The Magician's Quest...

Return?

2008-03-20T07:45:00.000-07:00

I doubt it. It has been too long, and I am debating whether to tear down this wall. I have lived much since the middle of 2006, much has died, much has taken root. I am closer to the person I wanted to be, and the inside of my head is quiet right now.

There has been little time, and even less inclination to write. I am disillusioned with clever words, tired of wit that goes nowhere. There are simpler things, more beautiful things, and I can finally see them.

I think the magic will never return, but I won't be needing it anymore.

Decisions

2006-01-06T00:02:00.000-08:00

(written so very long ago...)

Days pass by, and each day brings its own voices, new thoughts, new impressions to deal with.

There is a voice that talks to me in the quietness. ‘You were on a path before’ it says. ‘You were climbing. Find that path again. You haven’t strayed too far. It does not matter if that path was not glamorous. It does not matter if others would not see it. You were happy. Look for that path again.’

I do not know what to say to this voice. ‘I’m trying’ I say. ‘ Believe me, I am trying hard. I know my way back. But my feet are heavy. There has been much mixed happiness and misery. I am finding it hard to let go of either. But I am trying.’

Another voice speaks to me in pain. ‘Find someone else.’ it says. ‘There are many to choose from. This pain can end, now and here. You don’t have to fight it. It is not a dishonorable way. So many others have told you to move on. Do it. Move on to someone else.’

It costs me much to say it, but I reply. ‘No. I’ve seen that path too many times. Transfer this longing, this need to someone else. Turn these desires over to someone else. Vitiate the terrible memory of the happiness, the tenderness you shared with one person by trying to create new memories. Lay experience upon experience in order to bury the past. How can that way lead anywhere for me now? Let the feelings dissipate into the air. Let them fold in upon me and rend me when I least expect. I will bear it, rather than live through this over and over. I will wait till I am renewed. I will wait till my power is restored. I will fall endlessly through the void. But I will not cling to another human being in this manner now.’ Even as I say it I feel the longing gather and my fingers clench . It would be so easy to give up. But where will this ever end otherwise?

There is a voice that speaks to me in anger. ‘ You have been hurt.’ it says. ‘You have been humiliated. Fight back. Cause pain. Speak bitter words. Why should it mean anything to you to be calm, to be humble? Why do you want to hold back? Use all your wit, your sarcasm, your self righteousness. Turn lies into truth, turn imagination into reality. Fight back, it is the only way to survive.’

This is a familiar voice, and I know how to answer now. ‘Be quiet.’ I say. ‘Be quiet and be still. There is no honor in hitting back, biting and tearing like a wild beast. Much of this hurt has been self chosen, much of the humiliation has been with my consent. Any hurt I cause another will revisit me in the night when you are quiet, will make me ashamed of myself. Every cruel and arrogant word I say will make me weaker, less human, less able to find my way back. Be still and be quiet. My only argument must be with calm, caring words or with silence.’

There is a voice that asks indignantly. ‘Why are you insistent on truth? Aren’t you better off dealing with a harmless lie than with the bitter truth? What need had you to ask questions, to hope for the truth as answer? Why create more pain for yourself? Why do you hold integrity and truthfulness in such high esteem? Why does it eat into you so much when you hear a statement which you feel within is not the truth, not the real truth or the whole truth? When something is held back? Why cant you simply take things at face value, and be satisfied?’

I smile bitterly at this voice. ‘I was given intelligence, and reason, and intuition. I was born the kind of man who wishes to work, to change, to improve. But even an engineer needs his tools. Truth was one of these. Given the truth, I could have changed, I could have focused my energies in the right directions. I could have lightened expectations that were too heavy to bear. I could have taken the truth as a fire into me to purify and burn away impure hopes. There is much a man can do with the truth. But a lie or a half truth, even well meant, even said with the hope of sparing me pain, is useless to me.

I can see a half truth or an untruth from the truth because of the very nature of truth. It is spoken calmly, surely, without hesitating, without equivocation, with straightforwardness, humility and honesty. While it may seem brutal to speak truth, it is only the way it is spoken that makes it brutal. If spoken with love, with compassion, without anger and pride, it is well received and well understood. It is more often a lie that is by its nature brutal. No, I revere the truth, because only that can set me free. I would rather accept the consequences of the truth, and fight my way through them, than lie and have to behave like a thief.’

Another voice shouts out in great rage. ‘Who are you to choose right and wrong? Do you not see that right and wrong, good and evil are all subjective? Do you not see how good intentions, good motives, good actions often lead to great evil? Do you not see how great evil, great errors of judgment often lead men to great heights in the eyes of the world? Don’t you see how everything always turns out for the best, that everything that you do will lead you down the path you are meant to go?’

So often this voice has tortured me, played with me. I was forced to be silent, but now I speak, inspired. ‘ The ones who say a mistake was not a mistake simply because it led to good consequences are blind. I choose to see a mistake as such, even if I do not regret it, and choose not to make similar mistakes in the future. There is no such thing as ‘a way I was meant to go’. Life is dynamic, there is nothing meant for anyone. We create our reality through our choices, and who we are is who we have made ourselves. Everything does not turn out for the best, just that it turns out that we are prepared to settle for what we get out of our half-recognized choices.

I wish to pay attention to my actions of this moment, and objectively decide if they are right and wrong. This way I can make a conscious choice. This much is my responsibility, and the consequences be damned. Good and evil are rewarded in like measure. I have faith in this law of the universe.’

There is a voice that whispers softly in the back of my head. ‘Is it worth all this? What are you working for? What are you fighting so hard for? Whose way is this and where does it lead? People laugh at you and call you puritan. People wonder at your goals and humiliate you for your ideals. Anyone who walks with you will fall away because they will not see sense in your way. You will be alone, always. And even with whatever you forego, will you have the strength to walk to the end? What if your strength fails at the very end and you weep for the life you could have had? What happiness can this give you?’

I am weary. This voice has the gentle persuasion, the honeyed logic that is so hard to dispute. It preys on my fear of failure, on my insecurity, on my lack of faith in myself. It saps my strength. I falter, but I’m not beaten yet. ‘I want independence.’ I say. ‘I want to be free. Even the slightest hope of freedom is worth the ordeal. Even the slightest loosening of the chain is a life well spent. It may be that I will fail. It may be that I will choose a lesser, easier way. The chain may tighten again. But I must still work. Every man has been given life, and purpose, and I have chosen mine. All men judge others by their own goals, and if they ridicule mine, it is because theirs are different. I must learn to be humble. I must learn to be alone.’

The isolation, the terrible coldness of stark resolve, the despair of a long journey hardly begun flows over me, and I try to accept it all. All for a dream, all for an ending. All for the hope of freedom, of peace.

Goodbye

2005-07-09T18:39:00.000-07:00

My bags are not yet packed,
But all my efforts to draw this out are in vain.
I stand still, but the world moves on,
my departure still draws ever closer.
This would be a good time to say my farewells,
To those who still come to this electronic wall,
To see a would-be writer’s scribbling.
What can I say but goodbye, and may we meet when the time is right.
Much of the pain of parting has been ground out at the wheel of Dhamma,
And left in my footprints in the Himalayas.
What remains I carry with me as a warning and a reminder,
To make new mistakes, not repeat old ones.
I would not let bitterness speak for me then, and I will not now.
I wish all well, and give thanks for having known you,
And if I have been careless in my goodbyes,
Forgive me, you have not meant less to me.
Let these be my words, and caring,
And an ending and a beginning.

I go.

Big eyed Fish

2005-04-15T12:06:00.000-07:00

Don’t let them see the tears, don’t let them hear me pray,
I'm not what they want to see yet.
Leave them be, I'm not worthy of them,
And they're too blind to see that.
All I want is all that they don’t understand,
All I see is what they wont accept,
The pain must end, the hate is not natural.
Blood needn't flow, this isn’t the way it was meant to be.
But I can do nothing but change myself.
And hope that the world changes with me.

I'm trying,
trying to be a better man.

You lose, they say, at the finish line,
But I wasn’t running their race.
I wasn’t even running in their direction,
It wasn’t important to me to win this,
Perhaps I could have, perhaps I couldn't,
How does it matter, what would have been
saved, If I ran with them?
What could they've filled the cup with,
What honour could they have done to
A bowed head, when I realised that I had won,
And lost a greater race?

Will she run with me? will she turn?
but then she was not meant for me.
The pain is a moment in time,
And a mind lives in the timeless,
And I must remember what I'm trying to be.

I'm trying,
trying to be a better man.

Ranting..

2005-02-01T11:03:00.000-08:00

What will you do, good man, when your heart is seared by the thought of the oppression of human beings, when you see the pain in their eyes and the despair of their souls? What will you do? Will you leave the pain of your own little existence and rise to help them? Do you have that duty, that capability, that right? Tell me, good man, have you earned the name you gave yourself? Have you earned the self satisfaction that you feel when your head rests on a pillow that an eight year old head has never felt? Have you earned the right to call yourself good simply because you feel the pain of another human being? But you feel your own pain keener still. Can you overcome? Can you be truly, honestly good?

What will you do, strong man, when you see that your strength is of no account against a tideless world that knows only ebb and ebb? What will you do when all force used to free those whose days and night are a burden and a curse to them will return to punish them more? What will you do when fighting the twin beast of poverty and numbers? What will you use your strength for? To more firmly divide the tiniest morsel of dried earth between the hungry mouths of the last children left with the strength to chew? What will you do but wear your massive power down in an ineffectual war against an enemy that laughs into your ear and tells you that its name is circumstance? Drive your fist into the wall and watch the red stain your knuckles and turn the pain of emotion into the pain of physiology? Is that not what you have done?

What will you do, faithful man, when god's creatures suffer the lash of a blighted existence, when your own comfort seems to be stolen from their mouths and your mother's milk may have been distilled from their blood? Will you envy them the poverty that keeps them lower than the devil could have intended? Will you call it karma, or providence, or say that if their creator made them he will pay their accounts in a fair hand? Or will your faith fly from you and wing its way into an unknown limbo? Will you hide your faint heart in the grotesque swelling of indifference and apathy, or worse, in the meager consolation of speaking out of your fellow-man's suffering as though it wrung your heart and yet expressing the impossible futility of the task before you?

What will you do but watch through a liquid film as your fingers fly over a keyboard, and sip your coffee from time to time, and marvel over the clear sighted demon that makes you write?

Loneliness

2005-01-03T23:14:00.000-08:00

It is lonely, having to always stare at a hazy future and wonder at the mistakes of the past. It is lonely to be standing at this cliff edge staring at a bright moon and wondering why it is that I am again alone. For a moment it seemed that it would not be necessary to stand here, not be necessary to face the moment of bitterness again. But life brings me back over and over to this edge and asks me to pay for my indulgences.

Did I destroy this? The pain of that question is haunting. I look back at the man I've been and I wish I could have done things differently. I wanted so much to be different, to be strong, to be thoughtful. I was confused and weak. Now there is shame to deal with, and loss. And though I've dealt with these before I know I can only be called to this edge so many times before I throw myself over. I am not the kind of man who can indulge this way and survive. Love is too special to me, too unique to be entered into often. The ones I feel this way about are too special to be picked out indiscriminately. I may choose to experience other things, but love to me is sacred. I will not love this way many times. I can feel it in the slow beat of my heart as I stare into the abyss.

I do not want to be called back here again.

Another end, another beginning.

2004-12-15T21:18:00.000-08:00

Its been a hard day. Its hard to struggle against oneself, to fight the bitterness, the urge to impose self-exile. To dive back into silence. Learning is an eternal art, I know. I just wish I knew all the roads and bylanes of this strange life of mine. I wish I could just close my eyes right now and feel that it is leading somewhere. Running in place all the time. Relearning all the time, reinventing all the time. Perhaps my life has been bought off other people, which is why I seem to live in other people's lives more than my own. Anyway, I'm rambling.

Why is happiness elusive? I knew the answer, I could answer questions about it and yet I must ask again. I was happy. I will be again. I will be peaceful. The old familiar silence will settle down, the firm tranquility will reestablish itself. Much of my love for beauty and thought will return. But I've lost some of my old self. Again I've been evicted from my preconcieved self image and I cannot return to it. Who am I? Who is this strange madman, who for a brief second had a name? Who is this patiently smiling lunatic who stares at the pain in his chest and wonders how long it will last? Who is this person who writes against his will, knowing no greater good can come of it, and still sends his words out into an unhearing emptiness that is somehow more comforting than a million concerned ears? Who am I?

Engineers

2004-12-14T20:21:00.000-08:00

I am often surprised at the strange idea people have about engineers. They seem to look at us as strange, bookish individuals, lost in own own minds, impractical, often downright insane. I'm amused. They seem to think what we do is uninteresting, unimportant, non-creative. And who wouldn't? What they see us do is crunch numbers, pore over unintelligible diagrams, get our hands greasy, hunch over our keyboards all night while they party. How could this be anything but boring?

I am amused because I see the shallowness of their vision. What do they think would happen if we all just folded our hands across our chests and leaned back in our seats? The power plants would shut down as grids overloaded and the generators collapsed. Transportation would grind to a halt as the trucks and locomotives fell apart. The roads would crack, the internet would crash. What the hell will they do when the water taps run dry? what will they do when their life support systems refuse to beep? What will society do when the great machine flatlines?

What is an engineer? An engineer is an individual that holds in his mind the secret of motive force, one who makes a pact with nature, who asks that she support him in his endeavor to make life livable for her children. We are individuals, each one of us powered by an idea, inspired by a desire to create, each of us devoted to the understanding of nature. We love our work, it consumes us, and yet we are so much more than we let on.

Even today, when I think of an engineer, I see him (or her) in a setting imagined deep in my childhood. I see a man standing alone on the skeleton of a great tower, a mighty framework lifting him above the earth, towards a sky divided by night and day, wrapped in the elements, arms folded across his chest, and with eyes turned towards life in silent harmony.

2004-11-27T09:18:00.000-08:00

well, thats another day almost done with. Its ending early. Usually my day seems to stretch on one way or the other till I collapse in the wee hours of the night. Not much has happened in the day. Or thats the way it seems right now I guess. Somehow I think its not that the days are empty, but that I don't find enough meaning in them anymore. I'm so busy thinking about the next moment or the past moment that I'm not aware of right now. I'm not aware of what my body is doing or what thoughts are passing through my mind. I miss the beam of sunlight that could inspire a thought of love. I miss the look in the little beggar girl's eyes that remind me that she too is a human being, that even though she's part of a huge fagin-run network she feels hunger the same way I do when I dont get the time to eat. I miss the smile on her face that reminds me of a time when a single rupee meant a pepsi ice to suck on and no worries of tommorows client meeting and delivery schedule. Life sucks sometimes not because that's its nature, but because I've forgotten to use my free heart to see with.

Enough. Tommorow's sunday. No more moaning of the past or the future. Tommorow I want to see with the eyes of a child.

A Madman's journey

2004-11-25T20:52:00.000-08:00

Madmen have strange lives. My life has led me down so many paths, so many journeys, and there is still so much road to travel.

I am resting now. I am tired. I sit by the path and watch people walking in either direction, to slavery or liberation. I see some stride confidently, some crawling, clawing their way forward, inch by inch, weighed down by their own natures.

I watch impassively. I cannot continue my journey right now. I must wait in silence until my soul has replenished itself, when enough strength will rise in me to resume this struggle.

I am not afraid. I know that this is natural. It is all right to rest. I know I will walk this road again. I will never lay down bricks by this path, and live in a prison for my soul. I will lie here for the night, and smile up at the stars, and the morning will see me on my way again.

Growing up

2004-11-25T08:56:00.000-08:00

Upon a shelf in my mind lie the things I put away as I grew up. My innocence, my acceptance, my vision, my love for things that could not be bought, my happiness at the tiniest things, my sense of wonder, my love for life. Every now and then I pick one of these up, wipe the dust off it and wonder what it's doing there. 'My God', I think, 'Wasn’t it just yesterday that I carried this with me? has it really have been so long?' I try to remember the precise instant I put it away, but it's futile. I must have gotten bored of it one day and placed it on that shelf. Run away to play and forgotten all about it.

'Well, so what?' I think. 'Life's no different without it. It was always like this anyway'. A small voice somewhere within me asks "Was it? Was it no different?". I have no way to answer. I truly don’t know anymore. The memories of that time can be unlocked only by the things that lie on that shelf, and if I could I'd carry them all again, but I look down and all my pockets are full. I also picked up new things as I grew up. My Ego, My ideas, My views, My beliefs, My suffering, My self-righteousness, My ambition, My lust. And these are so precious to me now, more precious than memories.

Still, I have two hands, and if I need one to do my work, I may still carry something of my childhood in the other .

If I could only decide which…

The Musician

2004-11-24T13:34:00.000-08:00

He was a quiet man sitting on the steps of the library, the only thing distinguishing him from the rest of the crowd being a small wooden flute dangling from his hand. That and the fact that he wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t look like he had anywhere to go or anything to do. He was just a quiet man with a flute sitting on the steps watching people hurry past, on their way to lunch or from lunch back to their air conditioned cabins and cubicles where they'd get back to cranking the wheels that turned the world.

I was stopped on the other side of the crowd and he saw me looking at him. His expression didn’t change. He was just watching me the way I was watching him. Like a strange animal in a zoo.

I guess I must have looked strange too. Dressed in an amazingly expensive yet horribly crumpled suit, unshaved, unkempt, hair messed up, I guess I must have looked like I had been mugged. But I was just living the bachelor experience. Working hard so that I could have more money so I could afford a more expensive lifestyle which would cost still more money so I could have an excuse to work harder and when I got a break from that I could have some meaningless sex and walk away the next morning without even remembering the girl's name and land up on a sidewalk unshaved, unkempt and watching a lone musician, feeling that life's really not worth shit. Hurrah for life.

I smiled at him. Well, lets see how good he is, I thought. I made a gesture, playing an imaginary flute, indicating that I wanted him to play a tune. I thought he'd either be offended or delighted. He was neither.

He smiled back, and made a series of gestures to me, quietly, without moving his lips or changing his peaceful expression. He raised his hand with the fingers and palm up, then pointed to me, pointed to his own ear, and repeated my gesture with the flute. I got the question. 'Why do you want to hear me play?'

I shrugged. 'Just like that' I meant to say. He shook his head with a quiet smile. I got what that meant. 'Not a good enough reason'

I felt around in my pockets, pulled out a few notes and waved them in the air. As a young executive, I firmly believed every man had a price. The musician's smile faded, and a sad reproachful look came over his face. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, in the unmistakable gesture denoting money, and then completed it by raising his hand into the wind with the thumb and forefinger touching, and then opening his fingers. He then shook his head and looked at me. I understood what he meant 'Your money is worthless to me. Throw it to the wind for all I care'.

He was still looking at me. He repeated his first gestures ' Why do you want to hear me play?'

I swore silently under my breath. I looked back at him. I let my head loll back and my eyes roll up. I hoped he would understand what I meant. 'Because I am Bored.'

He shook his head again 'Not good enough'.

He was still waiting. I pointed to myself, pointed to my eyes, pointed to him, gave him a thumbs up sign, and then made the gesture of playing the flute. I think he understood. ' I want to see if you're good at playing the flute.'

He made the thumbs down gesture and shook his head wistfully. 'Not very good.'

I made a dismissive gesture and again acted like I was playing a flute. 'Play anyway.'

Again he shot back. 'Why do you want to hear me play?'

I swore and shook my fist at him. 'Just play damnit.'

He shot back the same gesture, more insistent this time. 'WHY do you want to hear me play?'

The hell with it, I thought' I turned away, took two steps in the opposite direction and stopped. I didn’t want to go away. I wanted to hear him play. I stood with my back to him and tried to understand why I wanted to hear him play the flute. I realised only the truth would make him play. And only the truth would make me capable of listening.

I turned back and looked at him, defeated. There were no gestures left for what I wanted to say, so I shouted out across the crowd.

"Because I'm tired, and lonely, and there's no music anywhere except the sound of these damned people's feet and their voices in my ear and I woke up in a strange bed with a woman I didn’t love and because all the dreams I had as a child have sunk into this damned quicksand and I just wanted to hear you play because I just wanted to hear a little music in this damned piece of shit world."

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks and looked at me like I was crazy. I really didn’t care.

The musician smiled at me, and he called out in a quiet, even voice.

"That's what I'm here for."

And he raised the flute to his lips and played a beautiful, flowing, lilting tune as I listened with my eyes closed and a smile on my face, while everyone else shut their ears and walked away looking at us the way they'd look at two strange animals in a zoo.

The Grandson.

2004-11-24T00:34:00.000-08:00

"Yes, your grandfather was a fine man, a fine man indeed." The old lady had a sweet voice and a face that crinkled in a hundred little lines around her eyes when she smiled, which was often. But she wasn’t my grandmother. She didn’t know that though. For her I was her very own grandson, a fine upstanding young man who came to see her every day. I had seen her today for the first time in my life.

"She's got Alzheimer's." The nurse told me before I went in. "She'll probably think you're her son, or her grandson. Just go along with it. Don’t upset her. She's really a very sweet lady."

"What about her real son and grandson?" I asked.

"Son's dead, Grandson will probably come back to claim her body when she's gone, if even that. She's completely alone. It’s a shame, really. She deserved better." She gave a resigned shrug of her shoulders and walked off.

I was there at the old age home because I was at the end of my rope myself. I figured maybe if I helped someone else for a while, I could forget about my own screwed up life. My aunt was the director of the home, and she was always telling me to come and help out. She never really expected that I would, but what the heck, miracles do happen.

Its strange that I would ever feel like this. Me, the iceman, the rock, the android, laid low by relationship trouble. Well, shit happens. Sometimes even a person like me, with supposedly no feelings, finds that he has some. Worse, finds that he's actually a romantic at heart. Its hard dealing with that at short notice. Especially when you begin to see that there are actually very few romantics left today. Makes you feel like you're on an endangered species list.

Well, my aunt is a very astute person, good at reading people and moods, and she sent me to this lady who thinks I'm her grandson. And all I'm supposed to do is listen to her and nod once in a while.

"You remember how your grandfather and I met?" the old lady asked. I shook my head. "Liar." She said leaning forward and caressing my face with both hands in what I assume is a very grandmotherly gesture. "I've told you so many times. Why don’t you just ask if you want to hear it again?" I smiled as she released my face and sat back in her chair next to the window. I dragged my chair closer and sat leaning forward, elbows on my knees and resting my chin on the back of my hands, so I could hear her better. I hoped that was a grandson-like pose. I wouldn’t really know, since I'd never really known any of my grandparents.

"We met when we were in college. He was the one of quiet studious fellows in the front rows no one ever remembers except at exam time. I was a nutcase who flirted with all the guys and drove the professors mad. I never gave him a second glance. He was reasonably good looking, but not in my league at all." She said this so matter-of-factly that in a strange way, my male ego was hurt. I guess I could've just as easily fit that description.

"One day, I was in this terrible fix with my assignments, and I was almost in tears in the library, trying to complete them all. He just came over, sat down and started drawing diagrams for me. He didn’t even introduce himself, or ask or anything. He just silently drew one after the other until they were all done, flashed me a broad smile, hefted his bag over his shoulder and left. I was so zapped I completely forgot to thank him.

I thought that he'd come and start talking to me after that, but he never did. We sometimes caught each others eye across the hall, but he'd just grin and look away. He never tried to come near me. I was highly irritated with him. I mean, there was this beautiful girl clearly inviting him to talk, at least for courtesy's sake, and this darned helpful goof just wouldn’t. I also felt obliged, and I wanted to say thanks and get it over with.

I finally caught him reading under a tree in the campus grounds. I sat down next to him, and got that goofy grin again. I waited for him to say something but the idiot just went back to his book. I wanted to say thank you. It came out 'Do you even know how to talk?' in the most irritated tone I possessed.

'Well, yes' he answered 'when the situation demands it.'

'Well, it demands it now. Why wont you talk to me?'

'Well, we've been in the same class a while now. You never spoke to me either. I just thought you didn’t want to.'

'But that was when I thought you were a damn .. ' I caught myself in time. I always put my foot in my mouth, don’t I dear? Your grandfather always teased me about that." the old lady smiled showing all those cute little lines. I didn’t say anything, so she continued.

"your grandfather smiled. 'a damn what?' he said 'Geek? I am, there's no denying that. Look, if you just want to say thank you and get it off your chest, do it and get going. If you want to talk to me, be prepared to hear about geeky stuff.'

'like what?' I asked. 'What are you reading?'

'Dostoyevsky. The idiot.'

'Dust of what?'

'Dos-toy-yev-skee. Russian author. Very insightful.'

'what's it about?'

'About this very simple man who begins to love a woman who’s torn between her love for him and her intense desire to punish herself for a shame that is truly not her fault.'

'eeeek.'

He smiled. "too heavy?'

'much too heavy. When you finish, tell me how it ends.'

'I can tell you now. I'm reading it the second time. It ends in tragedy. She's killed by a man who only wanted to possess her, and when he realised that he could never really own her he killed her. The man brings Myshkin, the simple idiot, to see her body, and his love and pity for both the woman and her murderer is so great that it drives him back into the madness that turned him into an idiot in the first place.'

'Typical. All love stories end in tragedy. This love thing is just a stupid joke.'

'I take it you don’t believe in love.'

'There's no such thing as love. You just get used to people. After a while, when you get used to a person enough, you think its not such a bad idea to say you're in love with him, that’s all'

he started laughing. 'that’s a novel thought. Are you used to anyone right now?'

'No' I said. 'I know too many people to get used to any one now. What about you?'

'I'm afraid I'm not a person people can get used to. They find it hard to get used to me.'

'why?' I asked.

'I'm not quite sure. Maybe because I read books like these. Maybe because I believe there is something called love, and there is a way to love someone so that you don’t get up every morning and think, heck, I'm just used to her being there next to me.'

'My god, you're a romantic' I teased.

He laughed. 'A geek and a romantic. Guess you're never going to get used to me either.'

I just kept laughing and he gave me this wistful, slightly sad smile. He went back to reading and I got up silently and went away. That was how your grandfather and I met."

The old lady was still smiling as a tear crept down her cheek. I wiped it away on impulse. She caught my hand and kissed it. "You look very different from him, more like my own father. but you have the same sort of heart. You were always such a loving child. I'm so glad you still come to see me."

"But how did you and grandpa get along after that?" I asked, fighting to keep the lump in my throat from showing in my voice. The iceman never shows emotion.

"Well, He used to sit there under that tree everyday after college, and I would go and sit there and talk to him. Slowly I got used to his smile, and his books and his thoughts and all his funny emotions. He made me laugh so much, I couldn’t help getting used to him."

"And he got used to you too?" I asked her.

"No. He fell in love with me. He always believed in love." She was crying freely now.

"I'm sorry" she said, as I took out my handkerchief. "Its just that I miss him so much these days. I never thought anyone could get so used to anyone else. Funny how this love stuff usually gets the last laugh."

"You need to rest now." I said "You've tired yourself out with so much talk." I helped her to the bed and tucked her in. I kissed her on the forehead and turned to leave.

"You know, you're just like your grandfather." She said sleepily. "The same kind of heart. Your father and mother weren't like that, but you got your grandfather's heart."

I turned and kissed her again. "Get some rest" I said. "I'll come and see you again soon."

I walked out into a cold winter evening, and I stood at the entrance of the home watching people walk past. I was trying hard not to let that lump in my throat get the better of me. It was strange. I had lived through a hard childhood, an abusive home, a death, and an ice age within myself. I had done things I was ashamed of, said words that need not have been said, hurt people who had never deserved to be hurt.

And yet, for this sweet old lady, I had inherited my grandfather's heart.

Cats

2004-11-24T00:20:00.000-08:00

Its funny the things one gets addicted to in life. I'm addicted to furballs. Furballs with four legs, two funny ears that twitch independently of each other, and eyes that can see right through you. God made a big mistake, making kittens so damned cute. Didn’t really leave guys like me a chance.

This may do irreparable damage to my steelhearted rocker persona, but what the heck. Sasha seems to approve, sitting on top of my monitor, one paw dangling over the screen. 4 months old, white, black tail and ears, yellow green eyes, mind like a demon. An angel when I brought her home, she took just 48 hours to transform. I was peacefully tapping my foot to some music and suddenly there's this little ball of fur attached to my toe by the teeth. I had unfortunately missed the whole stalking sequence that preceded it.

That was then. Now she studies gravity, dropping stuff off the shelves with merry abandon. If she passes anything above foot level that isn't nailed down, she promptly swipes it off it's resting place with her paw. She came close to being evicted when she managed to temporarily stop my faithful Swatch with her experiments, and my sister has given up the search for her earrings. Mom gives her (and me) a baleful, long suffering look when she's upto these atrocities, and I suspect I'll have to fish sasha outa the washing machine sometime if she doesn’t clean up her act soon. Speaking of fish, she does try to traumatize the inmates of my aquarium often, but I don’t think she retains any credibility as an angler ever since she fell in.

Its rather interesting the way I end up with cats. Its not like I pick up every kitten I see on the streets. This is the way it happens. My sister finds them, then insists that I take a look (meaning come and get hooked). I watch for a while, try to keep from picking them up. My sister starts "can we….?"

"NO!!!" I yell.

"But.."

"NOOO!"

"She's so cute.."

"No…"

"I cant find the mom cat.. look, she's hungry"

"no.."

"It might rain"

"no…"

"She'll die out here"

"Oh damnit all to hell….. we'll take her home"

And so, of course its me who faces mom's wrath for bringing the darn kitten home. C'est la vie.

For all those wondering why I don’t simply chuck Sasha out, its because I cant. Not when she comes and curls up on my chest and watches TV with me. Not when she snuggles up under my chin when its cold. Not when she still makes me laugh in her mad moods. She's just too darn cute. And the funny part is I also respect her. In these times, I can at least see one creature that sleeps so trustingly, wakes so leisurely, is so full of the joy of life when she plays. She warms my heart, and makes me feel good about the world.

I've seen two of my cats die, and people sometimes ask me how I can bear to have them around when it hurts so much to see them die. The truth is it doesn’t hurt to see cats die. They die simply, without a fuss, accepting and passing away with the dignity possible only to beings who know that death is natural, a change that need not be feared. Its hard not to respect a being that lives and dies this way. And its hard not to want to be like them. A furball for a role model.

Sasha woke up and stretched a few minutes ago, and she's just about ready to start tearing up the place. Its not easy to put the thoughts of a lifetime addiction into a few paragraphs, and I would love to write more. But right now, if you'll excuse me, I have to save my Swatch. J

The Surd who does everything.

2004-11-23T23:58:00.000-08:00

The title is self explanatory, that is if you don’t hold the definition of a surd to the accepted one of an imperfect square root. Square roots, though fascinating to some, cannot be expected to hold the entertainment value of my sardar friends, whom I most affectionately (no sarcasm there) call surds. While I cannot corroborate the general impression regarding their cerebral prowess, or rather the lack of it, I can vouch for the fact that each one certainly is a character in himself. The one in question today is a self proclaimed Leonardo Da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Kahlil Gibran, Shakespeare, Bruce Lee, and many more I have had the privilege of forgetting.

I was surprised one day when he walked into my house, picked up a copy of Kahlil Gibran, and actually started reading. While I watched amazed, he noticed my wide eyed stare and .. well, I quote.. "What? Poetry? Hell, I can write like this."

I would've thought he was yanking my chain. But I realise there's nothing he cant do, at least in his own head. For example, he can fly an F-16. "Man, you know how big the accelerator pedal is?" He's got his leg in the air operating an imaginary pedal that seems to be about the length of your average car's steering column. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that jets have throttles. Similarly, he can kick like Beckham, jab like Tyson and sing like Sting. But I admit, his (imagined) capacity for writing is what really irks me.

That same day, after he put down Gibran, he picked up Shakespeare's Sonnets. Now, even I found that boring (all apologies to shakespeare's fans, but I just don’t have the intellectual capacity or the sentimental bent of mind to appreciate Shakespeare). Anyway, he found it boring too, until of course, he came to The Rape of Lucrece. His eyes lit up and he started reading intently. Having read it myself, I most evilly kept the truth about that particular sonnet to myself. He read and he read and he read. Finally he glared up at me.

"ONE PARAGRAPH?" ( he meant stanza). "ONE BLOODY PARAGRAPH ABOUT THE ACTUAL RAPE? NOTHING ELSE!" I just smiled. "Kinda like an old hindi movie rape scene, eh? Massive build up, no skin." I said, grinning.

He flicked the paperback at my head muttering " Hell, I can write like that."

The Curse of being a Halfway diner.

2004-11-23T23:55:00.000-08:00

The things I do to prove I'm not all serious... : )

In a starling twist of gastronomic proportions to the saga of my life, I've turned into what I've always abhorred, A halfway diner. I guess the best definition of this ailment is an inability to eat without cribbing about how what you're eating is horrible for every part of your body, from the skin to the gills, but eating the whole damn thing anyway and going back for seconds. I confess, I confess. It is the end. I would kill myself but after I get through this fourth helping of butter chicken, I think I'll just sit and wait for my arteries to clog up and slowly choke me. What? There's Kulfi? Do you have any idea how much full cream there is in that stuff? And God, the way those guys make it…. Hey, where do you think you're going with that? I never said I didn’t want it.

You get the whole lamentable idea, I trust. I, the bottomless pit, I the meal monster, I the terror of all-you-can-eat buffets, now am relegated to muttering obscene threats to my wholly insouciant stomach, which thumbs an imaginary nose up at me and bids my hand pour the samosa-pav down the hatch and never mind the chewing, Jack. Oh, for a day when I could either eat with abandon, or else not eat and perhaps make some use of my exorbitant gym membership. Which is good? Which is best? Which path must my life follow? Shall I follow the path of renunciation, which will lead to health, wisdom, an undeterred view of my toes, and a wholly understandable desire to bite any person making their way through a Subway footer? Or the path of utter self indulgence, which will make my friends so happy, which will make me so obese. I will smile at the poor anorexic fools who waste their time in their gyms when I can be happy in my bed waiting for my poor overworked heart to give up the ghost and take that final bite. I'm sorry for the melodrama, but kulfi does that to me.

Alcohol too. Beer, man? Just a little, this stuff really packs in the calories man… uhhh, a little more, little more, almost there, yeah that’s it, five millimeters from the top of the glass. You know you just killed five days of my gym here, don’t you buddy? The guy walks away smiling and my buddies shake their heads and tell me that I get fat more because I agonize over what I'm eating. Still, I have the best built body among us, thanks to guilt induced gymming.

I say all this because I need help. I don’t want to be like this anymore. Somebody halp! I cant live like this forever. I am doomed to rue the spirits of mealtimes past, and, more the pity, of mealtimes present. Mealtimes future just read back my last words. It seems, before I bite the dust, I say "This really cant be good for me.. "

Well, Duh!

2004-11-23T23:51:00.000-08:00

I wished I could be a different man, a conqueror perhaps, an explorer, a man with a golden shield and a broadsword. Instead I am this peddler of dreams, this strange half poet stuck in this never land between practicality and faith, this oft recognised wearer of rose coloured spectacles.

Why did I wish to be a different man? How could it help me to rebel against my own nature? It only took my blood and sweat and tears, and left me no different from the man I was before. Perhaps wiser, if to be what I am now can be called wisdom. I am an old man, and the nights pass in my weariness. Somehow the joy has left me, stranded on this stale reef staring out into the boundless ocean of possibilities. It has been months since I have laughed with pure happiness, looked at anything with the desire to see beauty. Now my life is rife with moments stolen to write self pitying prose like this in an effort to ease my aching mind. A mind that has forgotten its ability to speak of beauty, and is left writing of its own pain and misery. This was not what was intended. This was not what my life contained. This was not the strength I had seen back in the terrible days. This is not what I wished for myself.

If I am a dream merchant, it will be dreams of faith and hope that I sell. If I am to be a poet, then it will be songs of happiness I sing. If I must be stranded on my little reef, then on it I will dance. Courage, and hope, I will believe in again. No more will I dip my bucket in this stinking well of self pity and write the songs of the birdcages that I abhor so much. Let others sing them and call them art. I will be happy, even if my day is filled with the possibilities of pain and loss and weariness. That is what courage is, that is the golden shield I carry, and that is what will let this half poet remain, and also make of him a conqueror.

******
I wrote this when I was tired of much of the stuff I was reading on a site called fls. I had read so much of what I call birdcage poetry - dead depressing things without a word of courage and hope in them, written by people who were so young and should've been happy. I felt quite dead inside myself and promised myself that if I wrote, I would somehow find the strength to share courage, to help hope, and not to feed this mass movement towards prozac. I have not always been successful, I know, and I will post some of my failures here. But it was still a powerful promise to myself, and it helps keep me honest.

2004-11-23T23:45:00.000-08:00

Things live and die in a writer everyday. Ideas, emotions, life itself breathes through the writer's senses, bringing him closer to his rambling and his half thoughts and the days that have slipped by without him noticing. The human part of the writer does not die. But the part of him that writes dies and is reborn so often. He cannot tell when it will pass away, and when it will return. He must be patient even when it has played truant for many days and sometimes must write when every fibre of his being demands that he throw the pen away and close his eyes so he need no longer see the emptiness of his life. What is worse for a writer than the inability to write what he wishes? Even then, the irony is that he can hardly ever write what he wishes. He is worked upon by forces he himself does not understand, and only at the end of writing does he claim the piece as his own, knowing full well that it was not he, but something else, something infinitely more powerful that made him write, something so intense that the pen would not form the words on the paper, that it could not be contained but yet was under his barest control. Else it would tear the paper and break the nib in its frustration because it cannot turn itself into words and be seen by everyone, because it must be recognised only by the writer. It rails at the despicable frivolity of the medium it attempts to express itself in, and it would rail even if it used the entirety of the human form to express itself. It would wear out the body and the mind in its relentless passion to know itself. It is only by the strength of the writer that he can write without his own self rising up and overpowering himself. And it is only to give himself a moment's peace that he writes.

The quest begins thus....

2004-11-23T09:56:00.000-08:00

What does the magician do when his magic fades? Does he lay down his wand and return to the land that gave him his powers? What does he do when he no longer knows the way?

He tries to sing. He sings for his old days, he sings his old songs of love. But those who know him hear the strains of sadness that have crept in. He sings his hymns to the master, but the master hears the note of sad reproach. The magician hears and knows, but he sings.

He thinks, he spends days in his armchair. He remembers the faces, the stage. He smiles at days that are gone. He picks up his wand, but the power will not return. He breaks his wand, not in anger, only so that he may no longer be tempted to hope.

He takes off his robes and his hat. He wears the coarse clothes of the commoners. He smiles at the whispers and glances that follow him as he walks the road away from his home. 'They knew only the magic.' he thinks.

The magician will search for his lost power for years, for ages, for lives. The irony is that he will find it precisely at the moment he ceases to search.

*****

The date is misleading. I wrote this ages ago, in a diary that doesn't preserve timestamps. I have never liked dates that much. How does it matter When something is written? More important is the reason for which it is. I wrote this when I realised how much I wanted to write, to reach out to people and yet felt that i could not, that I had nothing to talk about. Or rather, nothing that others would want to hear about. This may be part of my quest to regain that power that allows us to speak of what we have learnt, what we believe is true, and what we believe is good, and not care if anyone is even listening.