tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75197736888645535532024-03-12T20:59:48.919-07:00the electronic dialogueNot just 0s and 1sUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-11260142134400891722021-09-12T13:59:00.006-07:002021-09-12T14:01:38.625-07:00The blog is dead, long live the blog!<p style="text-align: justify;">After a 13 year journey, I announce the end of the road for this blog. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">When I started this blog, I was wrapping up high school in Chennai. The blog has been my constant companion through college in Trichy, my first job in Bangalore, graduate school in Madison, and now my life here in San Francisco Bay Area. While my commitment to the blog has ebbed and flowed in this period, I have always been reassured by its presence and the optimism of getting back to it. Reading through the 93 posts published here, I can chart the journey of my mind and thoughts over the formative years of my education and career. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Thankfully, the end of this blog isn't the end of my blogging career. I will be continuing my internet journalling in a different place: a place of my own! </p><p style="text-align: justify;">All future posts will be housed at <a href="https://theelectronicdialogue.com " target="_blank">the electronic dialogue</a>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Let's us continue our electronic dialogue over there! </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YgcGccTPq1I/YT5qNovTCRI/AAAAAAAAb2g/0Nli59Tx2cobG8M4wajzpUzjwvDJ6qfbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1016/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-09-12%2Bat%2B1.59.18%2BPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="1016" height="249" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YgcGccTPq1I/YT5qNovTCRI/AAAAAAAAb2g/0Nli59Tx2cobG8M4wajzpUzjwvDJ6qfbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-09-12%2Bat%2B1.59.18%2BPM.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Santa Clara, CA, USA37.3541079 -121.9552356-16.057701527686447 167.73226440000002 90 -51.642735599999995tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-56746832528478647552020-09-14T09:18:00.007-07:002020-09-14T09:20:32.289-07:00Short Fiction: The Evening Walk (PS: My first published work of fiction!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-temVye4Ojfk/X1-XvmDRHgI/AAAAAAAAbTQ/hTSh2n6tw7YVenr0geRdKrq-5c28IKGSACLcBGAsYHQ/s1782/Screen%2BShot%2B2020-09-14%2Bat%2B9.15.44%2BAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="1782" height="435" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-temVye4Ojfk/X1-XvmDRHgI/AAAAAAAAbTQ/hTSh2n6tw7YVenr0geRdKrq-5c28IKGSACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h435/Screen%2BShot%2B2020-09-14%2Bat%2B9.15.44%2BAM.png" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>In some HUGE personal news, I am now a published fiction author :-) My story, The Evening Walk, was picked up by The Bombay Review for their September 2020 issue. Please check out the story at the link below:</p><p><a href="https://thebombayreview.com/2020/09/12/fiction-the-evening-walk-by-aditya-venkataraman-issue-34-sept-2020/" target="_blank">The Evening Walk, by Aditya Venkataraman</a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-63172104171594734672020-08-07T15:38:00.003-07:002020-08-07T15:45:22.666-07:00Representing Rama<p>At the juncture of the Bhoomi Puja of the new Rama temple at Ayodhya, the internet is awash with images of Rama, Sita, and Hanuman, some more famous than others. Even Times Square in NYC beamed one of most <a href="https://www.tribuneindia.com/news/diaspora/lord-rams-image-displayed-at-iconic-times-square-to-celebrate-ram-temple-bhoomi-pujan-in-ayodhya-122849" target="_blank">famous images</a> of Rama. Sadly many of the "new-age" art on Twitter & Instagram feature veiny, muscle-laden representations of Rama that more resemble WWE wrestlers than a personality of Godhead. For instance, <a href="https://twitter.com/karanacharya7/status/1188887117318877227/photo/1" target="_blank">1</a>, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CDfjyATgCU2/" target="_blank">2</a>, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CDa5JjBge56/" target="_blank">3</a>. </p><p>Even <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CDbj3IfgkmT/" target="_blank">rishis</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/karanacharya7/status/1255196548306104320/photo/1" target="_blank">sages</a> have not been left alone by this muscle fetish. I would love to know how mendicants that lived on offerings and focused all their attention on spiritual enlightenment managed to rock such hard bods! I call it the "<b>Avenger-ization</b>" of Hindu mythology.</p><div>In contrast to these "physique dominant" modern representations, the classical representations of Rama focus on His intangibles, such as <i><a href="https://images.app.goo.gl/pdN2gZkpbsgaGvJk7" target="_blank">Karunya</a> </i>(compassion) and <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ramapanchayan,_Raja_Ravi_Varma_(Lithograph).jpg" target="_blank">Chakravartin</a></i> (universal ruler). In classical works, overtly muscled representations are usually reserved for demons and <a href="https://images.app.goo.gl/YF3LQLQt4s8miJqcA" target="_blank">rakshashas</a>. A pity how far the trends have reversed. </div><div><br /></div><div>By liberally lathering muscles onto the Gods, there is an attempt to project strength and occasionally, jingoistic pride. In many of these artworks, Rama's warriorship is commandeered to score political points; lost in this unfortunate exercise are so many of His other strengths and traits. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have also pondered at length about the artistic license that Rama lends. The imagery of Rama is a lot less flexible than that of Krishna. Krishna is an intensely personal God, perhaps rivaled only by Ganesha. He is like wet putty, ready to be crafted and moulded in any form to the artist's desires. From His childhood antics to his grownup machinations, Krishna's actions have been immortalized in numerous works that provide a rich trove of representational raw material. He dissembles, steals, hides, runs from battle, excoriates, and loves fine things... He is <i>deeply human</i>. It is in His perfect imperfections that the artist finds room for grand or silly experimentations with representational imagery.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rama, on the other hand, is synonymous with perfection. The perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect husband, and the perfect ruler. Stoic, assured, measured, able, and duty-bound to a fault. His perfection brooks no faults. It countenances no half-measures. Any representation that fails to capture <i>all </i>of his perfections, fails to capture <i>any </i>of them. These Hulk-like pictures of Rama are as close to capturing His essence as a G I Joe toy can capture the essence of a Marine.</div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite representations of Rama are the <i>utsavar </i>moorthis in some temples, notably <a href="https://images.app.goo.gl/AtyS2MVUiEuN3zX48" target="_blank">Vaduvur Ramar.</a> The divine is inherently <i>ageless</i>. Something transient like musculature cannot grasp the agelessness of the divine. Even the smallest detail in the representation of divinity has philosophical significance: each curve has a story, and each ornament a moral. In an attempt to appeal to today's western taste sensibilities – chiseled jawlines, tank-like upper bodies, 8-pack abs – we cannot discard traditional representational choices.</div><div><br /></div><div>Art is a form of expression and the artist has the right to interpret any subject as the artist sees fit. However I believe that art also comes with a responsibility to the subject. It is through the conflation of the two – sensibility and responsibility – that we create art that transcends <a href="https://twitter.com/veejaysai/status/1290836494765047809/photo/1" target="_blank">time</a> and <a href="https://images.app.goo.gl/NCsk6mk3ucUhr17J9" target="_blank">place</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>I share below a few of my attempts at capturing Rama on paper, drawn over several months. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JT9aW24d3Vw/Xy3J5bNYp7I/AAAAAAAAbM4/QBbNg_6E85kI9SFiPtM_zU1dAgKUAsRQACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/AF61DACA-1E4E-457A-80C2-D129292E04FF.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JT9aW24d3Vw/Xy3J5bNYp7I/AAAAAAAAbM4/QBbNg_6E85kI9SFiPtM_zU1dAgKUAsRQACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/AF61DACA-1E4E-457A-80C2-D129292E04FF.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xet7bu4wo40/Xy3KAXQinqI/AAAAAAAAbM8/tFiZhJfbpJEvlGDaDey4H3-W-A6fo6_gwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/643819B2-1DA0-42B2-B303-BA624CBE8271.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xet7bu4wo40/Xy3KAXQinqI/AAAAAAAAbM8/tFiZhJfbpJEvlGDaDey4H3-W-A6fo6_gwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/643819B2-1DA0-42B2-B303-BA624CBE8271.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rFgww3KuW-I/Xy3KKIltqaI/AAAAAAAAbNE/D2CGozC8y1M3N4YqHUuIO_Vs81nIVcLFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/7B5BECD0-5F72-4560-AF3F-9060B43565A6.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rFgww3KuW-I/Xy3KKIltqaI/AAAAAAAAbNE/D2CGozC8y1M3N4YqHUuIO_Vs81nIVcLFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/7B5BECD0-5F72-4560-AF3F-9060B43565A6.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wvnLE2zC8gs/Xy3KgxfEaPI/AAAAAAAAbNQ/nXgfI4SubVgcxmzznkK1uLce_e6xUg6ewCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/560253DC-2257-4B51-A25A-FA62C3213775.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1535" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wvnLE2zC8gs/Xy3KgxfEaPI/AAAAAAAAbNQ/nXgfI4SubVgcxmzznkK1uLce_e6xUg6ewCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/560253DC-2257-4B51-A25A-FA62C3213775.JPG" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1Mountain View, CA, USA37.3860517 -122.08385119.0758178638211575 -157.2401011 65.696285536178848 -86.9276011tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-29077956749721681092020-07-25T22:32:00.002-07:002020-09-14T09:20:54.355-07:00Virtual get-togethers<p style="text-align: left;"><font face="inherit">Originally published in <a href="https://www.thehindu.com/opinion/open-page/virtual-get-togethers/article32190847.ece" target="_blank">The Hindu's Open Page</a>. </font></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><font face="inherit">The virus that separated the whole world has paradoxically brought extended families closer than ever before</font></h3><p data-reader-unique-id="1" style="caret-color: rgb(27, 27, 27); color: #1b1b1b; max-width: 100%;"><font face="inherit">Thank you, COVID-19.</font></p><p data-reader-unique-id="3" style="caret-color: rgb(27, 27, 27); color: #1b1b1b; max-width: 100%;"><font face="inherit">Could we pause, for a few moments, the constant doom and gloom of COVID-19 and reflect on some of the positives from this harrowing experience? I am not suggesting we forget the travails wrought by this pandemic and the heroic efforts of our frontline workers. I am merely stating that focusing a bit on some of the brighter spots of our day helps us stay afloat amid the tides of COVID-19 gloom.</font></p><p data-reader-unique-id="19" style="caret-color: rgb(27, 27, 27); color: #1b1b1b; max-width: 100%;"><font face="inherit">Despite separating the whole world, the novel coronavirus has paradoxically brought my extended family closer than ever before. I hail from a large family of uncles, aunts, cousins and their spouses, and a growing number of nephews and nieces. Back in Chennai, the entire family would congregate for every festival in my grandparents’ house. Summer holidays meant cricket with cousins, and conspiring for plans to stay at aunts’ places. Even as many in my generation immigrated to the U.S. and Australia, the family stayed close. My mother and aunts would frequently get together for movies and shopping. The Deepavali congregations in Chennai continue like clockwork; even those in the U.S. get together at least once a year.</font></p><p data-reader-unique-id="20" style="caret-color: rgb(27, 27, 27); color: #1b1b1b; max-width: 100%;"><font face="inherit">COVID-19 put an end to all this. Suddenly there were no more dinner get-togethers. No more movies. No more flights to Seattle or California to meet cousins. The naming ceremony of our family’s newest member went unattended by most of us. Every household in our family is now hunkering in isolation, hoping for better days to come.</font></p><p data-reader-unique-id="24" style="caret-color: rgb(27, 27, 27); color: #1b1b1b; max-width: 100%;"><font face="inherit">And yet, something has changed. The family has come alive virtually. Our family's WhatsApp group, called “Namma Family”, used to be filled with unacknowledged forwards, but has now become the congregation-central for the family. Virtually we reach out to one another on the group through conversation, updates, photos, cooking experiments, and jokes. COVID-induced boredom has spawned off new hobbies and creative experiments in each one of us and the group has become the stage to share our new-found skills.</font></p><p data-reader-unique-id="25" style="caret-color: rgb(27, 27, 27); color: #1b1b1b; max-width: 100%;"><font face="inherit">An aunt suggested a talent challenge wherein a nominee produces a creative work within a day and then nominates the next. What began as a chance for the tots to present their rhymes has now been embraced by the young and the old! With every submission, we are discovering previously unknown facets to our family members. We discovered a cousin’s passion for Sanskrit linguistics, another’s taste in poetry, and a third’s attempts at creating animations from still art. The MBA graduate created a survey to test one another’s knowledge in family lore. The questions brought back cherished memories from decades ago. Even the most reticent members of the group, and newcomers into the family have been swept into this exercise. Every creative project is met with thundering support, and feedback. The creative bar keeps being raised and we eagerly look forward to what is next.</font></p><p data-reader-unique-id="26" style="caret-color: rgb(27, 27, 27); color: #1b1b1b; max-width: 100%;"><font face="inherit">If not for COVID-19, I doubt the Namma Family Talent Challenge would have existed. We would have missed out on so many creative masterpieces from our own and most of us would have continued spinning in the whorls of our day-to-day lives. This has been a silver-lining in my life during the times of corona.</font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-85799224420617397792020-07-20T21:19:00.001-07:002020-07-29T17:49:51.038-07:00The germ<div><i>A poem written in one sitting during the middle of COVID-19 when I was feeling particularly low and helpless. </i></div><div><br /></div>What life is this – cloistered, faceless, choiceless<div>The bug is everywhere; if not now, soon.</div><div>Be home, they say. Stay away, they say.</div><div>Washing can keep the body safe; what about the mind?</div><div><br /></div><div>The mask used to be the jewel of the thief;</div><div>now it's law. Are we legally required to thieve?</div><div>Six Feet of separation Or Six Feet under,</div><div>are the only two options, they say.</div><div><br /></div><div>No hugs, no dancing, no mirthful laughter;</div><div>we are all ghost ships now,</div><div>charting our silent ways across the inky sea,</div><div>no two trajectories ever to cross, </div><div>no two journeys destined to twine;</div><div>that's what the germ demands, they say.</div><div><br /></div><div>My home; erstwhile sanctuary, now the cruelest of prisons;</div><div>huddled inside with TP and hand sanitizers,</div><div>sink full of dishes, cobwebs in every room, </div><div>I yearn for any guest, except for That One.</div><div><br /></div><div>No weekend getaways, no summer holidays,</div><div>Only the sombre reflection of exponentials.</div><div>No coffee shop run-ins, no drunken pub mistakes,</div><div>Only the fervent hopes for flattening curves.</div><div><br /></div><div>What life is this, not of the living, but the dead</div><div>Of spirit, if not the flesh.</div><div>What life is this, no future, no present,</div><div>only the fast fading memories of a colorful past.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mountain View, CA, USA37.3860517 -122.08385119.0758178638211575 -157.2401011 65.696285536178848 -86.9276011tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-16414818871484315662020-07-17T23:13:00.098-07:002021-03-27T20:58:22.177-07:00Short Story: Kamala<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">
The dusty train wearily pulled into the railway station. The rushing gray blur slowly came into focus to became a slategray platform, and was instantly packed with a swarming hive of humanity. Porters in red uniforms, <i>chai-wallahs</i> with sooty black kettles in one hand and red-orange matkas in the other, and reedy boys hauling grimy thermocol iceboxes rushed into the train like pirates commandeering a three-Master. On the platform below roamed <i>jaal-muri</i> chefs balancing bags of puffed rice and varieties of spices in reused malt tins, and hawkers vending day-old newspapers in the curvaceous script of the local vernacular. The midday heat was oppressive; the air over the heads shimmered and shimmied. I pushed my way through the crowds blocking the carriage exit, stepped onto the platform and briskly moved away from the frantic eddies of commerce. Beckoning for a <i>chai</i>, I lit a cigarette and sucked deeply. I was beginning to feel myself again. I had been forewarned that the single-gauge locos on these remote routes often broke down and for long periods. Beside the platform ran a short wall with crudely stuck posters of local political parties and rail union factions; I leaned against it warily sniffing for any wafts of stale urine. So far the journey had been a waste. Twenty one days on the move and yet my journal lay untouched. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">From the corner of my eye I noticed a flower girl, around ten, approaching me cautiously. In her arms was a large wicker basket with coils of jasmine, bunches of marigolds, and clusters of loose flowers. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"For the missus, sir?" she squeaked, offering me her basket. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"I am traveling alone," I replied, arching to blow the smoke away from her flowers. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">My pidgin Hindi, that had miraculously survived my years in the US, was helping me get by on this journey. Her face fell. She turned and ambled towards the twisting orbs of humanity gathered at every entrance to the train. A brief flash of pink-white from her basket caught my eye. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Wait! I will take a lotus," I shouted after her. She swiveled, and smiled. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">The lotus. <i>Kamala</i>. Kamala Cafe. It came into my life when I least expected it; busy as I was smoking pot and chasing undergraduate girls. The idea gripped me, bewitched me, demented me. For four months I wrote, neglecting grades, personal hygiene, and diet. On Pepsi and pizza I wrote about that fantastical cafe in Ceylon where artists and socialites gathered for fine dining, exotic conversations, and illicit affairs. In unwashed slacks I wrote about the tuxedo-clad men and velvet-frocked women carousing and conspiring great mischief in the cafe's dance hall. Bunking classes and examinations I wrote about the occult symbols that appeared in its kitchen and the disappearances of journalists that went snooping. Ignoring friends and family I wrote about Kamala, my heroine, arriving at this eponymous cafe and getting swept into its whirlwind of mysteries behind a thin veneer of lively, yet comforting, stasis. The publishing was easy. The acclaim was universal. Copies flew off the shelves, and awards piled up in my tiny living room. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"<i>The freshest voice in fiction...</i>", </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"<i>An Indian voice shining through an international prism...</i>"</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"<i>The normal and the abnormal twist and turn passionately in this dazzling debut...</i>"</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">The book agents arrived unbeckoned, each advising to wait a different amount of time before publishing my next. The sophomore slump is crucial to avoid, they all said. Don't wait over two years, they all said. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">Five years passed, and there had not been a second book. The litterateurs that had first turned green with envy, gradually went purple with rage, then orange with vindication, then white with sympathy, and finally colorless with disdain. The agents did not call anymore. Is it better to have had and lost than never had it at all? No. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"<i>Reflecting self-harm tendencies...</i>", ".<i>.. uncharitable disposition towards self...</i>", ran the shrink notes. Life became an amorphous blob; days merging with nights, faces merging with bodies, forced starvation merging with gluttonous food binges, extreme loneliness merging with drugged sexual escapades, until the phone rang one day and sympathetic voice from the distant past spoke into the dark recesses of my mind, "You need a change... take a trip... go back to India for a while... chase experiences..." That advise rang true where so many others had failed and I flew to India the next day.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">India. Why didn't I think of it earlier? Like a window cracked open in a fetid room that invites in the afternoon sun, the thought of India swept inside my drug-addled mind and filled me with a cautious hope. Even when I flew out of India as a twelve year old, sitting in the middle seat between my parents, I knew my life would forever be tied to her tropical shores and untamed cultures. America, with her plastic gizmos and jingoistic fervors tries to engulf every pitiful Indian immigrant that lands on her shores, but pungent India always emerges from the cracks of the subconscious and reclaims her own. Graft an Indian out of India and eventually he will shed saps of India, bloom flowers of India, and bear the oversweet fruits of India. My amateurish short stories in high school were set in India. My first attempt at the novel, discarded after 40,000 words, was about an Indian searching for India in un-Indian places. Kamala Cafe was set in Ceylon, but its characters, occults, mysteries, and heroine were all taken from India. India, with her teeming masses, and uncountable stories would provide the story for my next book; that I hoped. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Wild flower, sir. Very fragrant," the girl said, handing me an unfurled lotus from her basket. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Does this grow around here?" I asked.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Yes sir, in the pond near my village. Full of lotuses this time of year!"</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Can I see this pond?" I blurted before the oddness of the request became apparent. <i>Kamala</i>. Could it be a sign?</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"It's half hour by bullock cart, sir. Ask for Ramdaspur village. You can get a cart outside the station else I can take you after I sell all my flowers," she mumbled, her eyes searching constantly for potential customers.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">I felt an immense urge to see the wild lotuses in full bloom. The grumbling in the train had suggested the repairs would take all day. Many passengers had stepped out for a walk around town. I could safely be back in time to catch the train or worst case, take the next one; the station seemed busy enough. I picked up my backpack and went hunting for a cart. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"You want to go to Ramdaspur to see lotuses?" the buffalo cart driver eyed me suspiciously. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Yes."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Why? You don't have lotuses where you come from?"</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"We do, but not much."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Your accent is weird. Where are you from?"</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Doesn't concern you."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">He grumbled in his local tongue, and said, "Rs. 200. I won't get a fare back from that shit-place." </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"OK."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">I knew I was being swindled; I hoped the lotuses would be worth it.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">The ride was bumpy. After his initial interrogation, my driver went silent chewing a stalk of grass. We left behind the trappings of what had seemed a small town and entered into densely cultivated fields. After a long, drowsy ride, a dot on the horizon slowly became a small cluster of mud-brick homes. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Ramdaspur," my driver stated, grabbed the cash from my hand and didn't even wait for me to disembark before turning the cart around. Only after he had retreated beyond calling distance that I realized I may not find another cart from this remote village. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">I turned towards the mud homes. The village seemed empty, the men presumably away at their fields. Some faces peeked from doorways and some windows were quickly shut. A dirty boy in tattered briefs emerged from one of the homes and began speaking in his language, gesturing with his hands towards the direction I had come from.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"I have come to see your pond," I said in my slow Hindi which the boy didn't seem to understand.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Pond. Water," I said gesturing the universal symbol of a drink to convey my search for the village pond.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">The boy grunted, went back inside, and emerged with an earthen vessel with some water that had some stuff floating in it. I eyed the water uneasily; afraid of offending him by refusing this first hospitable gesture. Remembering the flower the girl sold me, I took it out from my pocket and held it to the boy.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Lotus. <i>Kamal. </i>I want to see the lotuses."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">Recognition dawned on his face and he gestured towards the other end of the village, down the single street that wound through it. The road led past the village and into a densely wooded cluster of trees that remained cool and dark even in the midday sun. Within this cluster emerged the small pond. Despite the shade, the thirsty sun had managed to lap up most of its water, what remained was covered – nay, infested – with lotuses. Layers upon layers of the green leaves spread over every inch of the pond, pockmarked occasionally with the most delicate pink-white blooms. I felt hugged by a gentle breeze carrying the heady smells of the flowers and the surrounding vegetation. A few squirrels scurried down from their tree-homes and began lapping around me. From one end of the woods a wave of cawing picked up. Whenever the breeze briefly blowed, the flowers would gracefully glide back and forth on their watery stage putting on a dance. It was a place of incredible beauty – an oasis of small delights amidst a burning world. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">The lotus. <i>Kamal</i>. The Indian obsession with this flower is legendary. When all similes failed at capturing the ethereal beauty of Krishna's eyes or Sita's lips, the ancient bards turned to the humble lotus. When confronted with the daunting challenge of demonstrating detached attachment, a cornerstone of their philosophy, the Vedic philosophers pointed at the lotus and the water on its leaves. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Do you like the flowers?"</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">The Hindi sentence snapped me out of my reveries. I noticed an old man with a flowing white beard in a clean kurta standing behind me. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Yes. They are beautiful."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"We don't get many visitors in our village, especially to see our flowers," he smiled revealing several missing teeth. I presumed the boy had informed him about the village's strange visitor on his stranger quest. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"My train broke down at the town station. I was told the lotuses here are beautiful. I thought I'll make a trip of it." </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Our lotuses are the most beautiful. Where have you come from?"</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"America."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"America?" his eyes widened in shock. Even in surprise his demeanor retained an affability that instantly put me to ease. "What brought you to our country?"</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Just traveling. I am a writer. I am searching for ideas for my next book. "</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Did you find any?" he asked with a glint in his eye. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Not really," I paused for a bit and continued, "it has been a while since I wrote anything. I thought your lotuses might help me write again." My honesty puzzled me. Perhaps the thought that I would never meet this man again allowed me to shed my usual filters. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"If all you needed was a lotus to write your next book, you need not have come all this way. The lotus is everywhere," he smiled. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">I returned his smile, not caring to explain that not every part of the world was tropical. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"You don't believe me? What is Lord Krishna's eye? A lotus. Where is God? He is everywhere. Ergo the lotus is everywhere," the man burst into halting laughter at his own wisecrack.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Do you know who planted these lotuses?" I asked, hastily seeking to avoid a sermon. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"The lotuses were here before we came, and they will be here long after we are gone. They can survive through anything, even humans. Do you know? Every year each plant sheds thousands of seeds to the bottom of the pond. Most get eaten by fishes, providing life to so many. The few that remain wait patiently for the right time to germinate. Some wait for days, some for months, and some for years. A few even wait a thousand years. Why does one seed wait so long while others sprouted earlier? Because it knew that what was right for others was not right for itself. Why rush, it asked."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">He walked up to a tree and sat on a large, raised root, beckoning me to sit beside him. I walked up to him and sat on a rock by the tree. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">He continued, "When one seed didn't germinate for so long, while all of its siblings did, did it ever question its location? Did it pick up and travel all over the world to find a better place to germinate? No. It remained where it was, knowing that its time will come. Only a restless mind expects solace in movement. The lotus is calm." </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"It is a lotus's nature to wait and germinate. Perhaps it is not my nature to write, which is why I couldn't do it in America," I interjected. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"Maybe. No matter how hard it tries a lotus cannot any more of a lily and equally it cannot become any less of a lotus. If you are a writer, you cannot stop from being one even if it takes a long time to germinate. Why the rush?" he asked smiling. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">Both of us sat in silence for a few minutes. The breeze picked up again and brought with it the smells of dung and cooking from the village. Unbeknownst a tear rolled down my cheek. My tummy began to grumble at the smell of food. I remembered the train at the station. I stood up and bid adieu to the old man asking whether he would walk with me back to the village.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"I will stay awhile with the lotuses. Farewell, my friend," he smiled. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">Back at the village it seemed as desolate as before. I began walking towards the town braving the searing sun. The sun beat me into a pulp and I felt myself going dizzy. Suddenly a dot emerged from the distance and progressively grew larger until I could make out the faint outlines of the horns of buffalos surrounded by a halo of dirt kicked up by their trodding feet – it was a buffalo cart! Soon I realized it was the same cart that had dropped me off at the village. Seeing me, the driver yanked the beasts to stop.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">"I thought you may not find another cart to come back. I thought I will come and check, but it will cost Rs. 300, sahib," the driver said. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">Handing him a 500 rupee note, I jumped onto his cart unable to control my smile and said, "Keep the change."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">Beaming with happiness, the driver turned around the animals and began riding back towards town, "My name is Kamal Jeet, sahib. What's yours?" </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;" trbidi="on">I broke into a smile. Perhaps the old man was right – the lotus is everywhere.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-14781483597606033272020-07-04T10:56:00.002-07:002020-07-22T21:59:19.657-07:00What is family?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>The following is a poem I composed for a Talent Challenge series on my extended family's WhatsApp group. Archana insisted I try something outside my comfort zone, hence here is my very first attempt at poetry. </i><br />
<br />Video: <a href="https://youtu.be/e06a6HhGL7M" target="_blank">YouTube</a><i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
What is family, but good times and cheer,<br />
What is family, but support far or near;<br />
<br />
What is family, but memories set in song,<br />
What is family, but friends that come along;<br />
<br />
What is family, but a shoulder to cry on,<br />
What is family, but getting your <i>urulai</i> fry-on;<br />
<br />
What is family, but comfort always on call,<br />
What is family, but Deepavali presents for all;<br />
<br />
What is family, but trips to near and abroad,<br />
What is family, but amazing performers to applaud;<br />
<br />
What is family, but summers playing cricket,<br />
What is family, but begging for the last Rajini ticket;<br />
<br />
What is family, but shared joys and heartbreaks,<br />
What is family, but celebrations with candy & cakes;<br />
<br />
What is family, but a fresh filter coffee brew,<br />
What is family, but Bala the next challenge is for you!<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mountain View, CA, USA37.3860517 -122.083851137.285155700000004 -122.2452126 37.4869477 -121.9224896tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-60277022230774232292020-06-20T23:17:00.003-07:002020-07-22T22:01:45.367-07:00On Knowledge and Change<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I recently finished reading Amitav Ghosh's genre-bending novel, The Calcutta Chromosome. Is it science-fiction? Is it a historical novel? Is it a mystical thriller? Why not all three? The book held me in spellbound attention and left me with the aftertaste of philosophy. An epistemological insight that is oft-repeated in the novel is the inherent nature of Knowledge to cause Change.<br />
<br />
<i>"Knowing something, changes it."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"One can only know history because the act of knowing something, changes it so that what one just learnt is already obsolete."</i><br />
<br />
If knowing something changes it, can one make something change in "a certain way" by making it be known "in a particular way"? That is a guiding premise in the book.<br />
<br />
Isn't it a wonderfully fascinating idea? It gives me goosebumps to even imagine it.<br />
<br />
When I first encountered this premise in the book, a few disconnected ideas flashed in my mind like shooting stars. I remembered an echo of a long-forgotten lesson in quantum mechanics of how the act of measurement or observation ("knowing") alters the object under observation into just one (a rather mundane unary) manifestation of its otherwise plural possibilities.<br />
<br />
Almost immediately, my mind train chugged along to other stations of knowledge induced change. Why, I was reminded of the childish game of Chinese Whispers. Convey a secret message to the first person in a long human chain and have them convey it to their neighbor. By the end of a long train, the secret is often altered into an unrecognizable mess, albeit a bit funnier.<br />
<br />
Is it a fundamental nature of the human mind to change what it knows? Is it impossible to make something be known and yet make it fool-proof to change? I was instantly reminded of something I read in Frits Staal's book, Discovering the Vedas. This primary challenge of passing knowledge without change transfixed the Vedas's earliest composers. As eternal truths, it was paramount that they not be allowed to change from mouth to ear to mouth. And hence, they codified error-detecting and error-correcting codes within the texts themselves and the teaching methods of the text. As any Veda-paatshala student can attest, the emphasis in Veda learning is initially of rote-memorization; of not just the words, but primarily the tone, inflection, and spirit. The text themselves are composed to certain mathematical meters and any destructive change that affects the meter can be instantly recognized and fixed. Perhaps here at last is a rare success story of knowledge not leading to irretrievable change.<br />
<br />
But is such knowledge-driven change necessarily a bad thing? If preventing change needs a lack of action, then why know anything at all? Is the world to be a museum of wonders held behind bullet-proof, sky-high glass walls? Sights to be admired from a distance, but never to be touched, rolled on the floor, handled among friends, stained with the accidental spill of coffee or wine, or changed and altered in even a microscopic way? Are we to be relegated to the roles of bit-parts in this vast world and never aspire to create wonders of our own to be left for the progeny to admire? Isn't newness, by definition, a change from the usual? If change through knowledge is a terrible idea, how can any newness come into the world?<br />
<br />
If you are of the analytical bent of mind, imagine the following flow-chart. There exists a "Thing" in a circle. An arrow of "knowledge" emerges from the circle and leads to a second circle, "Action". An arrow of "change" emerges from the "Action" bubble and hurtles towards the first bubble "Thing". What happens to "Thing" now? Why, of course, it becomes a "New Thing". And the cycle continues, ad infinitum.<br />
<br />
One can trivially imagine examples of highly destructive cycles of change. Man learnt about the usefulness of river sand to create mortar and concrete. The knowledge resulted in action that created incredibly useful newness in the world – schools, bridges, temples, office complexes – but also immeasurably destroyed rivers and riverine ecosystems through the plunder for river sand.<br />
<br />
Perhaps a happy compromise is that knowledge-driven change is A-okay as long as it is channeled towards something moral and honorable. In the river sand example, the change towards bridges and schools is great, but the change towards dry rivers and sunken river-beds is to be avoided. If the analytical mind begs for another flow-chart, imagine the previous one and make two minor alterations. The arrow of "knowledge" is now replaced with the arrow of "knowledge guided by moral worldview". The circle with "New Thing" is now termed "Better Thing". And thereby, we have a virtuous cycle of change.<br />
<br />
And hence, perhaps the only thing worth preserving against wanton change or mischief is this sense of morality or a moral worldview that can guide the application of knowledge towards actions that can result in constructive change. Perhaps the only things worth preserving are rules or edicts that can timelessly apply to every scenario and guide the knower into selecting better actions and avoiding destructive ones. The only things worth guarding against the winds of change are the moral principles that can midwife better change in everything else. Perhaps, now I better understand why the Vedas are so zealously preserved against change.<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mountain View, CA, USA37.3860517 -122.083851137.285155700000004 -122.2452126 37.4869477 -121.9224896tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-79613717106924093362020-05-30T11:53:00.001-07:002020-07-22T22:02:01.856-07:00Lessons from a father<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><i><u>Note</u>: The following is an article written by my mother after the demise of her father in March, 2020. I edited the article and felt its content will be useful to everybody. I have retained my mother's usage of the first-person. </i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">The year 2020 has been a mixed bag of emotions for my family. The year dawned with great promise and joy thanks to the marriage celebrations of my sister's son, and then my own son in quick succession. Attended by a host of relations from near and afar, both ceremonies were presided over by my stately father, aged 94 and still going strong. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B564Xb97FmI/XtKpjVzElPI/AAAAAAAAao4/Jm7eaYDrki8xSV8ZRS0JJsGHn-naU2M9gCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/TRS4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B564Xb97FmI/XtKpjVzElPI/AAAAAAAAao4/Jm7eaYDrki8xSV8ZRS0JJsGHn-naU2M9gCK4BGAYYCw/s320/TRS4.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father at my son's wedding in January 2020</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Shortly after, on the 6th of February, I was met with the shocking news that my father had fallen in his home, where he preferred to live alone after my mother’s demise a decade ago, and had fractured his thigh bone. That fateful accident triggered a steady decline in his health until he passed away on the 25th of April. I write this post on the 7th of May, shortly after the conclusion of his <i>Subham</i>, the ceremonial thirteenth day funeral rites. Thanks to the raging pandemic sweeping across the globe, the funeral rites were sparsely attended with just the closest family - my siblings, and their significant others. </div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">A large colored photograph of my father in gilded framing was placed on a table for the rituals. As I stared at the slender, dark-skinned man in the photograph, with his prominent forehead, sharp nose and astute eyes, I was reminded in colored flashes of my childhood, the small and big sacrifices made by my parents to raise their five children into respectable stations in life. I was struck by his ironclad will and peculiar zeal towards his family and was reminded of the incredible life he had lived. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">My father, Sri T. R. Srinivasan was born on the 17th of January, 1926 near Kumbakonam. Hailing from a small village called Tiruvalliyangudi renowned for Kolavilli Ramar temple, a prominent Vaishavite shrine, my father was schooled at Little Flowers Convent in Kumbakonam. Growing up in extreme poverty amongst seven siblings, he was the first person in his family to clear the SSC examination (standard XI by today's metrics). Through a stroke of good fortune, at the age of 18 he entered Central Government service as a Lower Division Clerk in the Office of the Protector of Emigrants and posted to Mandapam camp, a refugee center near the coastal town of Rameswaram. At Mandapam, he quickly learned typewriting and shorthand to become the personal assistant to the Camp superior who was an Indian Civil Services cadre bureaucrat. Through his boss, my father acquired a taste for the exalted administrative services and vowed to raise a bureaucrat in his future family! </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Guq5kSY1Kvc/XtKpt0rnqTI/AAAAAAAAapA/fsakiRKDU4cvazKL6DDCqkwcmCtWUCEGACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/TRS3.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Guq5kSY1Kvc/XtKpt0rnqTI/AAAAAAAAapA/fsakiRKDU4cvazKL6DDCqkwcmCtWUCEGACK4BGAYYCw/s320/TRS3.png" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The caption is in my father's hand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">On the 15th August 1947, as India celebrated her newfound freedom with crackers and festivities, my father got engaged to my mother Smt. Saroja and acquired in her a most worthy life-partner. Their partnership lasted till 2010 when she pre-deceased him and their long union gave their children a chance to celebrate their 60th, 80th, and golden wedding celebrations. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
My father shares his birth date with Tamil Nadu's former Chief Minister and film superstar Sri. M. G. R. In his own way, my father was the superstar of the lives of his children! Since he was denied a chance at higher education, he was determined to ensure all his children were graduates or higher. He pushed us to strive a little further at every stage of our lives. After college, he encouraged all his daughters to work which led to all of us joining the Banking sector. His son joined the Indian Administrative Services, fulfilling one of my father's oldest dreams. All his children have had long and successful careers, enriching marriages, and today his grand- and great-grandchildren are spread all over the globe. </div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">In 2018, I retired as a Deputy General Manager at SBI after thirty-eight years of service. Over these years I have been known as an extremely hard-worker, a skilled Banker and a qualified financial adviser. However, most of the golden truths of professional and personal life were instilled in me by my father much before I joined SBI. I share a few of these life-lessons that he passed down to his children through his words and lifestyle. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<ul>
<li style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 19.2px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><b></b></span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Spend within your means.</b></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Every month my mother and father would sit together and jot down the mandatory expenses for the month. Instead of splurging on notebooks, my mother would carefully tear old calendar sheets into quadrants and use their backsides for accounts keeping. Once expenses had been listed, they would ensure some amount is always reserved for future savings. Whatever is left after that is the only discretionary spending for the whole family. Decades later, despite reaching a much better place financially, I am still driven by this model of money-management: identify expenses, reserve savings, spend whatever is left if needed.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<ul>
<li style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 19.2px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><b></b></span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Increase your income. </b></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">A large family necessitated my parents to find new ways to augment their income. A small portion of our home was rented out to a succession of tenants for several years. Being a shrewd orator and effective writer, my father would write short stories, articles, and poems in local newspapers and magazines for small remunerations. My mother provided tailoring services to neighbors, sold postage stamps, and even reared two cows to sell milk! In such varied and versatile ways, my parents increased the family income and made it possible in later life to send their children to college, marry them well, build a home, etc. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<br /><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
<ul>
<li style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 19.2px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><b></b></span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Savings vs Liability.</b></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">At the young age of thirty, my father had the brilliant forethought and daring to purchase a large plot of land in a swampy neighborhood called West Mambalam in Chennai. With a meager salary and four children already, it was a big risk, albeit a calculated one. He procured a loan from the local bank to buy the land and construct a house. For many years after, paying back the loan EMI was the foremost expense in our home. I still remember accompanying my father every month to pay the monthly EMI. Those trips to a bank at an early age inspired me to become a Banker in later life. This experience taught me that savings alone are not enough. It is also important to cleverly use liabilities in pursuit of grander objectives. Today the plot of land he purchased for Rs. 500 is worth several crores and has provided homes for several generations of his progeny. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<ul>
<li style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 19.2px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><b></b></span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Live with contentment.</b></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">My father was always simple in his lifestyle. In his early years, poverty made any kind of luxury unimaginable and yet, even in his later years when he was financially much better off, he never sought nor cared for luxury. Perhaps the only extravagance I remember of him was applying for a Bajaj scooter and waiting patiently for six years for its allotment. He used it sparingly, mostly preferring his cycle to commute to work. My father cared for the few things he owned and didn't care much for any other material possessions. Over the last decade of his life his austere living became even more minimal as he disposed most of his possessions. His most prized possessions were liberally handed over to his children and grandchildren and he retained only the barest essentials for himself. Despite living in a mostly empty house for the last ten years of his life, I cannot remember him being more content. Truly, contentment is a state of the mind.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<ul>
<li style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"></span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Do your duty.</b></span></li>
</ul>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Despite being from an orthodox Iyengar family, my father was never overtly religious. He rarely discussed religion or faith with others and was wary of such topics. Likewise, he was never inclined towards charity. He was living proof of the idiom 'Work is Worship' and all his children imbibed this ferocious devotion to one's work. Despite beginning at the lowest rung of the ladder, his career took him all over the country (Ahmedabad, Lucknow, Bombay, Madras) and he eventually retired as the Public Relations Officer, a gazetted position, of the Regional Passport Office at Bombay. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">During my own retirement ceremony in 2018, with my father in attendance in the first row, I was honored when my CGM commented on my Herculean work ethic even a few days before my retirement. I remember with great fondness my father's interactions with the CGM after the retirement function where he beamed with pride at his daughter's successful career. Doing one's duty with rigor was considered the foremost dharma in our household and I have strived to uphold that throughout my career. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OJ9bukpTRrg/XtKqQ14wtCI/AAAAAAAAapY/_mWC8GFglp8WI2ckWWWRPVgcJD7WTq2sQCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/TRS1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OJ9bukpTRrg/XtKqQ14wtCI/AAAAAAAAapY/_mWC8GFglp8WI2ckWWWRPVgcJD7WTq2sQCK4BGAYYCw/s320/TRS1.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father at my retirement ceremony in 2018</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">To summarize, it is known that the Bhagavad Gita extols three ways to transcend our human condition: Karma Yoga (the path of duty), Jnana Yoga (the path of knowledge), and Bhakti Yoga (the path of faith). My father exemplified the life of a Karma Yogi. Through honor, discipline, grit, and visionary thinking he uplifted an entire family into a higher sphere financially, culturally, and socially. While his time on earth has come to an end, his words, memories, and influences will guide his children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren for decades to come. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<b>- Smt. Kousalya Venkataraman</b></div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-54538296842374677342019-12-31T23:52:00.001-08:002020-07-17T23:13:54.968-07:00Short Story: Kazhugappan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“<i>Paati</i>, tell me a story, please!”, Vaidy beseeched his grandmother as she joined him in the pyol facing the street after partaking their midday meal. His grandmother sighed from fatigure, she had been up since 5 in the morning but Vaidy knew no patience, “Please! You said you will tell me a scary story!” </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
Vaidyanathan (a) Vaidy Gurumurthy was visiting his grandmother in the village for his summer holidays. His grandmother was a formidable lady. Perennially donned in crisp madisar saris she held court in her vast ancestral house in the middle of Big Street. The street, its adjoining Little Street, and a few smaller pathways and bylanes contained the two hundred-odd howels that made up the bulk of the village. Beyond these streets lay a few isolated tenements, the government primary school, the weaving workshop, and the Perumal Temple. Verdant fields stretched in every direction around the village until one encountered the muddy Kapti river lazily meandering around the village in a wide arc. A short distance beyond the river was the small cluster of huts of the others. Vaidy’s grandmother forbade him from visiting their homes or playing with their children. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
Despite being a city-bred boy, Vaidy loved the village. To him, its sights, sounds, and smells teemed with mysterious possibilities. Unlike his parents who seemed perenially occupied with work or chores, the villagers were more relaxed and mostly had time for a precocious nine-year old’s questions and antics. Over a few summers Vaidy had even managed to make a merry group of friends who, despite initial apprehensions about a city boy, had wholeheartedly accepted Vaidy into their games and mischief. Since his grandmother wouldn’t allow him to leave the house until the sun was past its peak the lazy afternoons were always spent at home in their cement pyol facing the street. Its red-oxide coating kept the pyol cool and pleasant no matter the sun’s fury. And on this cool, cement oasis, his grandmother would entertain Vaidy with her stories. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Shall I tell you the story of the man who brought a Kaleidascope to the village when I was little?”, his grandmother asked him, pulling Vaidy into her lap. Her madisar sari created a comfortable hammock for him in between her legs. “Hair”, he commanded, at which his grandmother began gently caressing his hair. “Tomorrow I will wash your hair <i>kanna</i>. Do you spend all your time rolling in mud?”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“No <i>paati</i>. You have already told me the Kaleidascope story… you said you will tell me a scary story today.” </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Won’t you get scared by it? Already you are afraid to pee alone at night…”, his grandmother chided him. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“That’s because your bathroom is at the far end of the backyard!”, Vaidy countered. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“<i>Seri</i>, <i>seri</i>. I will tell you a real story today, something that happened in this village when my mother was your age.” </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Yay.”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“When my mother was your age, a new teacher was deployed at the local government school. He was not a man from these parts; he hardly spoke the language, dressed in ill-fitting, heavy tunics, and was an oddity wherever he went. He stood over six feet tall but was shrunken and emaciated and despite not being beyond thirty, was almost completely bald, which made his head dazzle under the midday Sun. He also appeared to be unmarried despite his advanged age. But the most defining feature of the man was his nose. Oh, what a nose it was! Long like a cobra, it curved like a cutlass to its pin-like tip and then retreated like a wave towards the upper lip. People joked that the nose traveled one day before the rest of him!“</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Like Garuda!”, Vaidy interjected. The eagle-god was the vahana of Ranganatha, their family deity and was one of Vaidy’s favorite gods. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Yes, it was sharp like Garuda, but where Garuda’s nose signifies auspiciousness and strength, the school teacher’s nose suggested wickedness and malice. The kids quickly started calling him “<i>Kazhugu</i>” behind his back”. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“What is <i>Kazhugu</i>?”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Vulture. The bird eats dead bodies and is unholy.”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“But isn’t Jatayu also a vulture? Didn’t he help Rama?”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Yes, but Jatayu and his brother were exceptions. Now stop interrupting me or I will lose the flow of the story!”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
His grandmother continued, “Despite the nose’s sinister appearance, the school master turned out to be an utter lightweight. He was easily startled and had a fragile constitution that was prone to shivering when agitated. The kids were quick to take advantage of him. Pandemonium would ensue in every class as kids would jump from bench to bench throwing paper balls at one another, while the hapless teacher tried to quell the class, until his shivering would make him collapse in a sweat.”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“I feel bad for him. Why were the kids so mean?”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Kids can be the cruelest sometimes <i>kanna</i>”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“I am not cruel. When Lata caught a caterpillar during P.T. period and Senthil suggested we dismember it part by part, I fought with them to have it released”, Vaidy demurred. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“<i>Chamathu</i>. You are my golden boy”, his grandmother rubbed his face with her palms and cracked her knuckles, the magical charm for warding off evil eyes. Whenever her knuckles cracked noisily, Vaidy beamed a little with pride; everyone knew that the louder the crack the more the attention one had begotten. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Continue story please!”, he exclaimed. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“The helpless school teacher tried appealing to the villagers to rein in their wards but the villagers also couldn’t respect a man who couldn’t even control a few small boys. He even wrote to his superiors in the city begging for a transfer, but his letters got sucked into a bureaucratic maze.“</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Exhausted of all other options, one day he broke down to a postman who could understand his language a little and suggested he consult a <i>Tantric </i>sage who had recently taken up residence in the forest beyond the colony of the others. It is known that <i>Tantric</i> sages can only be seen at midnight, so on the midnight of a moonless night, the teacher went to meet the sage, carrying along a live chicken for propitiation. “</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“<i>Paati,</i> what is <i>Tantric</i>?”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“It means the sage practised in the dark arts and could communicate with spirits and ghosts.” </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
At that time a dog yelped sharply nearby making Vaidy cling to his grandmother’s leg in terror. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
His grandmother chuckled, “Shall I stop?”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“No, no. Continue. I am not scared.”, Vaidy replied, trying to salvage some pride. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“The teacher poured his heart’s miseries to the sage but unbeknownst to him his sadness had calcified into pure hatred towards the children. Falling to the sage’s feet, he demanded the power to avenge his ill treatment. The sage, pleased with the offering of the chicken, boomed, “<i>Thathasthu. </i>So be it.” Immediately the teacher was transformed into a terrifying bird with a human face, the teacher’s own face. Finally the maleficent nose had a body to match. The teacher had been transformed into a demon! The demon shrieked in pain and took flight into the night sky!”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Did someone kill the demon?” </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Wait, you are getting ahead of the story! After that night, truant children in the village started disappearing mysteriously. Boys seen playing in the street corner at one moment were gone the next. A boy fast asleep on a mat next to his mother was gone when she woke up in the morning. A boy drawing water from a well was gone even before the pail hit the water. The only trace left behind were a few dark feathers. Through the postman, the villagers surmised that the teacher had come back to haunt the village and began to call him <i>Kazhugappan. </i>They didn’t allow their children out of sight and permitted no mischiefs. Children continued to be taken but at a slower clip until it eventually stopped.” </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Was <i>Kazhugappan</i> killed?”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“No one knew what happened to him. But to this day, children that refuse to eat their meals or sleep on time are warned to not incur his wrath. He is always looking for naughty children, including city boys!”, his grandmother concluded in a gravely tone. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
Vaidy stared blankly at the street. He was taking in the sights, but his mind was elsewhere. The village had turned out to be more fantastical than he had ever imagined! <i>Kazhugappan</i>! What an adversary for Vaidy, who always fancied himself to be the hero of every story. At the stroke of three, his grandmother let Vaidy go out to play with his friends to whom he related the <i>Kazhugappan</i> story in complete detail. The group solemnly agreed to actively search for unseemly feathers and other such signs of the demon. But apart from copious quantities of cow and goat dung in various levels of decomposition, their investigations didn’t reveal much else. The story and their mission was forgotten after a few days. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“<i>Maami, </i>how can you expect me to make a living if I sell you the entire bunch for three annas?”, the vegetable lady wailed. Every morning she would bring a basket of fresh vegetables from which Vaidy’s grandmother would select the freshest wares for the day’s cooking. Busy with his coloring book, Vaidy paid little notice to the negotiation. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“<i>Maami</i>, did you hear about the new supervisor at the weaving workshop? He has moved into the room behind the workshop. I hear he has come from Karur, but no family nothing. Pah, you should see his nose! It’s so sharp, you can till a field with it.”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
Vaidy froze. A sharp nose, a lone man. It can only mean one thing — <i>Kazhugappan</i> had returned!</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
As soon as the vigilante was allowed to leave home at 3 pm, Vaidy ran to collect his group of friends. The weaving workshop was at the edge of the village and had a one-room outhouse behind it. Such an isolated enclosure seemed like the perfect haunt of a demon. Convinced that no demon can emerge in the bright day and armed with packets of <i>vibuthi </i>which is universally known to ward off any unearthly foe, the group slowly crept up to room through the fields behind it. The room had a single window through which they peeked in. It was empty, the occupant probably still at the workshop. Sparsely furnished, they could only see a few utensils and a chulha in one corner and a rolled up mattress in the other. A shut suitcase lay below the window, Vaidy wonder whether it will have any clues about its owner. Valli, Vaidy’s closest friend, pointed out the lack of any framed photographs of Gods or Goddesses in the room. Vaidy nodded grimly. Just as they were wrapping up their reconnaissance, what was it that Vaidy noticed by the locked door? </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“Look! A black feather by the door!” </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
The kids backed away slowly from the window. They had all the proof they needed, a demon walked in their midst. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
It was only when the group were plotting their next course of action that they realized the futility of all the mythological tales they knew. Each one of them knew at least a dozen demons from mythology in every grosteque shape and form, and yet none of the tales prescribed a foolproof way of taking down a demon. The kids neither had Rama’s bow to shoot down Tataka or Krisha’s strength to wrip apart Bakasura. The kids debated at length the pros and cons of various attack strategies; Valli suggested flinging dung balls at the demon, Murthy was all for digging up a trench and trapping him in it, Venkat argued for the slingshot which seemed like their closest alternative to Rama’s divine bow, while Vaidy felt it best to jump on top of the man to crush him while preventing him from taking flight. In a truly democratic fashion, they group argued and debated, breaking for tea and snacks frequently. Eventually a glorious plan was conceived. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
The man had been seen going for a walk around the village every evening after work. When he walks by the large banyan tree, Vaidy will jump on top of him stunning the demon to the ground. Instantly Valli and Venkat will emerge from the other side and fling stones and mudballs at the fallen demon, taking care as Vaidy repeatedly pointed out to not hit him. In case the demon was not subdued by this vicious assault and tries to run away, Venkat would have dug a trench a few yards ahead along the path and covered it with fallen branches, twigs, and leaves. The demon will fall into the trench and the kids will seal him shut! Vaidy beamed with pride. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
The next evening, the kids took up positions. Murthy had dug up the trench and was now tasked with lookout. Vaidy clung to the lowest branch of the banyan tree, directly above the path. The branch was more slippery than he expected. Tensions were high. Venkat had almost given up in fear and had to be slapped into sense by Vaidy. Like a general corraling his troops before an epic battle, Vaidy had spoken eloquently about this fight between good and evil. Mutiny had been abated, but skittishness remained. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
Murthy whistled twice. The demon was arriving. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
Vaidy gripped to the branch tightly, he knew he only had one shot. From the corner of his eye he saw Venkat shivering in fear and mused, “Only some people are born warriors!” </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
The demon was now in sight and was steadily walking towards the tree. Vaidy readied himself for the plunge… from the other side, he heard a whimper that turned into a muffled cry that was immediately followed by a full-throated shriek. Vaidy swung in fear towards the sound. A deathly Venkat had emerged from the other side, his eyes brimming with tears and panic. “Aaaaaaaargh”, he screamed at the walking figure and let loose a big stone from his slingshot!Venkat, normally a decent shot on a good day, had become completely disoriented in fear and had aimed the slingshot too high. The meaty pebble flew through the air and struck gold in Vaidy’s cowering rump. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“<i>Ammaaaaa</i>!”, Vaidy screamed and fell from the tree, landing a few spots in front of the supervisor who jumped in surprise. Vaidy, hurt but not defeated, swiveled towards the demon and cried, “<i>Kazhugappan</i>!”. The war cry energized the startled army as Venkat, Valli, and Murthy descended on Vaidy and the supervisor throwing mud balls, stones, and branches from all directions. Their spotty aims meant Vaidy got hurt as much if not more than the supervisor. The man raised his arm to protect himself from the constant onslaught and approached Vaidy to help the kid up. Vaidy, terror-struck by the demon’s proximity scrambled to his feet and ran. He felt something soft grasping his ankle for a moment, and in the next he plunged into the deep trench dug by Venkat. Vaidy fell with a puff. The army deprived of their general lost all nerve for the fight and scattered helter-skelter into the fields. The supervisor, shaken but not hurt, approached the trench to rescue Vaidy. The boy was badly scratched and bleeding from his knees. Initially grateful to be out of the trench, when Vaidy saw the identity of his rescuer, he prompty fainted. </div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
“I don’t know what happened <i>Paati-amma</i>. I think someone was trying to attack me. Your grandson was very brave and tried to warn me”, the supervisor whispered. “As I was taking him to the medic’s house, he kept saying, “<i>Kazhugappan</i>” over and over. Do you know what that is?”</div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
Vaidy’s grandmother adjusted the cool compress over his forehead and pulled up the blanket over his sleeping self. She turned towards the supervisor and shrugged, “Who knows what these kids talk about these days? They are always picking up bad influences.” </div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mountain View, CA, USA37.3860517 -122.083851137.285155700000004 -122.2452126 37.4869477 -121.9224896tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-35402919531008931602019-09-02T10:07:00.001-07:002020-08-07T13:08:51.941-07:00Kalinga Narthanam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;">I am starting a new series in my blog to feature a selection of my recent artwork. The idea is to present the finished product along with some context through my thoughts, sources of inspiration, mistakes, etc. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: justify;">
Kalinga Narthanam</h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Kalinga Narthanam is easily my favorite imagery from Hindu mythology. Just imagine a five-year old child dancing on the heads of a vast, demonic serpent on an overflowing Yamuna as dark rains lash all around. This scene strongly resonates with my very core. Perhaps as a result, I have tried to capture this image through my sketches on several occasions. Here is a hasty attempt from 2014 on a TODO list! </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hURBoavMV1c/XW1HPCl7UlI/AAAAAAAAX-M/s4NQcW9sDUIOQEYo8X9O1RRZL05KEG3-QCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/b22cb161-239d-4318-9749-72dc3a66ce34.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hURBoavMV1c/XW1HPCl7UlI/AAAAAAAAX-M/s4NQcW9sDUIOQEYo8X9O1RRZL05KEG3-QCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/b22cb161-239d-4318-9749-72dc3a66ce34.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Over the years I have discovered that drawing this scene helps me to get back into sketching after long layoffs. The powerful imagery moves me to grabbing my pencil. Below is my latest attempt at this scene. It was sketched on an iPad Pro with the Apple Pencil on the stock Notes app. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2vK5HC9g4v0/XW1FQx0gAQI/AAAAAAAAX98/8PBMUr3Q_YUrzuE_kusk1SyeufGrkZrVwCLcBGAs/s1600/701765C7-1A4D-400B-9B4D-AAB425546185.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="763" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2vK5HC9g4v0/XW1FQx0gAQI/AAAAAAAAX98/8PBMUr3Q_YUrzuE_kusk1SyeufGrkZrVwCLcBGAs/s1600/701765C7-1A4D-400B-9B4D-AAB425546185.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Things I like about this image:</div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li style="text-align: justify;">The flowing motion of Krishna: I was trying to convey a sense of careless elegance by capturing a "mid-frame" moment. If I was a better artist I would have been able to make the image hazier without losing legibility. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">The heads of the snake: I tried to give each head a distinct personality. The head being trampled by Krishna is the most arrogant one, a few nearby are staring menacingly at Krishna, undoubtedly the targets of his future steps; whereas there are some heads that seem reconciled with subordination -- one even appears pleased. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">The flower ornaments: I think the flowers have a 3D effect going on which pleases me to no end. I can't quite remember how I managed this; subsequent efforts at duplication haven't been quite as successful. I think sketching over multiple times with pencils of different darkness settings is responsible. It gave me pause whether flower ornaments will appear so prominent in a torrential downpour, however the scene is brimming with theophany that I reasoned divine grace could explain the freshness of the flowers. </li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India13.0826802 80.27071840000007812.5876862 79.625271400000074 13.5776742 80.916165400000082tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-53280221213567439602019-04-28T15:51:00.001-07:002020-07-22T22:02:52.692-07:00Dhan Vapasi: "mo money no problems" <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I first heard the phrase "<b>Dhan Vapasi</b>" it seemed like a war-cry for the repatriation of funds, affectionately dubbed as <i>black money</i>, stashed by rich Indians in overseas bank accounts in the shady watering holes of the financial world such as Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. In contrast, Dhan Vapasi called for the repatriation of money – <i>Indian</i> money – from a much closer proximity: from India's governments. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Dhan Vapasi is the brain child of serial tech-entrepreneur Rajesh Jain, one of the masterminds behind the BJP's election campaign during the 2014 Lok Sabha elections. He is a man of big ideas – one of his other goals is to rewrite the Indian Constitution along of the lines of the American Constitution – and Dhan Vapasi is certainly a very big idea. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Dhan Vapasi is centered around the idea of Public Wealth and the right of every Indian citizen to derive income from it. Public wealth is defined as everything not owned by private parties such as public lands, mineral deposits, forests, public sector undertakings, government guest houses, ambassadors with red sirens, etc. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The argument for Dhan Vapasi rests on the following equation:</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JLK6bJmNguo/XMYbZOg1zOI/AAAAAAAAWDs/LpNyLoTLxlUuhl0KgzgtjjBBz5AppIA-wCLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2019-04-28%2Bat%2B14.29.53.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="1064" height="202" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JLK6bJmNguo/XMYbZOg1zOI/AAAAAAAAWDs/LpNyLoTLxlUuhl0KgzgtjjBBz5AppIA-wCLcBGAs/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2019-04-28%2Bat%2B14.29.53.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
When public wealth is suitably and effectively utilized it can create sustainable income for its owners, the Indian public. Due to a combination of historical and political reasons, most of India's public wealth is legally owned and controlled by the Government of India and state governments. Starting from the Chanakya's <i>Arthashastra</i> the ruling classes have tried to usurp and control natural wealth, particularly land, in the name of public welfare. This process was accelerated by the British and hasn't slowed a beat since Independence in 1947. Dhan Vapasi conservatively estimates public wealth in India as Rs. 15 lakh crores (15 followed by 14 zeros!), or roughly Rs. 50 lakh per family. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Governments (states and center) are sitting on this incredible stockpile of public wealth. And yet, instead of effectively utilizing this wealth to generate prosperity for all Indians, Dhan Vapasi claims that governments across all political stripes have done the opposite. They have willfully mismanaged this wealth to enrich their own pockets. Dhan Vapasi claims that such mismanagement and corruption is unavoidable given the improper incentives baked into our political system. To come to power politicians have to spend obscene sums of money and grease multitudes of palms. Once in power, they have a very limited timeframe to recoup this vast investment. This incentivizes public loot for personal enrichment. Public wealth is treated as a cash-cow and on those occasions publicly-run enterprises go belly-up thanks to incompetent administration, the government bails them out using more public money. A case in point is the recent Air India bail-out. There is no reason for the Indian government to run an airlines and yet it continues to prop up a shambolically-run organization. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Convinced that governments cannot be trusted to effectively utilize public wealth for public welfare, Dhan Vapasi calls for the liquidation of most of India's public wealth. It argues for the immediate auctioning of public lands, mineral deposits, privatization of public undertakings, etc. and distributing the generated income to every Indian as an annual payment of Rs. 1 lakh per family. Dhan Vapasi asserts that this income will have transformational benefits to India, including eliminating extreme poverty, generating millions of jobs, reducing the avenues for public corruption, and rendering unnecessary most public assistance schemes. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Dhan Vapasi's <a href="https://www.dhanvapasi.com/" target="_blank">website</a> includes a booklet and a deeply informative wiki on India's public wealth. The booklet is rambling, repetitive, long on moral justifications and short on implementation details. It is also self-contradictory in places. For instance, to the question of whether the people can be trusted to responsibly spend the income from Dhan Vapasi, the booklet retorts, "<i>If the people are capable enough to assume the responsibility of choosing their political leaders — that’s democracy — why are they incapable of deciding what they should do with their own wealth?</i>". Dhan Vapasi's invectives against the political system would suggest that the people are clearly incapable of selecting the right political leaders; wouldn't it follow that they cannot be trusted to spend their wealth responsibly? </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
I see Dhan Vapasi are an interesting garb for a Limited Government manifesto. The movement calls for the complete disentanglement of most of the Government's powers, leaving behind just three – the Army, domestic law & order, and the courts. A Dhan Vapasi Bill has been crafted and the organization appeals to politicians across the political spectrum to rally around this singular objective. <span style="text-align: left;">Instead of organizing around abstract ideals such as Libertarianism or Classical Liberalism, Dhan Vapasi is a call to organize around an end-product – Rs. 50 lakh per family – and sees Limited Government as a natural fallout of this desirable end-goal. </span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Though the scheme may seem too simplistic, its true power rests in its simplicity and potential '<i>to go viral</i>'. Like the war against black money, Dhan Vapasi could become a powerful rallying cry in the public imagination. It is ripe for adoption by anti-establishment movements. Even if the idea of Dhan Vapasi is impractical at a pan-national level, it could be applied to every level of public governance – panchayat, municipal, state, and federal. Could we devolve lands and resources owned ineffectively by city municipal boards? Could we offload government interests in at least a few PSUs? Are there more such low-hanging fruits for Dhan Vapasi? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is self-evident that the Indian state is too big and too powerful. The remedy cannot be a call to cut it down to the size of a post-card. The government has to do more than just manage the army, the police, and the courts. It has to protect the environment, regulate responsible business practices, promote welfare-schemes for the historically downtrodden, provide basic education and healthcare for the neediest, and more. It remains my hope that by offloading the government of things <i>it need not do</i>, it can better focus on the things <i>it should do</i>. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Further reading:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>An excellent conversation between Amit Varma and Rajesh Jain on <a href="https://ivmpodcasts.com/the-seen-and-the-unseen-episode-list/2018/11/12/ep-94-rajesh-jain-and-dhan-vapasi" target="_blank">The Seen and the Unseen podcast</a>. </li>
<li>The Dhan Vapasi <a href="https://www.dhanvapasi.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/WhyDhanVapasiBooklet_Sep2018.pdf" target="_blank">booklet</a> and <a href="https://wiki.dhanvapasi.com/index.php/Public_Wealth_Wiki" target="_blank">wiki</a>. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mountain View, CA, USA37.3860517 -122.083851137.285155700000004 -122.2452126 37.4869477 -121.9224896tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-35554702229453012322019-04-27T15:40:00.002-07:002020-07-22T22:03:15.176-07:00A Reading Challenge ramble<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Goodreads is not for everyone. The website isn't the most responsive, the reviews are mostly unorganized, and the iOS app can be clunky... and yet, I have stuck with it for five years now, despite not logging in for several months at a stretch. The reason is that Goodreads has become a place to chronicle my personal reading habits and preferences. On Goodreads I reflect upon my past readings and discover new things to read. My social interactions on the social network begin and end, for the most part, through additions to the 'Want to Read' and 'Currently Reading' shelves.</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
One aspect of Goodreads that has enriched my reading over the years is its annual Reading Challenge. The idea is simple: at the beginning of the year you set a personal goal of reading some number of books during that calendar year. The rest of the year, through a combination of personal drive and fear of public shame, you try to read enough to meet the goal. Nobody wants to be the person who aims to read 60 books in a year and yet stands at 3 books read by the beginning of December. </div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Despite reading being a mostly private affair, a reading habit is often flaunted in very public ways. When I first signed up for the challenge in 2014, driven partly by this desire to flaunt, I set myself a target of reading 50 books – a ridiculous reach considering I was to join grad school midway through the year. Unsurprisingly I failed to hit my target, but I didn't fail too badly. I managed to read thirty five books that year – the most I have ever read in a calendar year. The quality of my reading was fairly high as well. From Umberto Eco's <a href="http://theelectronicdialogue.blogspot.com/2014/08/my-review-of-name-of-rose.html" target="_blank">The Name of the Rose</a> to Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea; from Amartya Sen's Identity and Violence to Hamid Kureishi's The Black Album, I was exposed to a wide breadth of ideas and writing styles that year. By the end of 2014, I was inspired to write <a href="http://theelectronicdialogue.blogspot.com/2015/01/my-2014-in-prose.html" target="_blank">this</a> about my reading that year. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
2015 was a regression to the mean. I could read just seven books, albeit books of remarkable note such as Fahrenheit 451 and Donna Tartt's The Secret History. This was also the year I truly discovered Salman Rushdie, despite having read some of his works back in India. You see, to realize the magic of his words one must have experienced the life of a cultural transplant, lost between two cultures, forever in known places and yet never at home. Shame, his book on Pakistan, ranks in my all-time top five. To me, Rushdie and Arundhati Roy are in a league of their own. They are like glass-blowers with words, they make language weave and twist in mesmerizing ways that one can't fully understand but still recognize as beyond one's abilities to mimic. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The poor showing in 2015 lowered my expectations for 2016. A book a month was all I asked of myself. The score at the end of the year was a very healthy 15. One book that stands out, in hindsight, from that year is Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day. I have always fancied melancholy in literature, especially when it is tied to a good plot and relatable characters. 2016 was also the year I was introduced to graphic novels, thanks to my friend Clint. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If 2014 was my Steven Spielberg year – voluminous – then 2017 would be my Daniel Day Lewis year. I read half as many books, but each one was a hit out of the park. Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses will rank as one of the most involved reading experiences. The North Water was chilling and brutal. Zadie Smith's On Beauty was wise and cool. I was breezing through incredibly complex works and my writing improved, including my technical writing at work! At one point I was reading over two hours a day. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sadly 2018 was another regression. I was still spending time with the occasional gold nugget, such as Salman Rushdie's Two Years Eight Months and Twenty Eight Nights, but the bulk of my reading during the year consisted of Tintin on my iPad. For most of the latter half of the year, I didn't touch a physical book. This continued into the early months of 2019. Eventually in March, I logged into Goodreads and saw Reading Challenge progress updates from many of my friends. I was very disappointed with myself and set myself the lowest bar yet. I challenged myself to read merely six books in the remaining nine months of the year. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When you are coming back to reading after a long layover, it doesn't bode well to start with an award-winning literary work. My incipient attempts at reading The Narrow Road to the Deep North or the Moor's Last Sigh quickly failed. The books were too deep and the language was too convoluted. I needed an easier read that could keep me engaged. Around this time, I ran into my school friend Radhika who highly recommended The Great Derangement by Amitav Ghosh. She gifted me her own personal copy, rife with her underlinings. The gift became my motivation and I plowed my way through the book. It was a work of non-fiction that ruminated the lack of climate change as an actor in contemporary literature. While Ghosh's searing insights into the depredations of the western model of economic growth was enjoyable, the bits I loved the most were his anecdotal passages that bore resemblance to his works on fiction. Fiction will always remain my first love. I followed it up with Sing, Unburied, Sing. It was a weird book; a mishmash of the scars of racism in the deep south and the unquenched thirsts of spirits roaming in the afterlife. It was marvelous, dull, and terrifying in parts. Next came When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi. As expected it was a tearjerker. Paul's life reaffirmed something I have long believed in – it is through the confluence of disparate ideas and interests that the greatest writing is born. Paul's deep interests in literature, philosophy, medicine, and morality was evident and inspiring. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My rapid progress encouraged me to rise my target for the year to ten books. Let's see if I can achieve it. I am currently reading Shrilal Shukla's Raag Darbaari, and John Le Carre's The Honorable Schoolboy. I will be tweeting about my reading this year on <a href="https://twitter.com/aditvenk/status/1117295014361485312" target="_blank">Twitter chain</a>. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
You can find my Reading Challenge scorecards here:</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/1523824" target="_blank">2014 Reading Challenge</a></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/2256122" target="_blank">2015 Reading Challenge</a></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/6721192" target="_blank">2016 Reading Challenge</a></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/6895355" target="_blank">2017 Reading Challenge</a></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/11425773" target="_blank">2018 Reading Challenge</a></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/17282341" target="_blank">2019 Reading Challenge</a></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mountain View, CA, USA37.3860517 -122.083851137.285155700000004 -122.2452126 37.4869477 -121.9224896tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-18197957875803255512018-08-19T16:21:00.000-07:002018-08-19T16:21:13.449-07:00The girl across my table<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<section class="section section--body section--first" name="f8a0" style="caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); clear: both; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); margin-top: 20px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative; text-align: left;"><div class="section-content">
<div class="section-inner sectionLayout--insetColumn" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px auto; max-width: 740px; padding-left: 20px; padding-right: 20px; position: relative; width: 740px;">
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--h2" id="0ef1" name="0ef1" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 10px;">
<em class="markup--em markup--p-em" style="font-feature-settings: 'liga' 1, 'salt' 1;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Originally written in May 2013 but wasn’t published then for unknown reasons.</span></em></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="56d4" name="56d4" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A few months back I needed a new set of passport photos for work. My office insisted on a particular photo-studio miles away from where I lived. So at 10 am on that Saturday morning, off I left donning a freshly laundered shirt and freshly washed hair whipped all the way back. An alien stared back at me from the mirror. But isn’t that the whole point of a passport photo?</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="b70a" name="b70a" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It started raining as I hailed the auto. Not a thunder-storm but not a drizzle either. It was a quiet, steady rain, soothing when you are inside with a cup of tea, depressing when you are outside & trying to salvage your files. The air turned cold. My straight-jacketed arms were a tenuous shield against the flat fisted fury of the wind as my auto whipped past puddles of rain water.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p graf--trailing" id="c5e6" name="c5e6" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After my lack of photogenicity was duly reaffirmed in a velvety room that reeked of falsehood and claustrophobia, I left the photo studio with an hour to burn before the photographs were due. The rain had slowed by then and I fancied a walk.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p graf--trailing" id="c5e6" name="c5e6" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.003em;">It was a nicer part of town. Despite the rain the roads were teeming with life. Restaurants were filled with happy people brunching with fruity cocktails. Exhausted shoppers lugging their bags and slurping colorful beverages. People shouting into cell-phones, couples in a scène d’amour under an umbrella, beggars huddling against the cold, a senior citizen with an irrepressible dog — urban India. I dropped a fiver to an old lady sitting under the metro line, hugging a cold pillar for imagined warmth.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</section><section class="section section--body section--last" name="8a1b" style="caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); clear: both; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.843137); padding-bottom: 5px; position: relative; text-align: left;"><div class="section-content">
<div class="section-inner sectionLayout--insetColumn" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px auto; max-width: 740px; padding-left: 20px; padding-right: 20px; position: relative; width: 740px;">
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="fe7d" name="fe7d" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My morning cereal long digested, my tummy grumbled for attention. The rains had picked up again and luckily I found a place that claimed to be inspired by the road-side <em class="markup--em markup--p-em" style="font-feature-settings: 'liga' 1, 'salt' 1;">dhabas </em>of Amritsar. It was a good selling pitch on that inclement day. The insides didn’t resemble a lorry-joint; everything was sterile yellow with a yellow washing machine by the cashier. Probably a post-modern art thing I will never get. It was self-service and I joined the lengthy queue, full of wet umbrellas and dirty shoes. A few places ahead of me was a girl. Fully covered in a black shawl and huge sunglasses, she had very short hair and was as tall as me.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="459b" name="459b" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The service was excruciatingly slow, but eventually I faced the (distinctly non-Amritsari) cashier and ordered a vegetarian <em class="markup--em markup--p-em" style="font-feature-settings: 'liga' 1, 'salt' 1;">combo </em>meal. Armed with a beeper I sought out an empty table, reluctant to intrude upon couples occupying tables meant for six — the blindness of love I suppose. I had to settle for an empty one by the window. Occasionally the rain would sweep inside, garnishing the food with acidic rain-water but at least it afforded a great view of the street below.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="4dd3" name="4dd3" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I was aimlessly scrolling my Twitter feed, I saw the same girl sitting at the table across me. She had exchanged her shawl & sunglasses for a fat book. She was not uncommonly pretty, inured as we are to the constant bombardment of celebrities in every screen. But she was striking — a sense of surity, uncommon among people constantly thirsting for attention. She had a long, tapering nose; a thin lock of hair would occasionally escape her ear. She would draw it back only for it to break free again — waves crashing against the dike. She was out of this world! Such was her utter concentration in the book. I am no stranger to the time-warping powers of a good book, and as badly as I wanted her to look up and see me, I was loath to take her away from her state of enrapture.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="16b0" name="16b0" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A green sleeveless kurta and blue denims. A blue scarf was tied around her neck, a little bit of a pirate. Occasionally, she would glance at her watch, shiny black metal against burnished skin. Around her neck was a most unusual necklace, jagged jade (?) rocks strung together with gold nuggets in between. In that yellow hive pretending to be a dhaba, she was a carnival of colors.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="c223" name="c223" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Suddenly the siren on her table came to life, wailing for attention. Her spell broken, she was flustered, lost for a moment. I imagine the slightest tinge of color flooded into her face as she moved lazily to the service desk. A few minutes later, it was my beeper’s turn to blare — no doubt an authentic Dhaba tradition.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="9f23" name="9f23" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The food was mediocre. The rice was cold and straw-like. The parathas were tasteless, dripping with ghee. The rajma was at least hot but too salty. The potatoes were good, a little too dry. With mouthfuls, I surreptitiously looked up. She delicately balanced a spoon in one hand and the fat book in another. Occasionally she would scoop in a distracted mouthful.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="ef42" name="ef42" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was fascinated by this scene. Every so often, I would grow conscious and hastily return to my food, but eventually my attention would go back to the girl and her book. The rains picked up as did the honking of scooters on the road. The sun slipped behind the inky clouds and a shroud of darkness fell upon the restaurant. Her lighting disrupted she looked up with annoyance. She glanced at me. I hurriedly looked down at my food, pretending it the most interesting food ever made . I furtively looked up to she her beckoning an employee to turn on the lights. Suddenly swivelled her face towards me and once again, I dived into my food. I did not look up again. I scooped up the last bit of rice and left the restaurant.</span></div>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p graf--trailing" id="29a5" name="29a5" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; --x-height-multiplier: 0.375; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Do I wish I had made a move on her? Sure. Did I have the guts to do it? Nope. If she had approached me, would I have been able to string together a sentence or two? I hope so. At least I am left with a unique memory and a burning question, what book was she reading?</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</section></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-44844515000586467782018-08-18T16:56:00.002-07:002021-04-02T23:42:22.340-07:00The Man in the middle seat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">As soon as I sat down at my seat, I knew the man next to me had to die. Probably 6'4'' or 6'5'', he was a giant of a man, undoubtedly used to towering over the rest of us mortals all his life. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could hear the Viking blood coursing through veins that irrationally popped out of layers of old tattooed ink. Red serpents and black vines writhed passionately with one another in a bloodless conflict, coming closer at one moment and pulling back the next when the man would move his arms or flex his biceps. His white tee shirt, a little too tight for my comfort, declared in a bold font <i>Make Beer, Not War</i>, and yet despite its pacifist message it appeared to be a perennial state of Total Warfare with the layers of rippling muscles on his chest and back. If I sat back and edged to the side, I could feel his heat and it made me quiver a little. He was completely bald; despite the air-conditioning a thin layer of sweat was lodged on his scalp and made it shine and glisten. I had to focus intensely to curb the urge to stand up and kiss it clean. I pushed the pin harder into my thigh to push back these unclean thoughts, reciting my mantra over and over again. <i>I am Pure. I am Pure</i>. A small drop of blood appeared on my new khaki trousers. He was a Lion among men, belonging on tourney grounds battling for glory – not in the cramped middle seat of row 19 in Basic Economy. I am arrested by an image of him giving the winning rose to me. I am dressed in the finest red velvet gown and I can feel the jealousy of all the other girls on me. The jealousy brings me back to the present and I push harder on the pin to keep away the dirty thoughts. I am Pure. I am Pure. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Around us was unfolding the packaged and rehearsed dance that is performed thousands of times every day all over the world. An intricate performance of the same dull people, the same crowded seating, the same stale air, the same duels between pudgy fingers and minuscule overhead air vents, the same stewardesses peddling tiny plastic cups of water and shoveling giant heaps of disgust, and the same captain's mumbled reassurances. One stewardess caught my eye, her beauty a gravitational pull that yanked my attention away. Her Asian heritage overflowed like a river past Monsoon and she carried herself like a prized fighter. She was helping a pitiful old man stow away his luggage. She lightly bent down and swung the box into the air, neatly placing it in an empty bin. At that moment the bag left the floor, a tiniest grunt escaped her prim self and rattled its way onto me. I was struck mute by it. I wanted to wash her feet and rest my tired head on them. Even if she spat on me, I wouldn't let go. She walked over and asked me, "Would you like some water, sir?" I shake my head, sweat gently pouring down my upper lip. She too should die, she shouldn't need to suffer the impudence of my presence, but I know I cannot kill both at the same time. I would have to choose. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To the man's right sat a pre-teen boy swinging his bony leg back-and-forth in the aisle. All his attention was reserved for the iPhone in his hands that chirped and beeped with the sound of a game. His eyes betrayed a tiredness reserved for the youngest. The kid was clearly the man's spawn. He was still young but I could see the same broad-shoulders, the same regal bearing, the same lean muscle that sinewed under his shirt. Like our flight, his hormones would soon lift off too, transporting him to that reserved club of the beautiful. I wanted to hate him as I hated his father, but not now, not yet. His father tried grabbing his iPhone which the kid resisted with great gusto. They soon began wrestling, throwing small jabs and shoves at each other in between peals of laugher. It was clearly an old game. The people around us seemed mildly alarmed at this unexpected violence, but soon cooed softly at this display of familial affections. Only I felt the bruises of every misplaced shove and jab, a slap of pleasure every time. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The </span>flight was in the air now. Meals had been provided and dispensed. Sleepy heads started nodding off around us. I couldn't risk sleep lest the dirty thoughts encircle me in my sleep as they so often do – there are no pins in sleep and no amount of flagellation when awake could wash off the sins of the asleep. The man and child began talking about their layover in Beijing for the next flight. Anticipation began growing in me. I had a layover in Beijing too, two hours would be more than enough for the deed itself the trick was in delaying the body's discovery until I was out of the scene. It would have to be the bathroom – I wasn't keen on repeating myself, but the wet blood in my pants would testify that these were desperate circumstances. Yes, it would have to be the bathroom. I had the syringes and the prescription vial of insulin. The act began unfolding calmly in my mind's eye. It was only during the planning that I didn't need to be vigilant with the pin. A crowded Saturday in the airport. Crowds swarming at every terminal. I will follow the man into the bathroom which too is buzzing with passengers. I will stand next to him resisting the urge to peek. I pee a little into my left hand. When he turns around, I too will turn and clumsily attempt to overtake him, only to stumble on him. The left hand smearing urine all over his arm while the right swiftly jabs the syringe into his hip. As he rushes to wash off the ignominy of another man's urine all over him, I apologize profusely and walk out. In ten minutes, the man collapses in his boarding area. I wish I could witness the collapse but I know not to ask too much of life. Unlike my younger days, I no longer deny the violence of my being but neither do I ask too much of it. Only when the act is complete can I let go of the pin – the pain is the only thing keeping me Pure. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The planning calmed me a bit. Thankfully the beautiful stewardess too has retired to her hidden seat and I feel my discomfort waning. The man and his kid get up to visit the loo, I grab the opportunity to retrieve my backpack from the overhead bin. I probe inside for my travel-sized copy of The Invisible Man. My fingers land on the smooth surface of my compass – a gift from the Master Felipe. How wonderful is the compass? It claims to point to the North, but it really points to the Past. It is a scratched and handled hunk of metal, every cut a past journey. The dial claimed we were traveling West. That was odd. Were we being re-routed due to a storm? The skies didn't seem rough. I flung the compass back inside and sighted my book finally. I settled in under the blanket as the man returned. Focussing intensely on the book, I managed to read a few pages before drowsiness took over. I snuck my boarding pass into the book as a marker and placed it into the flight pocket. As sleep finally washed over me, through closing eyes one end of my boarding pass came into brief focus – the flight number printed in large black bettering that said MH370. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mountain View, CA, USA37.3860517 -122.083851137.285155700000004 -122.2452126 37.4869477 -121.9224896tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-56083730458182867342018-07-22T18:52:00.002-07:002018-07-22T18:52:29.633-07:00Thoughts on the movie, Newton<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The conduct of free and fair elections is often used as a medallion for burnishing a country's democratic credentials. This is to be expected since elections have that peculiar property of being a self-fulfilling prophecy: the conduct of an election often justifies the future conduct of elections. Every five years India hosts the largest general election in the world. The national news and discourse, while dominated by exit poll predictions and political machinations, will inevitably feature one or two quaint stories about officials operating polling booths in some remote part of the country - often for handfuls of voters. The specifics of the story vary from year to year but the underlying message is always the same - universal adult franchise is a cornerstone of our democracy and must be celebrated. The movie Newton features one such story. A principled election-duty volunteer is tasked with operating a polling booth in the middle of a Naxal-dominated jungle for merely 76 voters. Whether he succeeds and the travails he faces in his line of duty form the meat of this movie. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jd_z-K1Jox8/W1UzHGC4OqI/AAAAAAAASgg/0psTcAJUHsoZNp9h4Lb5scNL2h_S-8bLQCLcBGAs/s1600/Newton_%2528film%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jd_z-K1Jox8/W1UzHGC4OqI/AAAAAAAASgg/0psTcAJUHsoZNp9h4Lb5scNL2h_S-8bLQCLcBGAs/s320/Newton_%2528film%2529.png" width="217" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Rajkumar Rao's character, Newton Kumar, is one-dimensional; he is brutally honest, principled to a fault and aggressively bound to his duty. This black & white character, bordering on caricature, stands in stark contrast to the gray dominion of Dandakaranya Forest, the stage for a long-running conflict between Maoist insurgents and security forces of the state. In this verdant jungle the lines of oppressor and oppressed shift and blur on a day to day basis. The character's rigid exterior serves as a compass while navigating this nebulous setting. The 'system' is represented by the character of Assistant Commandant Atma Singh (AC). Despite his spiritually rich first name, the AC is a thick-skinned realist and a cynic. He distrusts the tribals - the historical residents of the forest - and doesn't hold them capable of appreciating adult franchise. The clashes between these characters bring to bear a number of uncomfortable questions about adult franchise in these remote parts. The tribals are caught between forces they cannot control. The state wants them to vote, the insurgents don't. The insurgents surround them, but the state is everywhere. They are too few to be of interest to political leaders and too poor to be of interest to most media. The leaders speak about foreign things (infrastructure growth and foreign direct investment) and in a foreign language (Hindi). Is it really freedom of choice when the only choice is between different levels of grime on green buttons in a voting machine? Why should we celebrate the active presence of the state once in five years in these remote parts? Shouldn't the state be present every single day offering essential services such as education and healthcare? By calling attention to the one-off occurrence of elections as evidence of democracy, aren't we also highlighting the failure of democratic governance in making these remote parts more hospitable to the pursuit of a good life? </div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The movie does not answer these questions. However, there is one key scene where the movie ventures to speak out. When Newton and his colleagues are returning to their camp after disbanding the polling booth, they meet four tribals seeking to vote. The AC and his team shoo away the villagers; Newton loses it! He grabs the nearest gun to hold the AC hostage and commands his colleagues to setup an impromptu polling booth in the middle of the jungle for these four men. The booth is organized and the tribals vote! Four votes are successfully registered in an election with over 800 million voters. It is obvious that these four votes don't matter in the grand scheme of things. And yet, it MATTERS to those four tribals. When you are nothing more than living shades in a dark forest, being even just a canvas for election ink adds a little bit of legitimacy to your life as a citizen of India. An institution of the state of India has recognized them -- maybe just for one day, but that's still one day more than they are used to. That is the power of an institution such as universal adult franchise. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-50894357134996948942017-11-27T12:51:00.003-08:002017-11-27T13:01:30.342-08:00A few thoughts from my recent trip to Italy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A few notes I jotted down while my memories of Italy are still fresh:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PHhl8MfxaaY/Whx8ta1aajI/AAAAAAAAHTY/I-pKLyufRdg-W6FGNHLMI3AbB_GUn3a-gCLcBGAs/s1600/DPqMECAVAAAX6AQ.jpg-large.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PHhl8MfxaaY/Whx8ta1aajI/AAAAAAAAHTY/I-pKLyufRdg-W6FGNHLMI3AbB_GUn3a-gCLcBGAs/s640/DPqMECAVAAAX6AQ.jpg-large.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Fig: A shot of Pisa city captured on my iPhone X</i></span></div>
</div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Italy was an experience of a lifetime; it was so refreshing to see a proud, old people content in living their lives the way they want to. Italy is a small country; it certainly feels cramped and overcrowded and yet manages to retain a sense of classy elegance with its cobbled streets, dusty streetlights, blue skies, brackish rivers and grand houses. In many ways it reminded me of Kolkata, another old, proud and overcrowded place with its unique charm and appeal.</span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Idiosyncrasies define humanity. If we did not have our weird quirks, we might as well give up to the machines. I loved how obstinately the Italian cling to their cigarettes. The world has long moved past cigarettes and yet the Italians can’t seem to live without them. Every train journey would end with nicotine-starved, sophisticated Italians jumping off their carriages while lighting their smokes in mid-air. Is it foolish? Perhaps, but you have to admire the bravado. </span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Religion is everywhere in Italy, but never in an oppressive way. Almost every town square seems to have an old church in it; often with frescoed walls that depict beautiful images from Christian gospel. The churches are also filled with invaluable paintings and sculptures by great and insignificant artists. Only a sustained support of the arts and genuine admiration for beauty could amass a vast wealth of art in such a small country; I am truly jealous of the Italian people for this cultural inheritance. </span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The only institution that outnumbers churches in Italy would be its cafes. Italians love their coffee (what an endearing quality!). You can see Italians lining up in these coffee bars at all times of the day and night to sip from tiny cups of espresso and munch small cookie bits. The baristas clearly take pride in their work; I can never forget the dimpled barista in Florence who made me sip my cappuccino four times till I acknowledged the drink was hot enough for me. </span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And lest I forget to praise the train service. I crisscrossed the country on the sleek, high-speed trains that whiz by at over 250 kmph. The trains depart by the dot and have sparking clean toilets. The ticketing system is efficient and fast. One of my trains was delayed by about thirty minutes but otherwise the trains ran faster than scheduled. Commuting within cities was a breeze as well with plenty of metro lines and buses. Italy’s success with public transport suggests that overcrowding cannot be an excuse for India in denying its citizens fast and efficient public transport. </span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Public transport is not the only place where India can learn from Italy. I think the Italian experience holds great lessons on how a country can deal with the seemingly oppressive weight of a long and glorious history. Italy’s history is daunting - the country has witnessed the Roman civilization, the rise and rule of the Catholic Church, the Holy Roman Empire, the split and subsequent reunification of the country, the rise and fall of fascism and the recent European project to join arms with old foes. And yet this history doesn’t seem to tear this country apart. I didn’t see any Italians admonishing the church for trying to erode the pre-Christian wonders of the Roman age. Even the ugly past of fascism seems to find a place in its history; albeit scorned with charming disdain by my tour guide in Milan. Italy seems to embrace all aspects of its history and accept that some historical puzzles won’t align homogeneously — a lesson India can learn from during its present struggles with reconciling its Vedic and Islamic histories. History need not fit a simple narrative. </span></div>
<div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There were a few things I didn’t like. I was not crazy about having to pay for drinking water everywhere. I also found the great necessity of cash for making payments surprising in a first world country. I was also shocked by the prevalence of poverty - almost every tourist spot was teeming with beggars asking for alms. I expected Europe to have a better social security net. Italian drivers are shockingly impatient and are often rude to pedestrians. Crossing big thoroughfares can be quite challenging. </span></div>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;">To summarize, I think Italy is a must-visit place and I can’t wait to go back and explore the country some more.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-44337855025565790162017-10-01T17:36:00.002-07:002017-10-01T20:04:24.472-07:00Past mistakes: my thoughts on Ian McEwan's Atonement<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ianTUvnNg5Q/WdGKAIhQ8CI/AAAAAAAAGC4/vBWVTl-2tdoNks3Pl7hwbADoWRX0zg0iQCLcBGAs/s1600/DKEDw5NUQAI7A_N.jpg-large.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ianTUvnNg5Q/WdGKAIhQ8CI/AAAAAAAAGC4/vBWVTl-2tdoNks3Pl7hwbADoWRX0zg0iQCLcBGAs/s320/DKEDw5NUQAI7A_N.jpg-large.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
While I was paying for a musty copy of Ian McEwan's Atonement, the pretty girl behind the counter looked at my purchase and remarked wryly, '<i>It's for school, isn't it?</i>'. I shook my head, beeped my Apple Watch against the payment machine and left, not trivially pleased at having been regarded as young enough for school 😉<br />
<br />
Atonement is not an obscure novel. The book generated Booker buzz when it first came out and the 2007 film adaptation staring Kiera Knightley was nominated for several Oscars. And lastly, as my tattooed shopkeeper's remark would suggest – the book is part of humanities curriculums across the world. My own copy had clearly been through the hands of a very diligent student who'd scribbled copious notes on the margins, underlining (often with double strokes!) several passages dealing with the inner turmoils of female characters – fodder for a feminist essay perhaps? I love a book that has been inked by a pen or two; it takes a special book to invite such attention.<br />
<br />
Atonement begins in 1930s at the idyllic English home of the Tallises that is preparing to entertain family and friends for a special dinner. It is a muggy summer day and the simmering heat induces a general sense of lethargy in the household, but fate is at play. Thirteen-year-old Briony, an aspiring writer, is struggling with the debut production of her play -- <i>Arabella</i> -- to mark her elder brother Leon's homecoming. The play's cast, the three Quincey cousins -- 15-year-old Lola and the 9-year-old twins, Jackson and Pierrot -- are threatening to ruin the show. Briony's elder sister Cecilia is having her fair share of frustrations as she confronts a newfound love for Robbie Turner, her childhood friend and the cook's son. The romance between Cecilia and Robbie doesn't bloom, it erupts. Briony stumbles upon these confusing scenes and mistakes Robbie to be a sexual fiend from whom her family must be rescued. Her naïveté and charged imagination color her judgement later that evening when she rescues Lola from being raped by a man in the dark. Briony is clear, it had to be Robbie. The remaining sections of the book deal with the repercussions of this lie.<br />
<br />
Part II is a gripping war novella about the 1940 Allied retreat from Dunkirk described from the point of view of Robbie, who had been released early in return for joining the military. This is easily the best part of the book. Adrenaline-charged scenes of Luftwaffe bombing of the fleeing British forces are juxtaposed with chilling descriptions of a war-torn people clinging to a sense of normalcy. This section of the book, in my humble opinion, puts Christopher Nolan's Dunkirk to shame. The film may capture the corporeal splendors of war, but McEwan's writings captures its human elements. The third part features Briony's stint as a trainee nurse during the 1940-41 London Blitz. She has realized her role in ruining Robbie's life and seeks atonement. The theme is how the present is held hostage by the past and sometimes, there is nothing that can be done about it. The last part is set in the year 1999; the surviving characters, frail and aged, come together for the long-delayed opening of the <i>Arabella</i>.<br />
<br />
Ian McEwan's mastery of his craft is evident in this book. His portrayal of misguided innocence is as heartbreaking as it is infuriating. He breathes uniqueness into every character and blends a love story, a war story and a redemption story into a sumptuous read that will keep you hooked from the first page.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-17274682799455151902016-12-31T07:41:00.001-08:002017-10-01T20:08:28.050-07:00Patriotism through parody - my review of Shashi Tharoor's The Great Indian Novel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I consider Shashi Tharoor to be one of India's finest contemporary minds. His genius shines through in his every enterprise - be it oratory, writing or political commentary. I recently discovered another arrow in his intellectual quiver, comedy. <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30843.The_Great_Indian_Novel" target="_blank">The Great Indian Novel</a> is a work of comedic genius - a grafting of the Woodhousian tradition of wry, hyperbolic humor over loud and noisy 20th century India. For fodder, Tharoor takes two of India's grandest stories, the Mahabharata and the Indian Freedom Struggle and fuses them into an irreverent comedic masterpiece. The idea to merge these two drastically different stories is a spark of pure magic. In retrospect, these tales possess remarkable synergy that makes this fusion very natural and spontaneous.<br />
<br />
In the grandest sense, both these stories ponder the 'Idea of India'. The Mahabharata asks the question whether <i>Bharat</i> is the land of the usurping <i>Kauravas</i> or the <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dharma" target="_blank">Dharmic</a></i> <i>Pandavas.</i> The Freedom Struggle asks whether India can aspire to be more than a grubby gem on Imperial Britain's greedy crown. And yet, neither of these tales is black-and-white. They are filled with morally compromised characters and possibly <i>adharmic</i> actions that stain every victory with a whiff of scandal. Far too often 21st century India is tempted to ignore these complexities and impose a binary cleanliness to these multifaceted stories. Tharoor picks out these gray undertones like a blood hound and lays them out to dry.<br />
<br />
Tharoor's characters are surprisingly well-etched for a work of comedy. Prominent characters from the Mahabharata are paired with ones from the freedom struggle. Bhisma is Mahaguru Gangaji, the enema-loving sage on the hunt for absolute Truth. Dhritrastra is the favored Fabian Socialist disciple of the Mahaguru. Pandu is the Mahaguru's spurned disciple who flirts with fascists out of love for his country. Priya Duryodhani is Dhritrastra's daughter whose political philosophy takes from the proverbial iron hand in a velvet glove, sometimes discarding the glove altogether. Karna is the aristocratic, scotch-loving lawyer who convinces the Mullahs of his religious pedigree and carves out the Islamic state of Karnistan out of India. The five Pandavas reflect different aspects of the Indian story. Yudhistir is India's obsession with the notion of <i>Dharma</i>. Bhim is India's kludgy, but immensely powerful army. Arjun is the blessed, but perennially conflicted Indian media. Nakul is India's bureaucracy for whom life begins and ends on quintupled forms. Sahadev is the consummate Indian diplomat, capable of examining every aspect of a problem without ever coming close to solving it. Tharoor manages to make fun of all these characters while simultaneously bringing out their best traits. This book deserves to be read and re-read for the complexity Tharoor imbues into these characters.<br />
<br />
As much as I enjoyed the book for its humor, I was forced to ask myself whether this book will get published without controversy in 2016 India? I doubt it. Superficially this book mocks too many of India's vaunted religious and political figures. Tharoor's subtextual or contextual praise for these characters will not be appreciated by many. There is a high chance of the saffron brigade using this book to hammer another dent on the Constitution's 'inconvenient' freedom of speech guarantees. And in the current political climate, I wonder whether the pillars of Indian democracy will do the right thing and protect this work. There is too much political mileage to be obtained from letting a prominent opposition MP get roasted by 'righteous' offended masses. Perhaps it's a good thing that this book is less well known than it deserves to be.<br />
<br />
To get back to the book, Tharoor sprinkles it with ruminating passages that ask moral and philosophical questions, primarily through the book's orator V.V<i>ji. </i>I found the last few pages to be its most introspective moments. Yudhistir is about to die on top of a mountain and gets repeatedly tested by his cosmic father, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yama" target="_blank">Dharma</a>. Yudhistir successfully clears each test but is left empty-handed at the end. He then wonders on the whole point of these <i>dharmic </i>tests. What is the point of <i>Dharma</i> if it's sole purpose is testing for its existence in every deed? Tharoor leaves this question unanswered to some degree. I think it's the right question to be raised. India and Indians love raising the specter of <i>Dharma</i> in everything. <i>Dharma</i> is almost a kitchen-sink for our every action and inaction; remember the doctrine of strategic restraint? I consider questioning the usefulness of <i>dharma</i> to be a most <i>dharmic</i> rite.<br />
<br />
To summarize, I learned more about my country from this work of comedy than from all my school history textbooks combined. I urge every Indian to grab a copy at the earliest.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Hyderabad, Telangana, India17.385044 78.48667116.9002155 77.841224 17.8698725 79.132118tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-23594027366704245192016-12-03T20:35:00.002-08:002016-12-04T09:24:51.808-08:00My review of Papillon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rkUZHRJdmeQ/WEOcwG9E_SI/AAAAAAAAEqI/3zduwtV3ttUBBd0bMMQcNVKYpEA97F6hACLcB/s1600/PapillonBook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rkUZHRJdmeQ/WEOcwG9E_SI/AAAAAAAAEqI/3zduwtV3ttUBBd0bMMQcNVKYpEA97F6hACLcB/s200/PapillonBook.jpg" width="128" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Papillon -- the semi-autobiographical account of Henri Charriere's escape from a French penal colony -- was a rage when it first released in 1969. It had a little something for everyone; a swashbuckling hero's escape from a corrupt regime's clutches, set in exotic tropical locales. True to his name, Papillon rises above his inner demons like a delicate butterfly, seeking redemption. </div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Sadly, I don't think the book has retained its pre-eminence these days among casual readers like me. I discovered the book from a most unusual source, the Wikipedia article on Indianapolis Colts starting QB, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Luck" target="_blank">Andrew Luck</a>, who apparently regards Papillon as his favorite book. I ordered the book on Amazon and read it over this Thanksgiving break. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
TL;DR: To put it simply, this is an excellent book. It's a truly remarkable story written in engaging and accessible language. I urge everyone to check it out. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>The location.</b> The book is largely set in the French penal colony of French Guiana. Before this book, I was not aware that French Guiana is still an overseas region of France. The vestiges of colonialism rankle me. I have always maintained that the colonial masters exhibited their worst tendencies in the colonies. The British exploitation of India will forever stain the hands of that great nation. France turned Guiana into a penal colony (dubbed <i>bagne</i>) for the worst of its society -- convicted felons, lepers, political prisoners and uncooperative journalists. The nation of <span style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libert%C3%A9,_%C3%A9galit%C3%A9,_fraternit%C3%A9" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><u>Liberté, égalité, fraternité</u></a> </span>built and maintained vast prison complexes that would put dictators to shame. These prisons don't seem to have the visceral brutality of Nazi concentration camps or Stalinist gulags. The French prisons operated with a ruthless efficiency, of the mass-produced industrialized kind, that stripped prisoners of their basic humanity. In one of his many failed attempts at escape (aka <i>cavale</i>), Papillons finds himself in a Columbian prison where the guards tied prisoners to yokes and put them to work. Any lapses by the prisoners are rewarded with the most consummate thrashing. And yet, Papillons considers this better than the <i>bagne</i>, because the prison exposes its human side to the prisoners. Instead, the <i>bagne </i>is a nameless, faceless, multi-limbed system of systematized repression hiding behind the mask of culture and justice. Using his personal tale of wrongful conviction, Papillon exposes this inner hypocrisy of French society. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>The <i>cavales</i>.</b> In his 14 years of captivity, Papillon attempts many <i>cavales</i>, each less intricate then the previous - evidence of his growing desperation. A significant portion of the book is devoted to his first <i>cavale</i>, easily the best part of the book. Papillon takes us along a breathless escape, first into the high seas and later into the dark jungles of Columbia and Venezuela. The not-so-brief interlude of his startlingly sexual times with the tribal Indians gets wearisome after its initial jolts. This <i>cavale</i> begins with a big bang and ends with a long, drawn-out diplomatic struggle. When Papillon finally boards the ship back to the <i>bagne</i>, his disappointment seeps out of the pages. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>The prison.</b> After the first <i>cavale</i> and a subsequent solitary confinement, Papillon finds himself on the <span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="color: #252525;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Îles du Salut</span></span> - an archipelago of prison islands. Unlike in a conventional prison, the prisoners have a lot of freedom on the islands. They can cook, fish, gamble and sleep around. The island economy is subsisted by a flourishing black market for contraband involving the guards, officers and their wives. Prisoners are lulled into a sense of security and purpose that quenches their thirst for freedom. Papillon struggles to keep his spirit of <i>cavale</i> alive amidst these comforts. Papillon's portrayal of the prison society bears a childhood lightheartedness, but occasionally shocks us with fantastic revelations. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Shortcomings.</b> I have two issues with this book. The first is with its uneven pace. The book canters along for most part, but at the very end, breaks into a breathless sprint. The things that made the first <i>cavale</i> so memorable - the descriptive detail, the surprise of discovery, the continual rumination on a backward, but enlightened society - are all missing in his last <i>cavale</i>. By the end of the book, I was emotionally invested in Papillon, so I felt let down by the abrupt success of his last <i>cavale</i>. The second issue is with Papillon himself. Throughout the book, Papillon tries very hard to portray himself as the wronged person. Understandably, his penalties were disproportionate to his misdeeds. But Papillon must be called out for what he is - a thief and a murderer. His diatribes against an faceless system are as valid as his morally compromised personality. Any reader who refuses to recognize this fact has been successfully fooled by Papillon. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
To summarize, Papillon is a great book that deserves to be back in fashion. </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-46182714252946267412016-06-18T12:09:00.002-07:002016-06-18T12:50:44.772-07:00Fitness goals<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Since it's been a while since I wrote anything on this blog, I thought I might share my current fitness goals with all of you. I am a strong believer in expressing your goals to as many people as you can -- your friends can be a great source of motivation and they will be a lot more accommodating of your efforts to achieve them. <br />
<br />
As some of you might know, last year I struggled with severe <a href="http://www.assh.org/handcare/hand-arm-conditions/cubital-tunnel" target="_blank">cubital tunnel syndrome</a> on both hands for close to 5 months, during which I had to completely stop all resistance training and cardio. Apart from the occasional stint on the elliptic trainer, I had a mostly sedentary life. I tried to keep my diet in check, but my weight slowly rose from ~170lb in November '15 to 181 lb in May '16. <br />
<br />
With my cubital issues resolved, I restarted weight training and cardio in mid-May. The key was to start slow. My strength had decreased by roughly 50% on all major lifts and my endurance had dropped by roughly 40%. I began with three days of full-body training and 2 hours of medium-intensity cardio a week. After a few weeks, I changed to a Push-Pull-Legs-Rest cycle, with 3-4 hours of medium/high intensity cardio a week. Even though my initial goal was to simply get active again; about two weeks back, I decided to start a gradual cut. I estimate my initial body fat % to be around 15-16%, I plan to drop to 10% by end of August '16, while trying to retain my strength as much as I can. A highlight is that my strength rose rapidly within the first few weeks and I'm currently at 0.8x of my peak on most movements. My endurance is still pretty poor, but I am making forward progress, which is the important thing.<br />
<br />
The primary determinant of a cut's success is your diet. You can always out-eat any workout. My TDEE is around 2785 Cal, so I started my cut at 2450 Cal a day, with a macro split of roughly 50% carbs, 30% protein and 20% fat. I was able to actually gain strength on this diet, but my weight loss was too slow, less than a pound a week -- very disappointing indeed. It is my hypothesis that I was retaining too much water, possibly due to dehydration (it's a very hot summer in Madison) or excessive carbs. Since last week, I have reduced my budget to 2250 Cal, with the reduction primarily coming from carbs. I'm seeing good progress with my body composition, though the weight scale is still a bit stubborn. I plan to stick to this budget for two more weeks and then cut another 100 Cal if need be.<br />
<br />
I'm a relatively big guy and for my fitness goals, I try to eat 0.8-1g of protein per lb of bodyweight, which means trying to cram 145-180g of protein each day. This is becoming a huge challenge with my vegetarian lifestyle. Apart from eggs, all other vegetarian protein sources are calorie-rich, which blows apart my calorie budget. Hence, my reliance on eggs and natural whey powder has gone up drastically during this cut. I'm starting to believe that a vegetarian diet is not ideal for a cut, though it works fine for a clean bulk. <br />
<br />
Outside of losing body fat, my cardio goal is to run 12 miles a week consistently by August '16, with a lot of focus on stretching and recovery. I am recovering from a mild case of shin splints, but my new running shoes from New Balance are working wonders with my running form. I hope to run a lot more this summer, coz the heart is the most important muscle of them all!<br />
<br />
That's a quick summary of my current fitness goals, I will keep you updated on my progress. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Madison, WI, USA43.0730517 -89.40123019999998642.8875022 -89.723953699999981 43.2586012 -89.078506699999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-74460309725953798132015-12-10T12:48:00.003-08:002015-12-13T09:23:59.296-08:00Is a plant, an animal? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One of the objections against Veganism that my last post evoked was that '<i><span style="color: red;">plants have feelings too and that Vegans are shying away from the ethical implications of killing plants</span></i>'. I think that's a very valid question and deserves to be examined. I took a few days to ponder on this question and at the end of it, I stand by my last post's conclusion - "It is unethical to cause unnecessary pain and suffering to a living being. However, to survive one must do what one must."<br />
<br />
The implications of the second part of my statement should be clear - if you have no other option to survive, apart from eating meat, you should eat meat. Not doing so would lead to wilful starvation which is a form of violence against oneself.<br />
<br />
Now let's evaluate if eating plants is subject to the same ethical compulsions as eating animals.<br />
<a name='more'></a>Before I start, I must remark on the sudden interest among meat-eaters to elevate the status of plants; for decades, a common reason for consuming meat was that animals are blatantly inferior to humans. "Turkeys are so dumb, they drown in the rain" is still a common urban legend. For decades, we have been listening to such speciest propaganda. But in the last few decades, our understanding of animal physiology and psychology has evolved to such an extent that we are 'intellectually compelled' to accept that animals are a lot smarter than we gave them credit for. Even simple animals have been shown to participate in communication, community and can experience pain and pleasure through developed nervous systems. There is overwhelming scientific consensus that animals, especially the ones we like in our burgers, can recognize suffering and react emotionally and physically to it.<br />
<br />
For plants, we do not have such consensus. I don't deny that plants are living beings. To be honest, at a quantum level, everything is 'living' in some sense - everything is buzzing with energy and reacts to its environment. Plants also have incredibly developed chemical systems that among others convert carbon dioxide into oxygen. But crucially, they don't have a central nervous system that has been demonstrated to convey the sensation of pain or pleasure based on stimuli in its environment. Nor do they have pain receptors which can detect and convey sensations of pain. Note that some plants do have pressure detectors on their leaves, but they are not the same as pain detectors. For example, genetic malfunctions in humans have shown that we can experience pressure on body parts, but not detect pain. Similarly, a chemical reaction is not the same as a central nervous system reacting to pain. Any chemical reaction can be construed and garbed as 'an emotional reaction' by semi-informed journalists pandering to semi-informed readers, especially when the conclusion of the article serves to re-affirm the convictions of most readers. Scientists prefer to use the term 'sentient' to describe such differences, but the term has been diluted to such an extent by mass media that I'm apprehensive of using it.<br />
<br />
Secondly, plants that are grown for agriculture are not put through continuous, unending suffering from the first day of their existence. Plants are raised in their natural environment and are not forcible crippled and malformed for commercial reasons. Contrast that with a turkey born into a poultry farm. Within minutes of birth, its beak is removed using a driller, its toes are cut off and males surplus to demand are ground alive within a grinder.<br />
<br />
Thirdly, plants are very versatile. Most plants provide many edible things, most of which can be harvested without killing the plant. For example - fruits, leaves and flowers, seeds. In fact, most plants rely on animals to consume & come after these products to propagate their genes through pollination. With animals, we get three eatable items. Eggs, which are the menstrual secretions of hens. Milk, which is secreted by the cow for its calves, but forcibly removed by us (often by killing/maiming the calves). And lastly, meat, which is the by-product of death. And no farm animal is relying on humans to consume these products for its genetic continuance.<br />
<br />
Lastly, most plants that are harvested tend to be at the end of their life-cycles. Nobody harvests paddy from a budding shoot. Once an organism is dead, it will be consumed by someone - by bugs, the elements or other animals. I have no moral qualms with humans consuming an organism that died through natural means.<br />
<br />
I'm sure that in the forthcoming decades, science will reveal how plants are incredibly more complex than we think they are. However, I suspect it will not make me feel better about the atrocities committed today by the animal agriculture industry. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-30584310892331167002015-11-28T18:59:00.000-08:002015-12-05T19:30:35.147-08:00A Vegan dilemma - To kill or not to kill<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A few weeks back, I was involved in an agitated debate with a friend on whether the consumption of meat by humans is justifiable. He was interested in this question from a philosophical/ethical standpoint, while I was interested in pushing my agenda of vegetarianism. Hence, it was not an impartial debate from my perspective. Over the course of two hours, our discussion arrived at several islands of thought such as the definition of sentience, the ability to subjectively evaluate one's environment, the ethical implications of humane meat farming and so on. For instance, we spent close to an hour arguing whether we can categorize animals on a spectrum/scale of sentience. He argued that cats/dogs are vastly more sentient than ants, while I countered that ants can collaborate and build architecturally complex ant-hills, which cats/dogs cannot.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
All said and done, I would like to believe that I held my own during the debate and there was consensus on a few major points:<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li>From a health perspective, growing scientific evidence proves that vegetarianism/veganism is an ideal lifestyle.</li>
<li>The depredations of the large-scale animal farming industry (especially in the USA) are ethically unjustifiable and ecologically unsustainable.</li>
</ol>
However, we found the debate repeatedly veering towards two questions, which I could not satisfactorily answer at that time. The questions are:<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li>If/when artificial intelligence is finally realized, will the ethical restraints on harming/murdering living things apply to robots/artificially-sentient beings?</li>
<li>Is a Vegan/Vegetarian morally obligated to stop 'all' killing of animals - including the killing of animals by other animals? Hypothetically, should an ethical vegan try to 'veganize' all carnivorous animals?</li>
</ol>
The first question is quite profound, and I don't think anyone has a definitive answer for it yet. Technology, especially machine intelligence, is so new and developing at such a breakneck speed that few have stopped to think through its ethical implications. As movies like Her have shown, humans are susceptible to personifying newer forms of advanced machine intelligence. Heavy users of Siri would agree with me when I say that She (or He) seems remarkably human-like, quirks and sarcasms included. I outright refused to entertain this question on the grounds that I have not sufficiently thought about this problem, and it does not necessarily intersect our primary topic of discussion. It was a weak defense, but the honest one.<br />
<br />
The second question rattled me. If true, it threatens to hurtle the ethical argument of Veganism towards an absurd conclusion. Vegans try to live in harmony with nature, and yet the ethical implication of Veganism would suggest that we act to reverse the natural instincts of other animals. I tried to argue against this implication in a few different ways, but I don't think I cogently put forth my views. I hope to do so in this post.<br />
<br />
The ethical argument of Veganism is not that all killing is bad, but rather that the killing of animals, by humans, for human consumption is bad. By consumption, I'm referring to all forms of consumption, including food, cosmetics, etc., although I'm primarily concerned with the dietary consumption of meat in this post.<br />
<br />
There are a number of reasons for this stance:<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li>Physiologically, humans are almost completely herbivorous. We do not have the biological structures or emotional instincts of a carnivore. Our nearest evolutionary relatives are predominantly herbivorous with occasional consumption of insects or even rarer, small mammals. </li>
<li>Human consumption of meat is mediated through slaughter-houses, which are nothing but concentration camps for animals. Anywhere from 50 to 150 billion animals are slaughtered each year through these concentration camps. Considering that a sizable chunk of world population (~7 billion people) are predominantly vegetarian, the numbers are astonishing. The animals are sheltered and slaughtered through methods which would put Jigsaw to shame. Such large-scale murder through inhumane methods is ethically unjustifiable to Vegans.</li>
<li>There is no nutritional benefit of eating meat that cannot be obtained from plant-based sources of nutrition. This ties in with the first point about how humans are naturally built to be herbivorous.</li>
</ol>
There are a number of other non-ethical reasons - such as the environmental impact, the economics of agriculture etc. - that augment this stance against the killing of animals by humans for human consumption.<br />
<br />
In my opinion, killing of animals/life-forms is OKAY to a Vegetarian/Vegan under certain circumstances:<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li>When there is no food/form-of-sustenance available apart from meat. The desire to survive is a more primal instinct than ethical compulsions, as captured in Maslow's hierarchy of needs. If you're a Vegetarian/Vegan and disagree with this point, I respect your individual stance, but I don't think it applies to all Vegetarians/Vegans.</li>
<li>When the animal represents a risk to one's health and safety. This is the justification for a Vegetarian pasteurizing his milk or taking medicines to kill bacteria.</li>
</ol>
Alas, during the debate, I ventured towards equating Veganism with the belief that killing is always bad. That led me down a slippery slope and it was hard to save face after that. The notion that 'all killing is bad' is a beautiful belief but it is very hard to defend. Jainism has a rich history of investigating this question, but I'm not privy to their deliberations or conclusions. I don't wish to elevate Veganism's ethical restraints to the rigors of Jainist beliefs. That is unnecessary for the more modest goals of a Vegetarian/Vegan.<br />
<br />
A few references:<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li><a href="http://www.ecologos.org/mcardle.htm" target="_blank">Humans are not omnivores</a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=es6U00LMmC4" target="_blank">A comprehensive argument for Veganism by Gary Yourovsky</a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ibuQ-J04eLQ" target="_blank">Earthlings</a> - a documentary on meat industry</li>
</ol>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Madison, WI, USA43.0730517 -89.40123019999998642.8875022 -89.723953699999981 43.2586012 -89.078506699999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-62724697400003734122015-04-24T21:56:00.001-07:002015-04-24T22:15:26.517-07:00An Introduction to the Forms<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4CpOZ2WliRU/VTsTihzpc3I/AAAAAAAAD-c/6QhMLEp0XLg/s1600/school_of_athens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4CpOZ2WliRU/VTsTihzpc3I/AAAAAAAAD-c/6QhMLEp0XLg/s1600/school_of_athens.jpg" height="278" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Plato's Theory of Forms is rightly considered one of the great philosophical theories of all time. Within a single theory, Plato managed to answer, or at least consider, diverse questions in ontology, metaphysics, epistemology and ethics. The idea of the Forms are referenced or alluded to in much of Plato's initial work but eventually becomes the centerpiece of his philosophy from the Republic onwards. Though there are numerous articles online that explain the Forms, I could not find anything that was simple enough to be understood without knowing philosophical jargon. In this article, I will try to touch upon the broad highlights of this theory without resorting to any complicated jargon. Irrespective of its applicability to modern life, the Theory of Forms represents a fascinating step forward for human thought and deserves to be known and appreciated by all.</div>
<a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;">
Let's consider a Table. Particularly this table.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tYu_E6iW2cc/VTsUWRRr11I/AAAAAAAAD-k/lwh4xRyfW3k/s1600/table_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tYu_E6iW2cc/VTsUWRRr11I/AAAAAAAAD-k/lwh4xRyfW3k/s1600/table_1.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What makes this object a table? Put differently, on account of what virtue is this 4-legged wooden object a table? Obviously, this is not the only table in the world. Tables comes in all sizes, shapes, colors and materials. Given so many tables in the world, what is common to all these objects that makes them all tables? One might say that a table serves a certain purpose - to eat meals. All these objects serve that purpose and hence are tables. This is a perfectly reasonable line of thinking. Alluding to particular purposes for explaining the world is called a <i>teleological </i>definition. However, while this definition can be easily given for everyday objects like tables and chairs, it is not easily given for concepts like justice and piety. What makes all just things just? What makes all pious things pious? Providing teleological definitions for such questions is very hard.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
According to Plato, the thing that is common to all tables is called the <b>Form of the Table</b> or <b>the Table Itself</b>. In fact, he argues that all tables in the world (called particulars) are tables solely by virtue of <i>partaking</i> in the Form of the Table. The term partaking has a slightly different meaning in Platonic works. I like to think of it as 'deriving from'. All 4-legged wooden objects <i>become </i>tables because they derive the <i>essence of being a table </i>from the Form of the Table. While different particular tables can have different attributes (a red table, a round table etc.), they are all tables nonetheless because of partaking in the same Form. Hence, according to Plato, all of reality (the world that we perceive) is constituted of particulars that are derived from the Forms.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Suppose a carpenter wants to make a table. To make a table, he must have a mental image of the table which he will use as a reference to build one. According to Plato, this mental image is nothing but an image of the Form of the Table. This raises some interesting questions. Suppose all the particular tables in the world are destroyed by some means. Does this mean that the Form of the Table is also destroyed? Clearly not. Carpenters the world over have mental images of the table and can easily make new ones. So then, does the Form exist solely in the minds of human beings? Considering that diverse philosophical schools consider reality itself to be a figment of human imagination, this is a loaded question. Plato, however, believes in a less fantastic idea. He considers the Forms to be a mind-independent reality of the world. Let's see why. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Suppose along with all tables, we also eradicate all the carpenters in the world. Clearly, the world will be Table-less for some time, but without doubt, eventually carpentry will rise again and tables will be made. This suggests that the Form of the Table is something <i>outside </i>the minds of carpenters, but it gets imprinted in their minds. A second argument would be that one person's mental image of a table can be slightly different from another's mental image of a table. In fact, it is impossible for two persons to have an exactly identical mental image of anything. But, it is still possible for the two persons to have a meaningful discussion about tables. Hence, despite the apparent differences in their mental images, there is something common to their mental images that makes discussions about tables meaningful to them. This also suggests to the existence of a Form outside our minds. Lastly, it is possible for a person's image of a table to change over time. It is certainly true that particular tables deteriorate and change over time. However, the Form of the Table, the essence of table-ness, does not change through time. This makes Forms eternal and by virtue of which, superior to every particular table in the world. When considering the superiority of the Forms, I find it useful to think about circles we draw in math class. No circle drawn by hand or by tools is perfectly circular. There will always be some deficiencies associated with it. However, it is possible for us to even look at a badly drawn circle and reason about the perfect Circle Itself. We are able to deduce knowledge about the perfect Circle from inferior representations of it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hence, to summarize, for every particular there exists a Form by virtue of which, the particular is what it is. This Form is separate from the particular as well as outside the minds of perceivers. This Form is eternal and superior to every particular of it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Even though the above discussion has primarily looked at Forms as the basis of reality (falls under metaphysics), Plato envisions a much wider role for them. He considers the Forms to be the basis of knowledge as well. Plato has a very rigorous notion of knowledge. According to him, knowledge has to be infallible and can only be about 'what is'. In which case, knowledge cannot be about particulars like this table or that chair. Because, these particulars keep changing and will eventually perish. So whatever knowledge we have about them will go meaningless once they perish. Hence, Platonic Knowledge can only be about things that are not formed or perished -- ergo, the Forms. In fact, Plato's metaphysical existence of the Forms follows from his exacting standards for Knowledge (his epistemological views).</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Obviously, I have barely scratched the surface of the Theory of Forms. Plato's develops his theory in great detail and even constructs an educational journey for one to gain proficiency with the Forms. If interested, I will suggest reading the Republic, considered by many to be Plato's seminal work. While a lot of troubling questions have been raised about the Forms (including by Plato himself in a later work), I still believe that the Forms are a singularly cool idea.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
PS: The first picture is Raphael's famous fresco - the School of Athens. Plato is the figure in the center pointing to the sky, a reference to his Theory of Forms.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7519773688864553553.post-31409159353174312302015-04-19T20:40:00.002-07:002015-12-05T19:30:56.811-08:00Reflections on a relationship<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The shelf above my dressing table is home to a picture of Lord Balaji from a 2012 calendar, a small plastic Krishna, a miniature bronze Lakshmi and a framed portrait of my father. Each morning after a shower, I would stop in front of this shrine and close my eyes for a few moments. Some years back, I would mentally voice my hopes for the day - '<i>do well in the upcoming exam</i>', '<i>help me kick this cough</i>', or '<i>let that girl like me a little</i>!'. Nowadays, I hardly have the time to call out His name a few times. This morning, as I was beginning this 10 second tryst with my faith, I noticed a smudge on my father's picture. I picked it up, wiped away the dirt and found myself gazing at the man. Ever since I can remember, people have told me that I look like him. I rarely agreed then. And yet, each year as my face hardens into age, I see more of my father in the mirror. I know that in twenty years, I will be just like the image in this frame. Hopefully, a bit thinner.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;">
As I stared into my past and my likely future, I was struck by my complete impassivity. I was objectively dissecting each part of his face - his (my) big nose, his large eyes, full, meaty lips, improperly parted hair - with an absolute lack of emotion. It almost felt like picking a lock, I was searching for the right combination to unlock his personality.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Losing my father had been the biggest event of my childhood. 12th December 2002 was the epoch at which life as I knew it ended. I can remember almost nothing before that day. It feels like the first 12 years of my life had been squished against the insurmountable rock of that day, leaving behind an indecipherable paste of colors and sound. Occasionally an image would emerge, quickly to be lost again in the puddle. How does one post-process an event that is so unfair that it borders on absurdity? Death is painted with a hue of significance in literature and cinema. The righteous demise of the villain. The heroic sacrifice of a martyr. Death is shown to impart meaning to a meaningless life and vitality to a passive one. In my personal experience, death is the exact opposite. It deprives life of meaning and leaves behind an odor of indifference. I once had a father and now I don't. I have now lived 12 years of my life with a father and 12 years without. I cannot honestly tell which was better.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A small part of me wonders how would I be today if I had had 24 father-y years. Would I have made better decisions in life? Would I be less emotionally stunted in my dealings? Would I be more appreciative of life and my faith? Would I be a better man? My father lived before the digital age. I don't have a single digital picture of him and apart from a poor quality VCR tape back in India, no video. I have nothing but the images in my mind to remember him, a notoriously inept medium to store something so significant. At the same time, thankfully, I have no material to retrofit a wondrous relationship with my father where there was none to begin with. He existed before my mind had grown into its sense of time and place. He was a vast object in my tiny world and one day he left and so did I. I live in a different world now, where I have a wonderful family with two nephews. My father never got to make a mark in this world. I like to think that I have grown up to be a son he would have been proud of. Although, I am still figuring out whether I am growing into a man that <i>I</i> will be proud of.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0