Ever so often I ask myself, what makes a classic? What is it that consigns some literary efforts to the cesspool of morbidity, at the same time lifting a few others, anointing them Helens of the literary world? Could characters and characterization, plots and protagonists have so much an influence or is there more?
Justifying a classic is a distasteful job. As a famous somebody put it, it would be like “…smashing up a Rolex and studying it contents in an endevour to understand its working”. And yet that is the true test of fire; while a passable work would struggle to cling on to its identity, every shard of the classic, in spite of the incompetent dissection, proclaims aloud its elite genesis and its sonorous wisdom.
A classic is a classic because it remains contemporary at all times. Socrates didactic rejoinder to his accusers is as apt today as it was millennia ago. Can the same be said of “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life”? The example I give is but a representative of the zillions of books written, published and “oomphed” by critics, media and the gullible reader only to bite dust faster that their meteoric rise.
The sobriquet “classic” is not lightly given. A classic, with its lilting flow, uplifts the most depressed of hearts. It represents human thought at its pinnacle, and epitomizes the art of incorporating the thought into the history and histrionics of an individual. This doesn’t imply classics belong to only the genre of serious literary works. The subtle humour of P.G. Wodehouse’s works ensures a place for his creation in every listing of all time classics. And who can forget “Three Men in a Boat” or “Don Quixote”. If these cannot be classified as classics, what would be?
A classic remains so because it evolves with the reader. Each time you read it, it offers you a new perspective on life and living; a perspective that applies aptly to the mental status and maturity of the reader. Give Ayn Rand’s “Fountainhead” a second, third and fourth reading and yet on the fifth, it displays a hitherto unseen facet of itself. This is what makes a classic truly timeless, it is a heady mix of the ancient and contemporary.
What better way to define a classic than to quote the foremost? Falling back on the sweetest memories of reading, let me mention some that I would deem fit for the coveted title. The result, picture the condition of a ravenous treasure-seeker who sights a pearl at every step. My condition is no different. I quail to grasp at any of the multitude of fond memories; for in grasping one, you commit the sacrilege of omitting innumerous others.
I have reached the end but i do not seem to have the checklist that I set out to prepare, the touchstone to test the “classicity” of a work is still elusive. And let it be, for can true beauty be ever defined in terms of ratios of the size of the nose to its length? And even if it can be, who cares; I refuse to decide my life partner based on the length of her nose. Let my eye measure, my mind analyze but I would only listen to my heart.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Crossroads
And here I was, once again, at the clichéd crossroad of my life. I suppose my life is no different from others, but how is it that I seem to have more crossroads than roads. The time spent on the road between two crossroads, heavenly time, seems miniscule when compared to the agonizingly long time spent at the hellholes called crossroads. I almost feel like a decision tree with too numerous a node.
Need I narrate to you my torment…. But if not for narration, the very objective of this blog is defeated. Dear reader of stout heart, here it comes without anymore ado.
It was a tube-light lit night in my room in the fag end of the 2005 academic year. How I came to that to that point in my life entails traversing through another set of crossroads that I do not wish to dwell on now. Take it that it would be a prequel similar to this one, if ever that is narrated. So here I was, lit by the garish light of my living room/bed room (5 other roomies had equal claim to the same space though), holding a receiver in my hand, an aching ear to boot. The biggest crossroad of my short life (I had atleast 5 other “biggest” crossroads starting from the first entrance exam I took at the age of 5. No kidding!!!) chanced itself on me and found me grossly inadequate – whither to post the masters in physics?
It was not the paucity of options that flummoxed me; rather it was the profusion. Was I to, like many of my other classmates, take up masters in technology? Or would research be a more invigorating option, for the upper chamber atleast? What caused the panic was not even the eight direction crossroad; the panic was rather a result of being lonely while on the brink. Brink, yes thats the word that describes the situation with dad retiring in a short while and I was expected to be the so called “man in the family”.
It didn’t help that I had advice, the advice was either from people who had crossed the crossroads too long ago or, by fate's benovolent design, didn’t chance by one somehow. M Tech was rooted for by most of the family; after all the image of a successful software engineer settled in US is strongly ingrained in the Telugu psyche. A constant buzz in the ear was my reward for refusing to toe in line, the third cousin of my maternal grandfather’s friend called up to depict the risk reward matrix of degree in research vs. M Tech – stint in the States (with the mention of States in a reverential whisper, lest it may trigger the gods’ envy) being the ultimate payoff.
The lights were killed one by one and darkness found me glum and morose. “Hey LNVK”, a shout from the other corner of the room.
Let me clarify. LNVK is not random representation of the alphabets; it is the set of alphabets that I have been forced to respond to from the moment I set my foot in the primary school, a place where names become letters and letters take a life of their own. Be it whatever, LNVK I became and LNVK I remain.
“Hey LNVK”, a shout from the other corner of the room. “What is it, MRK?” I replied
“Gone deaf or what? I have been calling you for the past five minutes.”
“Bugger, you’ll get deaf too, if you had the phone stuck to your ear for the better part of the hour.” I replied.
“So what’s the big thing? Vacation plans?” MRK asked
“That the last thing on my mind now. Its this career bullshit that’s ruining my night’s sleep”
“But I thought you are a pucca research guy. What is the problem?”
This is when the devil entered my head. Wanting to sound wise beyond my years and maintain my image of the quirky guy, I said “I want to take the road less travelled.”
To my absolute mortification, this had him in splits. Now this MRK is a no nonsense guy with a sharp sense of humor. “Road less travelled? Wow that’s original man. Anyway why the hell would anyone lay a road if it is less travelled? Don’t be so dumb.”
It was then I realized I needed what I was later taught a “paradigm shift” in thinking. Deciding to sleep on it, I shut my eyes firmly and tuned out of the noise in the room. I cannot claim I had a dream showing two roads, one ill-kept with a lot of grass and only a foot wide and the other a highway interspersed with money pots. However this visual was firmly engraved in my mind the next morning when I woke up.
I made my choice, a choice that no one expected, a choice that I did not know even existed. “It may not be less travelled but has plenty of money pots all along the way at frequent intervals” I said to myself.
If anyone asks me what caused me to take an MBA, I would like to honestly confess (depending on the person who asked, the content in which the question was put and more importantly, the answer’s effect on my prospects) “A throbbing ear, a search for road less travelled and a bad dream at night”.
History repeats, at least the malevolent part of history repeats, and once again I am at crossroads; this time I am sure that, as usual, I will take some idiotic road not present on the first, second or third examination. Or will I?
Need I narrate to you my torment…. But if not for narration, the very objective of this blog is defeated. Dear reader of stout heart, here it comes without anymore ado.
It was a tube-light lit night in my room in the fag end of the 2005 academic year. How I came to that to that point in my life entails traversing through another set of crossroads that I do not wish to dwell on now. Take it that it would be a prequel similar to this one, if ever that is narrated. So here I was, lit by the garish light of my living room/bed room (5 other roomies had equal claim to the same space though), holding a receiver in my hand, an aching ear to boot. The biggest crossroad of my short life (I had atleast 5 other “biggest” crossroads starting from the first entrance exam I took at the age of 5. No kidding!!!) chanced itself on me and found me grossly inadequate – whither to post the masters in physics?
It was not the paucity of options that flummoxed me; rather it was the profusion. Was I to, like many of my other classmates, take up masters in technology? Or would research be a more invigorating option, for the upper chamber atleast? What caused the panic was not even the eight direction crossroad; the panic was rather a result of being lonely while on the brink. Brink, yes thats the word that describes the situation with dad retiring in a short while and I was expected to be the so called “man in the family”.
It didn’t help that I had advice, the advice was either from people who had crossed the crossroads too long ago or, by fate's benovolent design, didn’t chance by one somehow. M Tech was rooted for by most of the family; after all the image of a successful software engineer settled in US is strongly ingrained in the Telugu psyche. A constant buzz in the ear was my reward for refusing to toe in line, the third cousin of my maternal grandfather’s friend called up to depict the risk reward matrix of degree in research vs. M Tech – stint in the States (with the mention of States in a reverential whisper, lest it may trigger the gods’ envy) being the ultimate payoff.
The lights were killed one by one and darkness found me glum and morose. “Hey LNVK”, a shout from the other corner of the room.
Let me clarify. LNVK is not random representation of the alphabets; it is the set of alphabets that I have been forced to respond to from the moment I set my foot in the primary school, a place where names become letters and letters take a life of their own. Be it whatever, LNVK I became and LNVK I remain.
“Hey LNVK”, a shout from the other corner of the room. “What is it, MRK?” I replied
“Gone deaf or what? I have been calling you for the past five minutes.”
“Bugger, you’ll get deaf too, if you had the phone stuck to your ear for the better part of the hour.” I replied.
“So what’s the big thing? Vacation plans?” MRK asked
“That the last thing on my mind now. Its this career bullshit that’s ruining my night’s sleep”
“But I thought you are a pucca research guy. What is the problem?”
This is when the devil entered my head. Wanting to sound wise beyond my years and maintain my image of the quirky guy, I said “I want to take the road less travelled.”
To my absolute mortification, this had him in splits. Now this MRK is a no nonsense guy with a sharp sense of humor. “Road less travelled? Wow that’s original man. Anyway why the hell would anyone lay a road if it is less travelled? Don’t be so dumb.”
It was then I realized I needed what I was later taught a “paradigm shift” in thinking. Deciding to sleep on it, I shut my eyes firmly and tuned out of the noise in the room. I cannot claim I had a dream showing two roads, one ill-kept with a lot of grass and only a foot wide and the other a highway interspersed with money pots. However this visual was firmly engraved in my mind the next morning when I woke up.
I made my choice, a choice that no one expected, a choice that I did not know even existed. “It may not be less travelled but has plenty of money pots all along the way at frequent intervals” I said to myself.
If anyone asks me what caused me to take an MBA, I would like to honestly confess (depending on the person who asked, the content in which the question was put and more importantly, the answer’s effect on my prospects) “A throbbing ear, a search for road less travelled and a bad dream at night”.
History repeats, at least the malevolent part of history repeats, and once again I am at crossroads; this time I am sure that, as usual, I will take some idiotic road not present on the first, second or third examination. Or will I?
Friday, May 29, 2009
THE INDIAN ELECTIONS-A First Person Perspective
It’s truly the saddest spectacle on earth, an ode to the victory of dreams over realities, where 700+million of humanity vote, propelling their nation in which direction, they know not.
The challenges are immense – after all who can decide between the devil and deep sea with ease of mind. And that the most diverse nation on Earth, with hundreds of languages, all religions and cultures, is not only surviving, but thriving shows the genius of Indians and not their political system.
That the cradle of four major religions, the second largest Muslim nation on Earth; where Christianity has been benignly looked upon since its origin; where the oldest Jewish synagogues and Jewish communities have resided since the Romans burnt their 2nd temple; where the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile have found sanctuary; where the Zorostrians from Persia found a second and more permanent home; where Armenians and Syrians and many others have to come live; that the nation that dominated the commerce of the world for most of the civilization had megalomaniacs and regional chauvinists play musical chair with the top job with real fears as to their chances of occupying it not just shocks but paralyses all thought. There might soon be a branch of engineering called “social engineering”, as coined by probably one of the most statue obsessed lady in history, in this land currently infatuated by engineering.
The nation that could crown the most deserving intellectual as a prime minister only as a compromise candidate; whom, even today, his own cabinet and party address after saluting “madam”;where a catholic woman is the head of the ruling collation only because she married rightly; where the woman president is being protected by the presidential immunity from facing a case regarding obstruction of justice in a murder case; where possibly the most upright president and doubtlessly the most loved, regarded and deserving, was denied a second term because of just those reasons; where inspite of six and a half decades of independence, almost equal percentage of population languishes with abysmal poverty as the most backward of Sub-Saharan nations; where villages without a morsel to eat hack at each other at the direction of a distant and oppressive landlord most willingly; where the destination of glory is being achieved one painful step at a time despite and not because of its politics; where all the great powers are vying for influence, as it itself finds its place in the world.
And yet worry not – India’s greatness is assured, its beauty lies in its chaos and its strength in its contradictions. A people that withstood the idiosyncrasies of Bin Tuglaq and coped with the greatness of Chanakya will surely be able to keep its tryst with destiny no matter who leads it. So Dear World, here we come.
The challenges are immense – after all who can decide between the devil and deep sea with ease of mind. And that the most diverse nation on Earth, with hundreds of languages, all religions and cultures, is not only surviving, but thriving shows the genius of Indians and not their political system.
That the cradle of four major religions, the second largest Muslim nation on Earth; where Christianity has been benignly looked upon since its origin; where the oldest Jewish synagogues and Jewish communities have resided since the Romans burnt their 2nd temple; where the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile have found sanctuary; where the Zorostrians from Persia found a second and more permanent home; where Armenians and Syrians and many others have to come live; that the nation that dominated the commerce of the world for most of the civilization had megalomaniacs and regional chauvinists play musical chair with the top job with real fears as to their chances of occupying it not just shocks but paralyses all thought. There might soon be a branch of engineering called “social engineering”, as coined by probably one of the most statue obsessed lady in history, in this land currently infatuated by engineering.
The nation that could crown the most deserving intellectual as a prime minister only as a compromise candidate; whom, even today, his own cabinet and party address after saluting “madam”;where a catholic woman is the head of the ruling collation only because she married rightly; where the woman president is being protected by the presidential immunity from facing a case regarding obstruction of justice in a murder case; where possibly the most upright president and doubtlessly the most loved, regarded and deserving, was denied a second term because of just those reasons; where inspite of six and a half decades of independence, almost equal percentage of population languishes with abysmal poverty as the most backward of Sub-Saharan nations; where villages without a morsel to eat hack at each other at the direction of a distant and oppressive landlord most willingly; where the destination of glory is being achieved one painful step at a time despite and not because of its politics; where all the great powers are vying for influence, as it itself finds its place in the world.
And yet worry not – India’s greatness is assured, its beauty lies in its chaos and its strength in its contradictions. A people that withstood the idiosyncrasies of Bin Tuglaq and coped with the greatness of Chanakya will surely be able to keep its tryst with destiny no matter who leads it. So Dear World, here we come.
PS: This post was written in response to an article in one of the US papers. The style, and sometimes whole phrases, of the discourse could be from the article.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Advertisements - Regulators Needed?
I know I have touched a raw nerve – in this age of deregulation, decentralization and market driven policies, how can it happen that a progressive, well educated, privately placed management professional has such archaic ideas. Agreed, we do not need a license raj – the image of an O&M executive standing in line to get the ZooZoo ad okayed is preposterous to say the least. And surely I am not talking of moral regulator; having never considered myself a votary of the moral brigade, I have not yet reached that stage of depravity wherein I secretly enjoy the “immoral” ads while publicly creating a ruckus. But what I am looking at here is more the kind of self regulation – a voluntary body of industry professionals who oversee the quality of ads in general. But let me not jump the gun and here is beginning the story in the right way – from the beginning.
This is the age of science – any claim made by anyone, even a school kid, has to be backed by “scientific evidence”. Thus every scientific study has a list of tables, findings and bibliography that is longer than the substance of the article. Even a grade 1 student is being asked to submit his/her references at the end of homework. On the other hand you have, in one distressingly painful ad, a set of guys with some sort of goggles, claiming to see bacteria and dust in a house without a particular brand of AC and none in the other (which, of course, uses that particular AC brand)! I donot know what is the source of greater hilarity – that one can see germs on using goggles or that AC kills bacteria and virus.
The tribe of pseudo-scientists doesn’t stop there. One particular brand of health drink has promised us that kids drinking that particular brand grew 5 inches taller – come on now guys, how were you able to isolate factors such as genetic makeup, ethnicity and gender. And you have a motley collection of soaps whose claims vary from “killing germs a 100 percent better” to “ensuring an ever youthful skin” – all without any hint or mention of study conducted, parameters controlled, degree of confidence etc. One of my favorite ad had tried to invoke the religious beliefs of the audience by claiming it gives a complete physical and spiritual bath as it used the water of Ganges as one of its ingredients; this really had me flummoxed and I had to go back to my 11th class chemistry book and verify that water is not used in the saponification process. Another of the recent ads (again from the soap stable – it is really stupefying, the number of debatable ads this category produces) claimed that the no student will miss school due to ill health if they use a particular brand of soap for bathing five, I repeat five, times a day. Well, if you have bath five times a day, I wonder if there’ll be any time left to attend school.
One of my friends, in the course of conversation on this topic, burst out saying,” Come on now. Tell me how many times have you bought something trusting the veracity of its ad campaign? Ads are just that – ads. They are meant to be a welcome relief between dreary serials, dumb gameshows and despondent movies and newshours.” But this exactly is my point – when companies spend tonnes of money and admen, hours of time on these ads, then ought it not be reasonable to expect that the ads do more than provide entertainment to the viewer, provide the viewer not only the incentive but also assurance to buy the product? Agreed, stating detailed statistics makes ads lifeless, more so when hardly anyone understands the statistics stated (try talking about rejection of null hypothesis in a chi square test at a confidence level of 99% in an ad). Nevertheless, there ought to be a measure of confidence in the viewers’ mind that, given that any ad has appeared in the public medium after going through a vetting process, there is a high probability that the claims stated in the ad are true. This is where a powerful regulatory body, like the one that exists in Australia, plays a crucial role. It is to ensure the public trusts the admen and their trust is not belied. At the very least it is better than the proposal to make the celebrities responsible for the ads they appear in – poor things, they do not have sufficient time for the ad shoot; forget verifying the honesty of the claim made during the shoot
This is the age of science – any claim made by anyone, even a school kid, has to be backed by “scientific evidence”. Thus every scientific study has a list of tables, findings and bibliography that is longer than the substance of the article. Even a grade 1 student is being asked to submit his/her references at the end of homework. On the other hand you have, in one distressingly painful ad, a set of guys with some sort of goggles, claiming to see bacteria and dust in a house without a particular brand of AC and none in the other (which, of course, uses that particular AC brand)! I donot know what is the source of greater hilarity – that one can see germs on using goggles or that AC kills bacteria and virus.
The tribe of pseudo-scientists doesn’t stop there. One particular brand of health drink has promised us that kids drinking that particular brand grew 5 inches taller – come on now guys, how were you able to isolate factors such as genetic makeup, ethnicity and gender. And you have a motley collection of soaps whose claims vary from “killing germs a 100 percent better” to “ensuring an ever youthful skin” – all without any hint or mention of study conducted, parameters controlled, degree of confidence etc. One of my favorite ad had tried to invoke the religious beliefs of the audience by claiming it gives a complete physical and spiritual bath as it used the water of Ganges as one of its ingredients; this really had me flummoxed and I had to go back to my 11th class chemistry book and verify that water is not used in the saponification process. Another of the recent ads (again from the soap stable – it is really stupefying, the number of debatable ads this category produces) claimed that the no student will miss school due to ill health if they use a particular brand of soap for bathing five, I repeat five, times a day. Well, if you have bath five times a day, I wonder if there’ll be any time left to attend school.
One of my friends, in the course of conversation on this topic, burst out saying,” Come on now. Tell me how many times have you bought something trusting the veracity of its ad campaign? Ads are just that – ads. They are meant to be a welcome relief between dreary serials, dumb gameshows and despondent movies and newshours.” But this exactly is my point – when companies spend tonnes of money and admen, hours of time on these ads, then ought it not be reasonable to expect that the ads do more than provide entertainment to the viewer, provide the viewer not only the incentive but also assurance to buy the product? Agreed, stating detailed statistics makes ads lifeless, more so when hardly anyone understands the statistics stated (try talking about rejection of null hypothesis in a chi square test at a confidence level of 99% in an ad). Nevertheless, there ought to be a measure of confidence in the viewers’ mind that, given that any ad has appeared in the public medium after going through a vetting process, there is a high probability that the claims stated in the ad are true. This is where a powerful regulatory body, like the one that exists in Australia, plays a crucial role. It is to ensure the public trusts the admen and their trust is not belied. At the very least it is better than the proposal to make the celebrities responsible for the ads they appear in – poor things, they do not have sufficient time for the ad shoot; forget verifying the honesty of the claim made during the shoot
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Travails of A Lone Man On A Couples Day
I knew it had come; one of those days when the ever cheeky bachelors turn morose, one of those days when even the colour of sky changes. Even as you wake up, you wonder why your stomach feels a kind of queasy, why your sixth sense (that is usually dead and buried) forces itself upon you with a sense of foreboding. And as you open your window, hey why is the usually blue sky pink? And then it hits you (as they say, Zor ka jatka, Dhere se laga) leaving you breathless and disoriented.
Although the hit is not new (after all its an annual event), the pain is no less you actually wonder when would you get used to it? I still remember the last occasion when I was affected this way. Date: Feb 14 (of course the date doesnt change) rather the night previous to Feb 14. The card stores and all the Landmarks and Odysseys of the town were bursting at their seams. Can you imagine the consternation of a lone man when, to satiate the grumblings of his stomach , he approaches a chocolate counter only to be told that all the chocolates are exhausted (After all of what importance is the trite and hackneyed sensation as hunger in the beautiful season of love.)
How is it, I wondered, that while everyone has sweet nothings to mutter, I have nothing sweet to mutter. And as I walked past a couple on the waterfront looking so deeply into teach others eyes that they looked lost, I was sure that their dazed look reflected in my face, albeit without the joy that they seemed to be deriving of it. The beaches and parks were so full that you would wonder if the birds, like unfortunate lone men, make alternative arrangements for the day.
But all is not lost, I told myself, for in such desperate situations, there is always the idiot box that drums up stuff. Burrowing deep into my room, I turned on the TV, determined to shut the happy world out. But, oh misery, Cupid, it seems, doesnt spare anyone. Heaven alone knows how all the weirdoes at TV stations got the same idea and the channels were but the reflections of the street outside and worse, for I was not safe even in my sanctuary. Its ok to have a sumptuous feast, but to have it in front of a starving man, to force him to watch even when he refuses, well there ought to be legislations against such extreme torture.
So here I am, on the eve of the very same day, and I have made my plans. My bags are packed and my tickets booked. I am off to a secret destination (I will not reveal the destination in case Mr Cupid is reading) with plans that no man (read woman) or machine can ruin. Still, I am not as confident as I sound. Look out in this space the same time next year and hopefully, I wont have complaints. However, dont be surprised if I have, you can never be sure in this month of February.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
History - The story of .....
The History of Mankind is not the story of the entire human race. Rather, it is the tale of a few men – men with fire in their eyes and courage in their hearts, men who stood for some principles, lived for them and died for them. It is the story of Gandhi, of Hitler and of Socrates. Better still, it is the story of triumph of ideals over the commonplace, of determination and dedication over haplessness.
Seems improbable, isn’t it? Well let’s conduct a small experiment. How many of us remember our great-grandfather’s name? Or, to put it in another way, how many of us are sure our great – grandchildren will ever hear of us? On the other hand, how many of us feel that Gandhi will ever be forgotten?
Modern day society has a knack of ‘ensuring compliance’ with its changing ideals. Starting from peer pressure to mud slinging and utmost efforts to crush soaring spirits, its instruments are many. It is in this context that the glory of an idealist is enhanced. For the grass that bends in the direction of the wind is trampled upon while the mighty tree that stands tall despite the gales is looked up to.
In the name of adjustment, of being practical, we find that we change our ideals so very often. Sometimes it’s a crisis and some other time, a chance of some material gain. Whatever be the reason, we compromise ever so often. As a result, what do we find? As Ayn Rand puts it in her book “Fountainhead” in reference to the character Roark, “Of all of us, only he will be immortal – immortal not in the sense of deathlessness but rather because he lives for a single ideal. When he is remembered, he’ll be remembered for it. But we, who change our thinking every single moment, we who are never constant even in life, what will we represent after death?”
So those of you out there who pride on being practical, think thou that “Here is one against us”? But you couldn’t be further away from truth. I am one of you, a proud drop in the ocean of mediocrity, another sickening crab among the many in the basket. Fools they are, those who do not change, for haven’t we been taught that change is the only constant thing in life? So what if they are called ‘great noble men’, they are still fools if they cannot sell but a chip of their soul for wealth in real sense, who prefer white to the dazzling array of colours that our world offers (What is white for if not to be used as a base of the myriad colours?)
So what if they are remembered for ever, we are comfortable while we are. We can look them in their eyes, our noses turned up. With scornful mirth, we laugh at their abject poverty, their lack of commonsense to grab opportunities with both their hands. So what if they lord about in their fancy principles, we can still crush them with our money and equalize the scores. And we are within our rights to do it, after all doesn’t every street dog bark at the mighty elephant?
Yet, at the end of the day, it is who you are and not what you have that matters. And it is here that they checkmate us. When, on the weighing scales, stripped of everything we cherish, we find that our net worth is next to nothing, and they, out of friendliness, offer a shoulder to lean on, only then do we realize the value of ideals. Immortality has many ways unto itself. Every page in History has a name inscribed in bold, and each name evokes a response from the students of History. Behind each name is an ideal diligently followed, a principle never compromised. And behind each response lie the intent and the outcome of the uncompromised principle. If Hitler’s fervent belief in ‘Aryan Superiority’ and its consequences draw an involuntary gasp and shudder, Gandhiji’s ‘Non-Violent Movement’ raises the consciousness of individuals and nations. So what is it that makes one ideal admirable and another despicable?
An ideal should be such that it concurs with the dictates of the conscience. Not only the ideal, but also the means of achieving it should follow the lead provided by the conscience. After all, there comes a time when we need to face the “man in the mirror” and we would need to face him with confidence, understanding, honesty and with no regret. It is this ability to face the “man in the mirror” that will assure us our own place in the Book of Time. History will remember us, not only as great and well-known, but also as good and well-loved. This is all the difference between Hitler and Gandhi, Bose and Dyer, Socrates and his accusers.
I started off by saying “The History of mankind is not the story of the entire human race”. Let me correct myself. The History of Mankind is the story of the entire human race – for only he can be called a man who has the courage to stand by his ideal, an ideal that not only raises his stature in the eyes of his fellowmen, but more importantly, enhances it in his own. For only about them can it truly be said:
Nasti Thesham Yeshah Kaye Jara Maranajam Bhayam.
Seems improbable, isn’t it? Well let’s conduct a small experiment. How many of us remember our great-grandfather’s name? Or, to put it in another way, how many of us are sure our great – grandchildren will ever hear of us? On the other hand, how many of us feel that Gandhi will ever be forgotten?
Modern day society has a knack of ‘ensuring compliance’ with its changing ideals. Starting from peer pressure to mud slinging and utmost efforts to crush soaring spirits, its instruments are many. It is in this context that the glory of an idealist is enhanced. For the grass that bends in the direction of the wind is trampled upon while the mighty tree that stands tall despite the gales is looked up to.
In the name of adjustment, of being practical, we find that we change our ideals so very often. Sometimes it’s a crisis and some other time, a chance of some material gain. Whatever be the reason, we compromise ever so often. As a result, what do we find? As Ayn Rand puts it in her book “Fountainhead” in reference to the character Roark, “Of all of us, only he will be immortal – immortal not in the sense of deathlessness but rather because he lives for a single ideal. When he is remembered, he’ll be remembered for it. But we, who change our thinking every single moment, we who are never constant even in life, what will we represent after death?”
So those of you out there who pride on being practical, think thou that “Here is one against us”? But you couldn’t be further away from truth. I am one of you, a proud drop in the ocean of mediocrity, another sickening crab among the many in the basket. Fools they are, those who do not change, for haven’t we been taught that change is the only constant thing in life? So what if they are called ‘great noble men’, they are still fools if they cannot sell but a chip of their soul for wealth in real sense, who prefer white to the dazzling array of colours that our world offers (What is white for if not to be used as a base of the myriad colours?)
So what if they are remembered for ever, we are comfortable while we are. We can look them in their eyes, our noses turned up. With scornful mirth, we laugh at their abject poverty, their lack of commonsense to grab opportunities with both their hands. So what if they lord about in their fancy principles, we can still crush them with our money and equalize the scores. And we are within our rights to do it, after all doesn’t every street dog bark at the mighty elephant?
Yet, at the end of the day, it is who you are and not what you have that matters. And it is here that they checkmate us. When, on the weighing scales, stripped of everything we cherish, we find that our net worth is next to nothing, and they, out of friendliness, offer a shoulder to lean on, only then do we realize the value of ideals. Immortality has many ways unto itself. Every page in History has a name inscribed in bold, and each name evokes a response from the students of History. Behind each name is an ideal diligently followed, a principle never compromised. And behind each response lie the intent and the outcome of the uncompromised principle. If Hitler’s fervent belief in ‘Aryan Superiority’ and its consequences draw an involuntary gasp and shudder, Gandhiji’s ‘Non-Violent Movement’ raises the consciousness of individuals and nations. So what is it that makes one ideal admirable and another despicable?
An ideal should be such that it concurs with the dictates of the conscience. Not only the ideal, but also the means of achieving it should follow the lead provided by the conscience. After all, there comes a time when we need to face the “man in the mirror” and we would need to face him with confidence, understanding, honesty and with no regret. It is this ability to face the “man in the mirror” that will assure us our own place in the Book of Time. History will remember us, not only as great and well-known, but also as good and well-loved. This is all the difference between Hitler and Gandhi, Bose and Dyer, Socrates and his accusers.
I started off by saying “The History of mankind is not the story of the entire human race”. Let me correct myself. The History of Mankind is the story of the entire human race – for only he can be called a man who has the courage to stand by his ideal, an ideal that not only raises his stature in the eyes of his fellowmen, but more importantly, enhances it in his own. For only about them can it truly be said:
Nasti Thesham Yeshah Kaye Jara Maranajam Bhayam.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Nineteen too less ......
It was another day as usual. The first light of sun, and the sorrows began. The first were the set of people going in haste to complete their daily ablutions. Thank god, I was only trampled upon. Next were the tillers of the land, eager to scratch me and try to extract something from my already depleted resources. The day progressed with agonizing slowness, second upon second, hot sun upon me, not a drop to soothe my parch. And then relief – short-lived though, the setting sun and a night breeze that soothed the worn out limbs. And then the next day - the same milieu, again and again and again over countless millennia.
Centuries have gone by but the routine never changed. And then one day, there comes along a potter. Instead of scratching on the surface, he digs deep within. And with all the knowledge and skill, love and patience, he shapes me on his wheel, carefully engraving mystical symbols and lovely designs – a pat here and a tap there. And then, oh its hell. Three days in blazing fire – no difference between night and day. Centuries of torture seem pleasant in comparision. But all is not lost – here he comes – a harbinger of salvation. With even more love and a lot more skill – total concentration to the fore, and a lump of clay is now a coveted ceramic.
Bidding starts and value quoted is beyond anything I heard before. And from being below feet, I am now placed in at prime locales, people showcasing me as the prized possession.
And people ask me how educare transformed my life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nineteen years is a long time, it’s long enough to see changes that a hand can wrought. I still remember the time when we used to sit under the huge tree (I am not sure what tree it was) and play in sands during the darshan. My mind’s eye still sees as though yesterday the instances when we used to, in the order of roll call, go to the Lord and receive from His hands our khaki pant and shirt. The sand gave way to cement, cement to marble (that used to grow so scorching that swami ordered for carpets to be spread), marble to the current flooring, a shelter from the sweltering sun, a movable roof for ventilation, gold plating for the roof and then the hall extend till it can extend no further.
Nineteen years is a long time, it is long enough to witness the beginnings of festivals – It was in my 9th class, on Nov 18 during the discourse (I was lucky to be part of the group that chanted Vedam before the discourse) Swami declared that, thenceforth, Nov 19 would be dedicated in honour of ladies.
Nineteen years is long enough to play a squirrel’s role in the actualization of a glorious vision. I remember, as a kid in primary school, Swami had announced the construction of the Super Specialty Hospital and the institute boys got permission to help with the work on the site. I rued the fact that I was still to young to participate in the glorious work. But Swami never disappoints – and so after a gap of almost a decade, He started the construction of the second Super Specialty Hospital at Bangalore. I will never forget the window that I scrubbed clean of cement and paint – for that, I count, was closest to perfect that I have achieved till now.
Nineteen years is long enough to see the birth of revolutions – the Grama Seva that has given manifold models to the SSSO and can count, amongst its beneficiaries, many who have not visited Parthi. In my opinion, the first Grama Seva was the best, more because it was slightly ad hoc and that added to the joy. There was an occasion when we went to one of the villages in the Central Trust truck. The uniqueness of this truck was that it had a big hole in the central portion. So you had all of us clinging on to the sides of the truck (or at least to a person who was clinging on to the side in case there was no handhold remaining) for dear lives. And in midst of all this you had Venkateswarulu sir singing Bhajans vigorously and encouraging us to participate in it. It may sound scary but these are the highlights of the Grama Seva that I treasure the most
But in midst of all this blur of activity there appears a spot of total calmness; go closer and you find the fulcrum has always remained the same. For what is nineteen years when compared to eternity if not a bat of the eyelid?
Nineteen years is short – too short to understand the concern of the Lord towards His children. It was when I set out to Parthi on 30th Dec that I realized, as I swung my shoulder bag on, that I hardly remember carrying a school bag splitting at the seams as is very common with school children today. And you know why – while the top academicians go about debating on ways to reduce the burden on students, Swami, in His quiet and effective way, built the Hostel and school in the same place, thus easing the shoulder of many a kid.
Nineteen years is too short for all but a glimpse of the unique bond between the students and the Lord. In its first avatar, Grama Seva used to go on till late evening and sometimes into the night. So you would have the Lord, at sharp 4:15 PM. pacing impatiently in the verandah, waiting for His boys to come. And then with a huge whoop “Jai bolo Bhagwan Sri Sathya Sai Baba Ji Ki Jai”, we would rush in and home on to Bhagwan. Clothes, faces and hands would be grimy, but when the river meets the ocean can any amount of sand stand an obstacle? He would lovingly enquire about the days proceeding and then ….. would again start pacing about, waiting for the next vehicle to arrive. This would continue till all are back home.
Those were glorious days, but they were too few, too short. The days have been so short and blessings so continuous that we never even had the time to think of expressing gratitude. And now I realize I have been loaded with so many gifts that the enormity overwhelms me. Names leap out of the sea of memories in an infinite succession of waves but I cringe at grasping any – for by grasping one I may commit the sacrilege of missing a thousand. I have been a bakery and kitchen boy most of my student life so let me express my gratitude in this metaphoric fashion (Those of you who do not know what a kitchen boy/bakery boy means, this is not the time or place. You’ll have to write an entrance, clear an interview and then you can have our beloved Warden sir explaining each of this in a more elaborate fashion than you could have asked for). To the primary school teachers who carefully cleaned and cleared me of any blemishes, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To the Higher secondary school teachers who ensured consistency in my constituent mix, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To the Brindavan teachers who baked me faultlessly, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And to the Senior Boys Hostel teachers who then put on the most pleasing icing, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And to Him who made this and much more happen,
Ye Hrudayamunosagitivo Isha Naaku
Marala DanineArpintu O Mahitamurthi
Araya Veremi Tettu Nee Archanaku Nenu
Anjali Gatinthu Andukovayya Neevu
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