It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, I had everything before me, I had nothing before me, I was going direct to Heaven, I was going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
There continues to be a president with a large jaw and a pumpkin for a brain, in the United States; and it is still the case that there is a prime minister with a turban on his head and criminals for colleagues, in India . In both countries it is clearer than crystal, to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general are screwed up beyond belief.
It is the year of Our Lord two thousand and seven. I am just about to complete my ridiculously long summer break in Delhi and fly back to begin my senior year at school in Philadelphia, in the United States. This requires for mental adjustments on my part, to a degree not commonly seen, in preparation for a city quite vastly different from the one I'm leaving . Not that I haven't done this before; it is just that spending 8 months in Philadelphia during term time, and then 4 months of summer in Delhi require a person to be willing to flick switches in his or her brain with a disconcerting ease and then act like it's a very normal thing to do. Paradigm shifts have been heard of, but our brains are just not wired to take in these drastic shifts in environment, people and philosophy, on such a regular basis.
Nevertheless, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. I've been resigned to spending the last four months in Delhi and now I've got to go back to start my last year at school in Philadelphia.
Delhi's been hot this year, unusually so. The rains never came. People are feeling the heat, but we haven't had too many electricity issues, at least. Everyone's busy, people don't have the time anymore. I'm on vacation, not much to do. Do I want to have lunch now?Sure, why not? Friends coming over, let's go out for some coffee. I get into a fight with the auto-wallah... it might finally rain this evening. What day is it today? 10 o clock in the morning, where is everyone? Should I have breakfast now? I was reading a book last night wasn't I? Which one is that? No, let's get another. India's playing England today in the afternoon. Man, I need to rent a couple of movies in the evening. Have my clothes been ironed? Another pointless sales caller, how much for the milk bhai saab? The sun is out, Wednesday afternoon at 4 o clock. The birds are chirping to usher in the evening, why don't I sit out or maybe go for a walk? Have you met Mr. Suneja as yet beta? People are nice, everyone's happy.
Philly's been nice this semester, neither too hot nor too cold. BA screwed up with my luggage. Who gets the biggest room in the apartment? I'm here to get an education, not much time. Dude have you got the tech guys to have a look at your laptop? Oh hell I don't have bedding for the night! What time is class in the morning? Akshay you want to get lunch tomorrow? Advisor meeting at 11:30. Books are expensive this time. You are scheduled to take your make up final in two days time, please be prepared. McKinsey presentation at 8 o clock today, damn, I almost forgot to have dinner. Where have you been all week? I'm still jet lagged, it's too cold if you leave the windows open at night. Setting up your speakers takes some time, conference call at 10 tonight. Have you sent those emails out and can you come to buy furniture Saturday morning? Federer plays Djokovic in the evening, 200 pages of Legal Studies. Get that paper done by Tuesday evening, we can play tennis on Thursday. You're not getting enough sleep, have you had enough water? Call your sister goddamnit!
I'm back in Philly as you can see, it's nice..that was Delhi...this is Philly and
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done....
Friday, August 31, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
New Delhi, 2007
One of the oldest inhabited cities in the world, they say people have lived here for more than four thousand five hundred years. Indraprastha to the Pandavas, it has since seen the Sultanate, gone through the Khiljis, Tughluqs, Sayyids and Lodis. It was Shahjahanabad for its seventh avatar and since 1911, became the capital for the Raj. Through the centuries it had a distinct identity, the dynasties that ruled from here lent it an unmistakable touch. Now though, it is the National Capital Territory of Delhi and it would be difficult for anyone to put a finger on what really defines this great city.
Not to say that Delhi is without character. Having lived here all my life, I love it like no other. It is a far more "livable" city compared to the other three metros, and I'm sure nobody will disagree. What I'm looking for is to to be able to "label" this city the way one is able to do with Bombay, Madras and Calcutta(I prefer the old names, they help to make my point clearer). Bombay's diversity is legendary, but its Parsee dominated culture and "financial capital" status, manifests itself in a pronounced buzz that is quite unique to the city. Madras and Calcutta are, by proxy, very easy to stereotype, because of the large "indigenous" population of Tamils and Bengalis respectively. Though a decent contingent, in the latter, of Marwaadis, lends Calcutta some semblance of variety.
Delhi though, is a different case altogether. Its diversity is grossly underestimated and its dynamics never quite fascinate the way Bombay's seem to. People readily assume the Punjabi influence to be pervasive, but equally readily tend to forget, that for centuries, this was essentially a Muslim city, built almost entirely by Muslim rulers. The more one thinks about it, the more difficult it is to pinpoint a certain defining feature of this city. You do get a sense of being somewhere in the north of India, but it becomes quite a task to come to grips with what this city is all about. The Delhi of Rajinder Nagar and Raja Garden is so vastly different from the Delhi of Khan Market and Jor Bagh that one can easily be forgiven for thinking these are two distinct cities under the same government.
It is not just the economic disparities among colonies, every city in India will invariably have that as a salient feature. It is the complete difference in character, philosophy, feel and atmosphere within the confines of this city, stretching from Dwarka to Rohini to Sarita Vihar to Shahdra. It is simply not possible to decisively say that there is any one particular feature that might be common to these areas, or even its inhabitants. What or Who is it then that really defines Delhi? Is it the school teacher from Okhla? The lawyer from West Patel Nagar? The businessman from Model Town? or the computer engineer from Malviya Nagar?
William Dalrymple writes beautifully about Delhi, in his classic, City of Djinns, but you cannot help get the feeling that what he is describing is only a very small part of this city; one that is somehow, desperately, clinging on to its past. Dalrymple, understandably, has nothing to say about the Delhi of South Extension and Nehru Place, of Saket and Mayur Vihar, given their being devoid of the kind of romance he so eloquently evokes in all else that he addresses in the book. We would be in denial, were we to ignore the fact that it does not suffice anymore to ascribe to Delhi a Muslim past, Punjabi influence and the Mughals' and Lutyens' architecture.
Delhi is, to use a cliche, a melting pot, with some very pronounced flavors that seem unduly accentuated.
You will find in Delhi Bengalis and Jats, Kashmiris and Madrasis, Marwaadis and Biharis, Baniyas and Brahmins, Christians and Jains, Jacobs and Palkhiwaalas, Mishras and Roys, Abdullahs and D'Souzas. You could stay in a Marwaadi household, have a Nepali servant, a Garhwali driver, a Bengali doctor, a Rajput watchman, a Bihari tutor, Parsees for neighbours and South Indian for lunch. Try as you might, you will fail if you try to define what this city is all about. It might have been possible in the past, but today, it would be a futile attempt, to say the least.
Delhi is in many ways, becoming another Bombay, but it clearly lacks a distinctive character that we could use to define it. The Punjabi influence must certainly not be underestimated, but it would stretching the facts to say that Delhi is primarily a Punjabi city. The minorities are each in numbers large enough so as to affect the overall feel of the city, and you will run into people from all walks of life, religions, regions, caste and creed, in just one day about town.
It is unusual for a capital city so historic and great, to lack a defining feature or unmistakable characteristic, but Delhi will never be what London, Paris or Rome are. It is a city that is being continually morphed into something else, it is dynamic in ways that we do not quite comprehend and it will take its own course to realize itself in terms of a distinct character. We must wait patiently to see how things play out, and be satisfied that we live in a great city that is in a rare, but prolonged period of transition.
Not to say that Delhi is without character. Having lived here all my life, I love it like no other. It is a far more "livable" city compared to the other three metros, and I'm sure nobody will disagree. What I'm looking for is to to be able to "label" this city the way one is able to do with Bombay, Madras and Calcutta(I prefer the old names, they help to make my point clearer). Bombay's diversity is legendary, but its Parsee dominated culture and "financial capital" status, manifests itself in a pronounced buzz that is quite unique to the city. Madras and Calcutta are, by proxy, very easy to stereotype, because of the large "indigenous" population of Tamils and Bengalis respectively. Though a decent contingent, in the latter, of Marwaadis, lends Calcutta some semblance of variety.
Delhi though, is a different case altogether. Its diversity is grossly underestimated and its dynamics never quite fascinate the way Bombay's seem to. People readily assume the Punjabi influence to be pervasive, but equally readily tend to forget, that for centuries, this was essentially a Muslim city, built almost entirely by Muslim rulers. The more one thinks about it, the more difficult it is to pinpoint a certain defining feature of this city. You do get a sense of being somewhere in the north of India, but it becomes quite a task to come to grips with what this city is all about. The Delhi of Rajinder Nagar and Raja Garden is so vastly different from the Delhi of Khan Market and Jor Bagh that one can easily be forgiven for thinking these are two distinct cities under the same government.
It is not just the economic disparities among colonies, every city in India will invariably have that as a salient feature. It is the complete difference in character, philosophy, feel and atmosphere within the confines of this city, stretching from Dwarka to Rohini to Sarita Vihar to Shahdra. It is simply not possible to decisively say that there is any one particular feature that might be common to these areas, or even its inhabitants. What or Who is it then that really defines Delhi? Is it the school teacher from Okhla? The lawyer from West Patel Nagar? The businessman from Model Town? or the computer engineer from Malviya Nagar?
William Dalrymple writes beautifully about Delhi, in his classic, City of Djinns, but you cannot help get the feeling that what he is describing is only a very small part of this city; one that is somehow, desperately, clinging on to its past. Dalrymple, understandably, has nothing to say about the Delhi of South Extension and Nehru Place, of Saket and Mayur Vihar, given their being devoid of the kind of romance he so eloquently evokes in all else that he addresses in the book. We would be in denial, were we to ignore the fact that it does not suffice anymore to ascribe to Delhi a Muslim past, Punjabi influence and the Mughals' and Lutyens' architecture.
Delhi is, to use a cliche, a melting pot, with some very pronounced flavors that seem unduly accentuated.
You will find in Delhi Bengalis and Jats, Kashmiris and Madrasis, Marwaadis and Biharis, Baniyas and Brahmins, Christians and Jains, Jacobs and Palkhiwaalas, Mishras and Roys, Abdullahs and D'Souzas. You could stay in a Marwaadi household, have a Nepali servant, a Garhwali driver, a Bengali doctor, a Rajput watchman, a Bihari tutor, Parsees for neighbours and South Indian for lunch. Try as you might, you will fail if you try to define what this city is all about. It might have been possible in the past, but today, it would be a futile attempt, to say the least.
Delhi is in many ways, becoming another Bombay, but it clearly lacks a distinctive character that we could use to define it. The Punjabi influence must certainly not be underestimated, but it would stretching the facts to say that Delhi is primarily a Punjabi city. The minorities are each in numbers large enough so as to affect the overall feel of the city, and you will run into people from all walks of life, religions, regions, caste and creed, in just one day about town.
It is unusual for a capital city so historic and great, to lack a defining feature or unmistakable characteristic, but Delhi will never be what London, Paris or Rome are. It is a city that is being continually morphed into something else, it is dynamic in ways that we do not quite comprehend and it will take its own course to realize itself in terms of a distinct character. We must wait patiently to see how things play out, and be satisfied that we live in a great city that is in a rare, but prolonged period of transition.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Just Another Day At The Office
I'm interning currently at a business daily, and needless to say, this is quite an exciting time to be doing so. Maybe I should substitute the word interesting for exciting, since exciting might point toward a positive turn of events, which is patently not the case. Quite the contrary, and it is quite safe to say that almost anyone with any vested interests in the equities market has not slept a wink in the last two weeks. Almost everyone seems to have severely eroded net worths, so that does not hold any fascination anymore. It is quite a sight to see though, people who have to write, day in and day out, about this perennial volatility in world markets.
The US' sub-prime crisis seems to be far deeper and more serious than was thought initially, and there are fears that the rot might spread to the prime market as well. Stocks have been plummeting worldwide, apart from a minor boost they received on the announcement of a Fed rate cut on Friday. This however seems to have been nothing more than a brief respite, and if today's performance is anything to go by, we're in for the long haul, as markets seem to be headed only one way at the moment, down. For India, a combination of pitiable Leftist tomfoolery (that has "left" the government's credibility in tatters and its future as anyone's guess) and a mass exodus of FII 'hot money' has lead to people being quite resigned in their
acceptance of this sudden erosion of the equity market.
Nowhere does this seem to be more the case than at my office. How much do you belabor the point? Everyone above the age of 10, with a average IQ, understands that this is not a good time at the stock market. The sup-prime crisis has been discussed to death. I'm sure my ten year old cousin could explain it to you, so pervasive is the madness.
What do you write then? How do you even give your article a headline to catch the reader's eye?It's quite a study in cynicism, patience and perspective, to see the editors at my office trying to answer these questions without tearing their hair out. How many times can you write "bloodbath" or " volatile" to describe events on Dalal street? Unstable markets is stale news. So what do you tell people? You don't raise their hopes because you're unsure yourself. Everyday seems to be more of the same. So in some senses, a 438 point drop becomes "just another day at the office." Nobody knows what the Fed is going to do, nobody knows how the Dow will behave on a certain day, so for all intents and purposes, nobody has a clue about anything. All we know is that markets seem to be falling almost everyday, and there doesn't seem to be a damn thing we can do about it.
"Hanging on in quiet desperation" I think captures the mood and sentiment of the country, and the editors of Business Standard will know, only too well, what you're talking about.
The US' sub-prime crisis seems to be far deeper and more serious than was thought initially, and there are fears that the rot might spread to the prime market as well. Stocks have been plummeting worldwide, apart from a minor boost they received on the announcement of a Fed rate cut on Friday. This however seems to have been nothing more than a brief respite, and if today's performance is anything to go by, we're in for the long haul, as markets seem to be headed only one way at the moment, down. For India, a combination of pitiable Leftist tomfoolery (that has "left" the government's credibility in tatters and its future as anyone's guess) and a mass exodus of FII 'hot money' has lead to people being quite resigned in their
acceptance of this sudden erosion of the equity market.
Nowhere does this seem to be more the case than at my office. How much do you belabor the point? Everyone above the age of 10, with a average IQ, understands that this is not a good time at the stock market. The sup-prime crisis has been discussed to death. I'm sure my ten year old cousin could explain it to you, so pervasive is the madness.
What do you write then? How do you even give your article a headline to catch the reader's eye?It's quite a study in cynicism, patience and perspective, to see the editors at my office trying to answer these questions without tearing their hair out. How many times can you write "bloodbath" or " volatile" to describe events on Dalal street? Unstable markets is stale news. So what do you tell people? You don't raise their hopes because you're unsure yourself. Everyday seems to be more of the same. So in some senses, a 438 point drop becomes "just another day at the office." Nobody knows what the Fed is going to do, nobody knows how the Dow will behave on a certain day, so for all intents and purposes, nobody has a clue about anything. All we know is that markets seem to be falling almost everyday, and there doesn't seem to be a damn thing we can do about it.
"Hanging on in quiet desperation" I think captures the mood and sentiment of the country, and the editors of Business Standard will know, only too well, what you're talking about.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Mr.Mehra and the North
I have had the somewhat unique experience, in my short life, of being exposed to two completely different cultures within my own country. Coming from a South Indian background and being born in Madras(Chennai now), I have had occasion, to observe on a regular basis, both the people and the customs of the south. It also happens that I have lived all my life in the north, in Delhi to be particular, which, in turn, has allowed me to experience an altogether different way of living and thinking.
Going to school in Delhi the year round and then setting off on a summer vacation to Madras requires even youngsters to allow for a change of perspective and understanding. So I have, from quite an early age, been privy to this apparent difference in "philosophies" that defines the two metros. My family is a traditional, brahmin Iyer family, and going to school in DPS Mathura Road, that most ' Delhi ' of Delhi schools, only accentuated the differences for me. This upbringing ensured I imbibed a mix of what it meant to be a "Dilliwaalah" and a "Madraasi". Not that I, for a moment, hesitate to term myself a true northerner. I might have a few "tam bram" aspects to my character, but for the most past, I am as "Northern" as they come. I have embraced the "Northern" way far more naturally, and it seems to me rather more appealing .
The way of the north is to live life to the fullest, and nobody epitomizes this more than my dear neighbor, Mr.Mehra. Something that is bleedingly obvious about India is the diversity of its people, but Mr.Mehra, for me, captures what you would expect the stereotypical northerner to symbolize.
Mr.Mehra is 78 years old, and is a widower. I have known him now for the past six years, and am yet to have had a dull moment with him. His eyes still sparkle with all the joy and impudence of youth, and every word he utters is full of wit and intuition. He still works, on a 9 to 5 basis, 5 days a week and even drives himself to the factory in the mornings! The communists and labor unions are a pet peeve of his, and he doesn't hesitate to launch into a lengthy diatribe, berating their actions, at the drop of a hat. Mehra 'saab' still enjoys his whiskey and chicken, and regularly reminds me of the advisability of both of these as "fuel" to see you through life. Many a time I have seen him return, past midnight, driving his own car back home after one of his regular revelries.
Mr.Mehra loves to enjoy himself and never takes himself seriously. He is irresistible in his humor and quite schoolboyish about pulling someone's leg. Regularly advocating to my parents the need to get my sister and I married at the earliest, he will even offer to pay for our marriages. Another of his favorite teases is to rib my father about not paying enough rent for our flat, and this in front of our landlord! Quite oblivious to the embarrassment caused to both the present parties, he will have himself a good laugh and make sure the others laugh with him. He possesses an extraordinary gift for one-liners, delivered with an absolute deadpan look straight into the listeners eyes, with an alarming consistency. All in all, his life is full of zest. He aims to live it up to the end. Personal misfortunes, money matters or societal opinions have not been able to deter him from his simple quest of leading a happy and meaningful existence.
He typifies for me the essential qualities of the north, that are sorely missing in the south. A zest for life, and a perspective that you get only one shot at life, so live it well. The Southern brahmin does not know the meaning of fun, it is unheard of for people to be working beyond the age of 60, leave alone being well groomed and enjoying oneself in the evenings with a glass of whiskey in hand. The sheer conservatism and piousness of the south can be nauseating at times. They need to learn to have fun. Nietzsche wanted each one of us to dance at least once a day, if only this could be instilled in all of our dear old people of the south. How much does it take to have a good time? Mr.Mehra will surely shoot back, " Beta, if you are having anything at all, then it should be a good time, otherwise don't have anything at all."
Going to school in Delhi the year round and then setting off on a summer vacation to Madras requires even youngsters to allow for a change of perspective and understanding. So I have, from quite an early age, been privy to this apparent difference in "philosophies" that defines the two metros. My family is a traditional, brahmin Iyer family, and going to school in DPS Mathura Road, that most ' Delhi ' of Delhi schools, only accentuated the differences for me. This upbringing ensured I imbibed a mix of what it meant to be a "Dilliwaalah" and a "Madraasi". Not that I, for a moment, hesitate to term myself a true northerner. I might have a few "tam bram" aspects to my character, but for the most past, I am as "Northern" as they come. I have embraced the "Northern" way far more naturally, and it seems to me rather more appealing .
The way of the north is to live life to the fullest, and nobody epitomizes this more than my dear neighbor, Mr.Mehra. Something that is bleedingly obvious about India is the diversity of its people, but Mr.Mehra, for me, captures what you would expect the stereotypical northerner to symbolize.
Mr.Mehra is 78 years old, and is a widower. I have known him now for the past six years, and am yet to have had a dull moment with him. His eyes still sparkle with all the joy and impudence of youth, and every word he utters is full of wit and intuition. He still works, on a 9 to 5 basis, 5 days a week and even drives himself to the factory in the mornings! The communists and labor unions are a pet peeve of his, and he doesn't hesitate to launch into a lengthy diatribe, berating their actions, at the drop of a hat. Mehra 'saab' still enjoys his whiskey and chicken, and regularly reminds me of the advisability of both of these as "fuel" to see you through life. Many a time I have seen him return, past midnight, driving his own car back home after one of his regular revelries.
Mr.Mehra loves to enjoy himself and never takes himself seriously. He is irresistible in his humor and quite schoolboyish about pulling someone's leg. Regularly advocating to my parents the need to get my sister and I married at the earliest, he will even offer to pay for our marriages. Another of his favorite teases is to rib my father about not paying enough rent for our flat, and this in front of our landlord! Quite oblivious to the embarrassment caused to both the present parties, he will have himself a good laugh and make sure the others laugh with him. He possesses an extraordinary gift for one-liners, delivered with an absolute deadpan look straight into the listeners eyes, with an alarming consistency. All in all, his life is full of zest. He aims to live it up to the end. Personal misfortunes, money matters or societal opinions have not been able to deter him from his simple quest of leading a happy and meaningful existence.
He typifies for me the essential qualities of the north, that are sorely missing in the south. A zest for life, and a perspective that you get only one shot at life, so live it well. The Southern brahmin does not know the meaning of fun, it is unheard of for people to be working beyond the age of 60, leave alone being well groomed and enjoying oneself in the evenings with a glass of whiskey in hand. The sheer conservatism and piousness of the south can be nauseating at times. They need to learn to have fun. Nietzsche wanted each one of us to dance at least once a day, if only this could be instilled in all of our dear old people of the south. How much does it take to have a good time? Mr.Mehra will surely shoot back, " Beta, if you are having anything at all, then it should be a good time, otherwise don't have anything at all."
The Song Is Over
People go through changes. This is established fact. Nobody goes through life without some alteration, either in his or her physical person, or in their "philosophy of life". The three things that define this change are the reasons for the change, the time period this change takes to take effect and the extent of the change in the person concerned.
There is unrequited love, people lose a job or win the lottery, someone close to their heart passes away, they're transferred, there's a change of government or you get married! Another good occasion for change is the beginning of the New Year. I personally feel the 11th of April or the 24th of September serve the purpose just as well, but people usually choose this time to make resolutions that they feel will serve as a catalyst for change. Birthdays can, at times, play the same role.
In my case, none of the above seems to have happened. It is also not the beginning of the year, though my birthday seems to be rearing its ugly head with an ever greater menace, as a possible omen, signaling the day as an auspicious one to initiate this change. I don't quite see too much change in myself though. For me, things seem to have changed, though I feel quite the same.
In that sense I feel uncomfortable, I'm not used to my surroundings, and with what's been happening. Things are not what they used to be. Everything feels different. But me, I'm still on the road, I am what I am. I am what I used to be. So I can safely say, I'm not "going through changes" in the sense that Ozzy Osbourne wrote about it.
But I thought things don't change do they? I've always heard it is people who change, not circumstances. What is it then? Is Ozzy right? Am I going through changes? Maybe I can never tell when I change; that would explain my assertion that I feel quite the same. But surely my actions would indicate if indeed I was undergoing some fundamental change? I certainly seem to be shedding some yolk, but I essentially feel the same. It might be a monumental shift in focus, in priorities, but I am the same person as before. Just the same way, Indians remained, in essence, the same, before and after Independence, even though, as Nehru thought of it, it was a "moment that comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when the age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance."
My own travails are but a trifle in front of so glorious an event, but the point I wish to make is that I feel much the same as Indians did before and after
In that sense, it feels like a song is over. I finished one song and I've started another. It is still me singing, just another song! And of course that song has different lyrics. The style is the same though! I am the same genre as before.
And people like different songs of yours, your parents like one song better than the other, your sis prefers another one, and your friends like you to keep playing the same song all the time. The artist though is always entitled to his personal favorite. I will, in times to come, look back at all my songs and have a favorite "song", until then I have to be content having ended a song and gone on to the next one. Maybe I'll regret it, maybe I won't. In Pink Floyd's words, " the time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say."
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Happiest Days Of Our Lives
They may come and they may go, but life goes on forever. Something in the way she moves, the Indian team had just won the match. Their news is good news as well, you got all the gifts you wanted. So many things matter to us if you think about it. So many chances, but still such few days. They are few and far between, but when it hits, it hits you hard. I spoke of the ordinary, now I'm happy.
The Beatles asked," Would you believe in love at first sight?" and John Lennon answered," Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time. " John knew me, that's why. Happy days are here at last. Oh! cut it out will you?Don't let me down. It's all a blur. Slow down, you move too fast. You got to make the evening last. Just keeping on, the time's at hand. Coming to talk, you're feeling scary! Nothing to do, it's up to you. I've got nothing to say, but it's ok.
I don't know her from Eve, but I feel fine. Look into her eyes, do you see what I mean? What is the need for mescaline? We have this, our natural drugs. Should I take the trip? I don't have insurance. Where there's a will...
Unresolved, open ended, and rankling! Everybody knows there's nothing doing, everything is closed, it's like a ruin. Life I love you, all is groovy!
The Beatles asked," Would you believe in love at first sight?" and John Lennon answered," Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time. " John knew me, that's why. Happy days are here at last. Oh! cut it out will you?Don't let me down. It's all a blur. Slow down, you move too fast. You got to make the evening last. Just keeping on, the time's at hand. Coming to talk, you're feeling scary! Nothing to do, it's up to you. I've got nothing to say, but it's ok.
I don't know her from Eve, but I feel fine. Look into her eyes, do you see what I mean? What is the need for mescaline? We have this, our natural drugs. Should I take the trip? I don't have insurance. Where there's a will...
Unresolved, open ended, and rankling! Everybody knows there's nothing doing, everything is closed, it's like a ruin. Life I love you, all is groovy!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
A Day In The Life
I saw a scene today oh, boy
It was a silly man who'd lost his head
And though the scene was rather bad
Well, I just had to laugh
I knew the silly chap
He blew his car out against a tree,
He didn't notice he was just a cook.
A crowd of people wondered why
They knew this chap so well
How on earth could he have done them such a hell?
I had a dream today oh, boy
The traffic cops had just caught the chap
A crowd of people unimpressed
But I just had to clap
Having seen the snap
I hate to see them go
Woke up, got out of bed
Felt my eyes and noticed they were red
Picked up the paper and saw the news
And waking up I realized I was wrong
Found my brain and came back to life
Saw the world and all it's strife
Found my way back to bed and closed my eyes
I thought it best to go back to my dream
Ahh
I saw a scene today oh, boy
A million problems in my neighborhood
And though the cook is not alone
They should have taken him
Now they know how everybody always goes to swim
I hate to see them go
It was a silly man who'd lost his head
And though the scene was rather bad
Well, I just had to laugh
I knew the silly chap
He blew his car out against a tree,
He didn't notice he was just a cook.
A crowd of people wondered why
They knew this chap so well
How on earth could he have done them such a hell?
I had a dream today oh, boy
The traffic cops had just caught the chap
A crowd of people unimpressed
But I just had to clap
Having seen the snap
I hate to see them go
Woke up, got out of bed
Felt my eyes and noticed they were red
Picked up the paper and saw the news
And waking up I realized I was wrong
Found my brain and came back to life
Saw the world and all it's strife
Found my way back to bed and closed my eyes
I thought it best to go back to my dream
Ahh
I saw a scene today oh, boy
A million problems in my neighborhood
And though the cook is not alone
They should have taken him
Now they know how everybody always goes to swim
I hate to see them go
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Déjà Vu of the Ordinary
It's 4 o' clock on a Sunday afternoon. Sun streaming in through the windows on this mildly pleasant summer day. Hardly a person on the streets, but the young boy's playing cricket in the driveway. A few birds chirp, almost pleading for the sun to set. Things are quiet, the house is silent. I'm reading in the balcony, in glorious perspiration. I've been here before, I know that. I've done the same thing seven years ago.
Seven years on; for the better or worse only time will tell, but seven years nonetheless. Through crushes, through September 11th, through two board exams, three years in the United States, girlfriends, vacations, internships, Pete Sampras AND Roger Federer. And I remember the goddamn sunshine? The birds on a summer afternoon? The young boy playing cricket? Is it just me? Or have I been through this several times over?
I cannot relate to any of the things that I just mentioned in any way whatsoever. I cannot live them again. I will never go that way again, but the sunlight, the birds and the young boy, it's almost as if they never went away. I've lived with them all this while, it's all the same, so many years later. I'm comfortable, they reassure me. All's right with the world.
Why do I feel this way? Driving down roads you've driven over for 20 years, why should that give you any kicks? Doing the things you used to do day in and day out for 5 years, how come that matters so much? Weren't they just ordinary things? What's so great about the little insignificant things?
The traffic in Delhi, taking a rickshaw to the grocer's, going to the same barber shop you've been going to for 15 years, playing tennis on courts you've seen since you were 9 years old, going to eat ice cream at India Gate, and just putting your bed on a Sunday morning. This is the stuff that dreams are made of?? Really!
Memories are of the ordinary, I'd have them any day over the more "happy" moments in my life. Our lives are essentially happy in the ordinary. We don't need to have great things happen to us all the time, for these don't stick. They are few and far between, and are great while they last, but they just as soon can turn into the bad. Like Scott Fitzgerald, we "close out our interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men." The constancy of the ordinary though, is what keeps us going, and this is what we want to relive. We're indeed lucky to be able to relive the ordinary, however perverse this pleasure. This is who we are, and this is what we like. Isn't it lovely?
Seven years on; for the better or worse only time will tell, but seven years nonetheless. Through crushes, through September 11th, through two board exams, three years in the United States, girlfriends, vacations, internships, Pete Sampras AND Roger Federer. And I remember the goddamn sunshine? The birds on a summer afternoon? The young boy playing cricket? Is it just me? Or have I been through this several times over?
I cannot relate to any of the things that I just mentioned in any way whatsoever. I cannot live them again. I will never go that way again, but the sunlight, the birds and the young boy, it's almost as if they never went away. I've lived with them all this while, it's all the same, so many years later. I'm comfortable, they reassure me. All's right with the world.
Why do I feel this way? Driving down roads you've driven over for 20 years, why should that give you any kicks? Doing the things you used to do day in and day out for 5 years, how come that matters so much? Weren't they just ordinary things? What's so great about the little insignificant things?
The traffic in Delhi, taking a rickshaw to the grocer's, going to the same barber shop you've been going to for 15 years, playing tennis on courts you've seen since you were 9 years old, going to eat ice cream at India Gate, and just putting your bed on a Sunday morning. This is the stuff that dreams are made of?? Really!
Memories are of the ordinary, I'd have them any day over the more "happy" moments in my life. Our lives are essentially happy in the ordinary. We don't need to have great things happen to us all the time, for these don't stick. They are few and far between, and are great while they last, but they just as soon can turn into the bad. Like Scott Fitzgerald, we "close out our interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men." The constancy of the ordinary though, is what keeps us going, and this is what we want to relive. We're indeed lucky to be able to relive the ordinary, however perverse this pleasure. This is who we are, and this is what we like. Isn't it lovely?
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Return of the Jedi
Nietzsche would not have liked Star Wars. Unless maybe the Sith were portrayed as the good guys. Why though? Nietzsche wanted us to all be "Ubermensch" or Supermen and warned us against the coming of the "last man" who was "an apathetic creature, who has no great passion or commitment, who is unable to dream, who merely earns his living and keeps warm."
But how does one think of the last man and superman? Are they comparable to the Jedi and the Sith?
For the Jedi, as Yoda tells Anakin Skywalker,
There is no emotion; there is peace.
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
There is no passion; there is serenity.
There is no death; there is the Force.
Anakin though, as Padme makes sure, does not remain Jedi very long. He becomes Sith, expecting to draw from the dark side of the force to save Padme. The Sith preach that
Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall set me free.
Nietzsche wanted us to dance. He wanted us to have passions. He wanted us to be supermen. Did he want us to be Sith? Are the Jedi really "last men" in some respects? What is the right way? There are a million different ways to live, but most philosophies preach one of two. You either be Jedi, or you be Supermen. You are either passionate or you have no passions. Emotional or detached, sensitive or stoic, serene or driven, austere or vital, simple or vibrant? You cannot be both can you?
You have the Ramayana contradicting Wagner, Gandhiji to oppose Byron and Blake, Buddhism to take on the Sith and of course Nietzsche to rival the Jedi. And who wins?
Oh how I wish Nietzsche could have met George Lucas. It might have solved half our problems. You want to dance or save the world? Love or know peace? Open yourself to being hurt and miserable or build an impregnable defence mechanism that no human can breach?
The throes of this struggle are disconcerting, to say the least. You are at your wits end in no time at all! Are the Sith the true "Supermen" and the Jedi in reality just "last men"?How does one reconcile the Ubermensch with the Jedi?How can Jedi become a pejorative? You would like to be Jedi, but if the Jedi returns, all your hopes of being Ubermensch are dashed. Last Man status is something we really can do without and you certainly don't want to be a Sith. You don't want people calling you "Darth"!
I am in the midst of this, I do not know if I should put on my Jedi cloak or reach for the stars and strive to be a "superman". I was striving for the Ubermensch for a while; I was passionate, I was emotional, it made me happy, but then it hurt. Now I am Jedi. I am a rock, and a rock feels no pain. An island never cries. But tell me, tis it not better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Won't you please tell me?
In the end though, I don't think it matters. Hell is other people, Sartre said. And I don't think it is anymore apt than in this case. The Jedi returns if you want people to see it has returned. If you want people to believe you're not one of the "Last Men", you resemble the Ubermensch.
Everyone is chameleonic that way I guess. I especially so. The Jedi has returned temporarily, we're waiting for the Empire to Strike Back!
But how does one think of the last man and superman? Are they comparable to the Jedi and the Sith?
For the Jedi, as Yoda tells Anakin Skywalker,
There is no emotion; there is peace.
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
There is no passion; there is serenity.
There is no death; there is the Force.
Anakin though, as Padme makes sure, does not remain Jedi very long. He becomes Sith, expecting to draw from the dark side of the force to save Padme. The Sith preach that
Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall set me free.
Nietzsche wanted us to dance. He wanted us to have passions. He wanted us to be supermen. Did he want us to be Sith? Are the Jedi really "last men" in some respects? What is the right way? There are a million different ways to live, but most philosophies preach one of two. You either be Jedi, or you be Supermen. You are either passionate or you have no passions. Emotional or detached, sensitive or stoic, serene or driven, austere or vital, simple or vibrant? You cannot be both can you?
You have the Ramayana contradicting Wagner, Gandhiji to oppose Byron and Blake, Buddhism to take on the Sith and of course Nietzsche to rival the Jedi. And who wins?
Oh how I wish Nietzsche could have met George Lucas. It might have solved half our problems. You want to dance or save the world? Love or know peace? Open yourself to being hurt and miserable or build an impregnable defence mechanism that no human can breach?
The throes of this struggle are disconcerting, to say the least. You are at your wits end in no time at all! Are the Sith the true "Supermen" and the Jedi in reality just "last men"?How does one reconcile the Ubermensch with the Jedi?How can Jedi become a pejorative? You would like to be Jedi, but if the Jedi returns, all your hopes of being Ubermensch are dashed. Last Man status is something we really can do without and you certainly don't want to be a Sith. You don't want people calling you "Darth"!
I am in the midst of this, I do not know if I should put on my Jedi cloak or reach for the stars and strive to be a "superman". I was striving for the Ubermensch for a while; I was passionate, I was emotional, it made me happy, but then it hurt. Now I am Jedi. I am a rock, and a rock feels no pain. An island never cries. But tell me, tis it not better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Won't you please tell me?
In the end though, I don't think it matters. Hell is other people, Sartre said. And I don't think it is anymore apt than in this case. The Jedi returns if you want people to see it has returned. If you want people to believe you're not one of the "Last Men", you resemble the Ubermensch.
Everyone is chameleonic that way I guess. I especially so. The Jedi has returned temporarily, we're waiting for the Empire to Strike Back!
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