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As I walk the tangled layers, I realize that unlike a labyrinth it has infinite ways out



Jun 05, '07



Questions! Always questions!
Better questions than answers
The delight is in the uncertain

And the interpreters of everything
Better be a symphony than a composer
Better surrender than investigate

Life may be elsewhere
A touch, a smell, a feel, a taste
But it is near – so near!

The blue sheet of water
The brown film of soil
The green shade of tree – feel alive!

The theory, a final explanation
All roads lead to unification
A joke – everything but laughter

Myths and mysteries – rejected
Laws – accurate but dry
A need for God

A search for the purpose
A search for the self
Endless labyrinth, finite footprints

A goal in the making
A future tirelessly perceived
How beautiful life be, if lived in moments

A will not ready to submit to boredom
The philosophy to live recurrently changing
But the wisdom is already there

A careful look is what it takes
It does has speed, a promise of light
The traveler of destiny, the pleasure of the unknown

Every day a new day
Every stranger a new companion
Every step a new journey

No such place as nowhere
No such thing as nothing
Tomorrow has something to give – wait!

Joy in sorrow and hope in longing
Love – the essence of life
It is there – very much there

In the blink of an eye, you discover everything



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Apr 27, '07



You are observing a dusty shelf of some public library. You slide some books here and there and notice a face – a pretty face on the other side of the shelf. It’s a girl whose big watery eyes are moving from one book to other. She is tardily breathing with her small nose, you like the way she is breathing. She softly bites her lower lip and rolls back both her lips to moisten them and pouts them back, as they were – pink and inviting. She picks up some book, shuffles few pages, halts at a particular page, and after some time gives a faint – though noticeable – smile. She has dimples. You have always loved dimples. Her forehead is shining; her hairs are firmly tied just the way you like. Her face has something pink about it, looks really smooth and your hand is already waiting to feel that smoothness – especially of the cheeks. But you won’t allow your hand to do that. That’s how you have been raised.

You are watching her unaware of anything else in the world. ‘She is beautiful’, you have told yourself a thousand times by now. And suddenly she glances at you. You are shattered, and pretend to read the back cover of Hawkins’ on the shoulder of giants as if it interests you. But don’t worry, she’s not angry. Every female admires it – a pair of male eyes fixed on her face.

Your heart has already picked the pace. Today’s your day. You are excited. You try looking at her again putting Hawkins aside. But she’s no more in the science section. You search for her like the players of the game search for perfection. At last you find her in the History section. You go near her and pick Edward Gibbon. She notices you and gives you a look – a very strange look that can be dually interpreted.

1) That she thinks you are a real erudite guy who even in the age of silicon refers to the age of iron, she has always admired soldiers who preserve the past. You are lucky!!!

2) The look may also suggest sarcasm on a grown up ape like you who is yet not clear why India and Pakistan separated and is trying to understand the fall of Rome.

But you are more comfortable with the first interpretation of her look. So, you try to talk to her. You really want to. But as you prepare your mouth to produce audible words something holds you back. Maybe it is the superego or maybe it is some fear – some unknown fear concerning with the future.

“Is this the girl I have been waiting for all these years?”
-- Oh! Come on, don’t think this far.
“But…?”
-- At least talk. She is beautiful. See, how softly she is breathing? Oh! You love it, don’t you?
“Yes, but what will mom think. Her son will not be hers anymore. He will be divided!”
-- Now what is the need to think like this? Come come, talk.
“I have lived with my people in some way. And I wish to live with some girl in a totally different way. How will I achieve the balance?”
-- Oh Freak! Stop talking nonsense, will you? There’s no harm in talking.
“I know. But I am not sure…”
-- Congrats! She left. Now spend this beautiful evening with Gibbon.


You stand there still unaware of what happened with you, why desires come into play?

Ok. Don’t worry about the girl now. You haven’t lost anything. Or have you?

Now you have all the time you want. Select a nice book for this weekend. Sadly you shuffle different books in different sections of the library…

Naipaul’s loss of El Dorado, Hemingway’s men without women, Barrow’s Impossibility, Green’s lawless roads, Maugham’s of human bondage, Sullivan’s labyrinth of desires, Brunton’s search in secret…
What! Are you upset? Can’t choose anything? Oh! Come come, its ok now.

Narayan’s vendor of sweets, Encyclopedia of great loosers (would you like to add your name in here?), Nietzsche’s human, all too human, and Gould’s hedgehog…
And, as usual, you are not able to decide which book you want to read. You decide to pick up any book and leave. So, you pick up the one lying besides Gray’s anatomy.
You catch bus no. 11G and go directly to Broadway – with a regular feeling of incompleteness in your heart. Like every other day you couldn’t choose a book, couldn’t talk to a girl. You couldn’t decide what you want.

At night you dwell into your dream world, where you have the most ideal book (the one in which all possible knowledge is contained, wherein not a single idea is missed. All that is thought by all possible human beings is in that book) and you have the idlest girl – the way you want her. Her eyes, her cheeks, her hairs, her skin, even the fragrance of her breath is what you have decided. Her voice, her behavior, the way she turns, the way she sits, the way she looks at you, the way her hairs fall on her forehead – everything related to her is thought by you. Every night you sleep embraced in this beautiful thought of yours. And every night you fail to notice that you are always trying to map idealism with realism.

Ok. Let you not be sad about this. Let us keep you away from alienation. Let us think that it’s not only your problem but everyone’s. Even mine.
Maybe, this problem comes in hereditary from one man to the other. Maybe it is not rooted in you and me, but it is rooted deep inside our collective unconsciousness. It is the collective idea of some perfection that never was. And it is from this womb that all the miseries are born. And maybe, all the idealists are endlessly trying to regain this never-existing perfection; be it knowledge or beauty – they are never satisfied. And aren’t they all loosers? What do they get in the end?

In search of the infinite, they end up in void.

Next day you go to the library again…


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Apr 02, '07



In the beginning was the word, the word was with God and the word was God. And the…

But why am I beginning like this…what will my reader make of it?
The creation of the world starting with a single word: This has been told in the Bible, and before the Bible in the Vedic Scriptures. How will the reader know whether I am speaking on behalf of Jehovah or PrajaPita? How will the reader know that I am speaking of the Sak – the divine word, the OM, through which I was linked to the beat of the divine drummer with my first heartbeat? I think I should have written: In the beginning was the Sak…
But it couldn’t have made any difference; it’s my belief, it needn’t be general. I am sure that anyone reading anything shall make something out of it, which not necessarily would be what I thought they should understand, and that is why I have been told that it’s all subjective. But it is only an elegant hope of a writer that he wants to channel his thoughts, as they are – without any disturbance or interference, to the readers’ mind and what he has at his disposal as the medium? Words! What can a writer do if the medium itself is disturbing!?

I want to talk of words in purity – only if I manage to keep evil away from my knowledge domain.

O inaugural entity of man’s search for meaning, O figment of man’s imagination, O imperishable, O binder of ideas with the vellum – O word; why is it that without you, thoughts have no value?
Why is it that before communicating we have to master you? How did you managed to gain dominion over your creators? A slight, but it too has value, confusion starts when the worshiper becomes worshiped. O hollow creature, I know you can’t listen, you can’t reply because it’s not in your design.

It was when we created you from the deepest recesses of our mind. And what remarkable invention of mankind you were. When we applied various permutations on you…oh! Abulafia comes to mind while talking about your permutations, the very fact that he devoted himself in discovering God’s various names…anyways, this is the glory of your impact on us – with every image/thought we have associated a word, you; whom although I hate the most, can’t do without. I, though I regret, am using your various forms this very moment.

In the beginning we used you merrily, maybe because we had limited situations and experience, and in turn limited knowledge. But as we evolved, as our information-base increased, as we generated more knowledge from our surroundings we realized…the universe where we survive is infinite; that there is so much to learn, and our lives too short. This in essence is an ideal confusion, which I never planned to touch in this write-up but it anyhow manifested itself: The confusion of knowledge, the uncertainty of a seeker for the utmost meaning in life – there were times when I chanted in Solitude names of those who tried to untangle it: O holy trinity of Greece – so much we owe to you for your inquires, what you were doing under the eye of the Oracle of Delphi had been done, though different in form, many years back by the Saints of India. But how far have the Germans lead us after the Greeks and what the Italians are talking right now makes little sense to me. When I think I have understood everything, someone (he is called a philosopher among us) stands up from the haziness saying: “Here is new wisdom. Let them for hath understanding…” O God, not in particular – this is another confusion (We have made so many Gods that it becomes difficult to make out whom one is referring to. Ideas into ideas, ideas unto ideas and everything in this cyclic conundrum seems to be true at one moment and mean at another), I am bugged with this uncertainty…when will I know everything? Where should a reader stop reading in purity? O wake of Finnegan, are you of any help?
O Magistrate Ludi, O bearer of Ultimate Knowledge, O Krishna, O Allah, O Jesus – give me some dope. What is all …words fall too short to explain this confusion!
MahaRishi Panini, I take you as the first grammatologist, the first controller of words, the weaver of the first combinatorial design with words. See…again I come to words…
If you think it’s my agony then it’s not the way you think but it’s just an outburst when I realize that the tool we created to ward-off confusion in turn created more confusion.
Ok, let me not be too harsh – let words be there! As if I am the one who’s the authority to decide. But am I not, on a subjective level? I am the only controller, the only authority for my knowledge, which may in effect differ from that of the other’s. And maybe there is no Objective knowledge or Objective reality – sorry Howard Roark/John Galt. I don’t go the way you did. You were right for yourself but there’s some other pie in my dish!

Now, in this confusion only one thing is of extreme importance: communication. Let me search for a way through which we can best communicate with the aid of words. There should be another design of words rather than the present grammar. Some illogical juxtaposition of words that may help in better understanding the stuff inside our heads, maybe we are such stuff as dreams are made of – NO, let me not divert myself this time…let me stick to it. Where was I? Yes, the juxtaposition…

But with this seemingly elegant thought of mine I suddenly remember that Dubliner who dedicated his entire life to it, who looked into Homer’s Ulysses and whose wake was in turn looked upon by that Frenchmen who said words should be broken to generate meaning, what an elegant thought! There was another who wanted to bring everything in terms of Archeology…God there’s so much, they are so many…they are all connected…one follows the other, and they go on ad infinitum. Maybe I shall never know anything. Maybe, there’s nothing worth knowing and this so-called ‘search for knowledge’ is just a counter-nihilist approach to keep life moving. I should better stop. I started with words but cannot finish with them. I am finding it difficult to get the connection, its all-very confusing. It looks resolved at one moment and Byzantine at another, and that is why maybe that blind Argentinean, God bless his soul, had once quoted to which I can relate at this very moment. He definitely had felt the same emotion I am feeling right now. Maybe, he’s in some distant galaxy where souls are deposited and I am still in this labyrinth, which others call the earth; but together we chant, with our voice sounding as one, in the glory of this ever-present labyrinth: O Time Thy Pyramids.


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