convention and trappings and chart a life they deem fit for them in their pursuit of happiness?

 Should I fret, fume, feel sad, morally offended, and be outraged?

But what disturbs me somewhere is the probable denial of the chance for posterity to be reared in the undeniably heavenly cocoon, a sanctuary of the family. Of a home where commitments are indeed what bonds the members.