Drunken Philosophy… for Non-Drunks
“First there was water, created by God with the intention of making man remain alive. But then its role was just that…to let man live till the time messenger of death came. And just living and dying isn’t extraordinary. To experience something that shakes you up…to come face to face with your inner self is. So thoughts were inserted in the man’s mind to create a golden liquid…a potential medium to give man the glimpses of something extraordinary…to make man burdenfree and see life as an empty void.”
Piyakkad Shastra, 2nd Century BC
I am not a big drunk, but my friend says I am. He says even after gulping down the entire bottle (of course shared between the two), where he starts to spin like a top I remain intact as if I drank just water. And I realize so. But then I’ve a secret that works for me. I drink four times more water than I usually take while I am drinking alcohol and it helps. While my friends get knocked down or move to another dimension, I am intact like a racing horse.
Frankly, though I can gulp down half a bottle in one shot, the idea of gulping another or even going closer to another golden bottle doesn’t emerge in my mind even after a month. I drink, but I am not a drunkard. Not at all an addict. But then suddenly a friend erupts out of the blue who is looking for a drinking partner and the moment he spots me, he speaks in the most intimate fashion, “Hello! Friend. How are you doing man? It’s such a good weather and Saturday too. What luck! Life is so short. What do you say?” And even if you had some other plan –maybe of finishing some book kept for long on your shelf or something else, you know—you get swayed by the idea of idling time over golden water.
Ok, you are asking what’s so special about this golden water.
Ha! See you are now getting curious.
Man is the most dangerous creature in this existence. For his personal interest, he has not left even huge whales in the vast depthless ocean or big elephants in crowded jungles. Whether black, white, semi-black, wheatish, dwarf or a giant; a man is a man, creating huge structures and destroying everything that is natural. He has this strange intention of enslaving the whole world. He keeps doing something, sometimes making aeroplanes, electric rail, or even machines that can go faraway in the sky.
The same man created this special type of water too that can give you glimpses of another world. Oh ok! you want to know what this another world stuff is before I continue. I had a vague inkling that you’d ask this. I know you haven’t had drinking sessions so far. That’s why such curiosity. Good guy you are! You have followed your parent’s teachings very well. But please be cautious. Currently, you are showing a lot of interest in what I am saying.
See actually what happens there is something strange in this liquid and there are types, you know: Whisky, Rum, Wine, Champagne, Beer, and so on. Whatever type it is, it works the same way in our body.
The intelligent man knew that human mind is the culprit. If it can be stopped for a while or made weaker, the man can be unburdened of all the past and future he carries with himself. Glimpses of another world can be seen when there is no past and future because mostly even though our body is at the present moment our thoughts are constantly rotating in the past and future—either brooding on a lost opportunity or on a heart wrenching affair or thinking about how much effort to put to become a Manager or Director or a Business tycoon or as famous romantic a hero as Shahrukh Khan. Am I right, my friend? What nice smile you have! Only a man who is ignorant or has no knowledge of the world can smile so innocently. A man of knowledge is serious….very very serious. Sit before him and watch. And if you watch with focus, you can see cobwebs around his minds...the so called cobwebs of knowledge. Forget it. It seems your mind hasn’t yet overtaken you.
So the man worked on his ideas and liquor—the golden water— was finally born. Whoever tasted it –whether in America, India, Britian, Pakistan, or Yuganda—became its slave. Color may be different but people are people. They all want to be burden free of their mind and the excessive baggage it carries, even though they may claim differently. They may say with confidence, “No, that isn’t the reason they take alcohol.” But believe me that’s the reason…a subtle one which is to be felt than known through reason.
We are not just flesh and bones, but mind and heart too. Mind drives flesh to take different actions and these physical actions (depending on their types and the reactions they generate) create a mix of emotions. Every day we perform many actions (through our thoughts or our body), and they have equal and opposite reactions. Oh! You are asking how I can say with such certitude. Actually, both science and philosophy have proved it. Whether Hindu or Christian or Muslim or any other philosophy, all say “As you sow, so shall you reap.” Newton’s Third Law of Motion says, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” If you go deeper in metaphysics, it talks in great length about it and will give you many proofs.
Everyone in one way or another is affected by this complex condition created by body, mind and emotions. Even when you are alone, you aren’t alone. Ha ha! I was expecting that. You are asking how stupid this reasoning is: how can one not be alone when one is actually physically alone. Just think about it. What are you doing when are you alone? You may be at your house or drinking coffee alone or in a mountain or fishing. But aren’t you constantly surrounded by thoughts: thoughts of pasts and future. You aren’t even drinking coffee with full attention. Between the sips and vapors sometimes erupts the beautiful face of your girlfriend whom you loved or your hunky boyfriend who set your pulses racing like the Ferrari of Schumacher. So you aren’t alone. We are troubled creatures. We carry a lot of load of the past and future. Our mood keeps changing and our mind keeps craving for a joyful existence, and it is always under an impression that if you’ve that thing then you’ll be happy. But even then you aren’t. Mystery of that new thing evaporates once you’ve experienced it. Then another and another and another…
But when you gulp down those golden pegs a different atmosphere sets in. Suddenly mind starts to loose its control because alcohol gradually makes it weak. People come close to their real nature or in other words in a state where suddenly the excessive baggage looses its weight. The effect is wonderful. Haven’t you seen in a group (after rounds of pegs) the most hunky guy gets emotional or the softest looking becomes Darasingh? There are others who almost start crying because they once loved someone so much and haven’t been able to forget. All that is buried inside suddenly finds way out. So golden water makes that possible. It makes you burden free for a while and lets your hidden part come out. What you generally don’t express you start expressing after those pegs.
But then those moments are temporary. You get a glimpse and then it disappears. And because you got a glimpse that made you weightless you want to experience that weightless state again. So you have another session and so many sessions.
Suddenly, what happened to you? You seem determined. Where are your legs directed to? Oh! You are almost running. You have taken turn and now you are in the same lane where there is an English Liquor Shop. Oh! My god, you are talking to the liquor shopkeeper. Oh! You’ve finally bought a Golden bottle. Don’t fall for it. But I must say that’s a good choice...bottled in Switzerland. Quite smooth!
But beware, my friend, beware!! That’s not a final solution.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
An Indian Road...
Under the shadowy shade of a series of trees lining the road, I am standing on the pavement waiting for my cab. Buses, trucks, small cars, scooters are moving democratically over the road. Every vehicle is trying to proclaim its existence through a distinct sound, trying to gain attention and telling the world: Here, I am. But under the groans and puffs of bigger buses and trucks the voice of smaller vehicles fades away; they are merely a moving figure then, a dot in front of a bigger circle.
Sun is ruthless and angry today, but I am protected by the sensitive shade of trees. Sometimes I wonder what will happen if all these trees are gone.
Still some time left for my cab to reach, I plug in the microphone cable in my latest Nokia 5800 mobile. Remo Fernandes, the famed singer of the O Meri Munni…Munni Munni Babe number, diverts my attention from the squeals, coughs, and screeches of passing vehicles. But I am playing a different song of his. It starts in this manner:
{A fusion of different instruments}
Lyrics:
Yeh, kaisa mor hai…rukna na chahe mann
Peeche murna bhi muskil…lekin mane na mann
Ankhon main tufan sawalon ka…dil main jawabon ki pyas
Lakh pukare parchahiyan…mujhe chalna hai Suraj ke sath
Aja sanam ush ujale ko choo lein…sochey tu kya?
Mere hathon main chalna akela…toh mujhe kar de fida
My black leather shoes gently start striking the earth surface. I notice some ants moving. I stop.
Suddenly I notice that the road is filled with such chaotic romance that I desire to witness every minute happening.
I look at the drivers, riders, and passengers in bigger vehicles. All lost in their world, doing their respective karmas. But only passengers have the privilege to do anything. They can talk to other passengers, ogle at the beauties in the bus or dispersed around the road, or daydream.
In Indian roads, cycles and scooters were omnipresent at one point of time. During those times, it was easier to cross roads. You saw a scooter or cycle coming and you’d not even think that it could in any way be a danger. The cycle rider used to tinkle the bell, but you would show him your right hand, gave him a stern gaze and cross the road like a lion. But now some sort of expertise is necessary. Today’s time requires that you exercise your eyes a bit before crossing the road. Only after many left-to-right and right-to-left rolling of your eyeballs and a few quick permutations and combinations in your brain, you cross the road. And that too like a sheep.
Suddenly I see an attractive girl on the other side of the road. Wearing tight black jeans and white shirt, she emerges from the DDA buildings. She tosses her silky, shampooed hair, making them float backward. Her fair skin shines under the clear sunlight. From her demeanor, it seems she is aware of her attractiveness and she is aware that people around are watching her—from the buses, autos, small cars…and from the helmets on scooters. She is conscious of the attention— every moment. She is carrying a subtle smile, a smile that she has learnt to carry since she grew younger. Boys must have fluttered around her—in school and colleges, around her mohalla, in shops. She must have received thousands of greeting cards, several calls from so-called-lovers. She may even have fallen for a few, the ones who were consistent in their expressions and who could promise a glint of romance in their eyes. The smile on her lips, which energizes her whole body, assures her every day that she is in demand. Swaying her body as if a feather floating in the air, she walks toward the Bus Stop and soon merges with the rest of the crowd.
I see toward my right. A cow is standing at a distance—a silent and peaceful cow. She seems to be in her own world, not at all interested in the hustle-bustle around. I realize she is munching on the waste from the nearby dustbin. Her motive is over and now she wants to experience the other side by crossing the road. She waits for the vehicles to stop, but they don’t. Finally, she starts to cross the road without caring for the moving traffic. Buses groan, scooters tweet, and small cars blare their horn. But the cow crosses the road unperturbed and with the same peace and dignity, maybe thinking—to hell with you all assholes…you mechanical robots, you’ve eaten all the grass and trees around…you selfish creatures…because of you I’ve to dig my head in dustbins…you drink my milk and prepare that wonderful tea using my milk in the morning…haven’t your parents ever told you the importance of a cow in Indian setup. Fuck off! Let me cross the road.
And she crosses the road with her large impassive eyes. Vehicles move…
Remo Fernandes is on this line now:
Chalte jao chalte jao....are you ready?
Yaa (background artists)
Keep all moving…keep all moving
Suddenly a crow flies over my head, casting its moving shadow on the road, and perches over a wall on a house at the other side of the road. It rotates its head around, adjusts some food between its beaks, flies back to the tree and lets out its caw caws. Maybe he is telling the house owner: You paunchy rabbit…you threw a stone at me yesterday…now see I’ll eat all your pickles one by one even if I’ve to visit a doctor later on.
A small sized, as round as a football, and chocolaty colored kid—wearing a Sando and a Bermuda— distracts my attention. He carries a polythene bag, which he wants to throw in the dustbin on the other side. He waits for the traffic to stop, but it doesn’t. So without waiting much he throws the bag toward the other side of the road with the intention of hitting the dustbin. But the bag splits into two pieces, one part hitting the dustbin and another finding way at the center of the road. A policeman, who is normally sleeping in his one room cabin, suddenly emerges from there and waving his oil-polished stick asks the boy to remain standing where he was. The boy shivers and wants to run, but remains standstill. Policeman twists his ears, gives him gyan, lets the boy open his strangely white teeth, and creates a terror for some time before letting him go. Policeman is happy. His task is over, of punishing someone. The half-split part of the polythene remains where it was. Some passing vehicle will crush it and then only will it be known what is inside.
A maroon colored Qualis screeches in front and from there a few hands wave in my direction: my colleagues. They smile. It seems they noticed me lost somewhere. I smile and look at my shoes, over which a thick layer of dust has taken residence.
Remo Fernandes is on this line now:
{Salsa type music}
Sabalaba biba boom
Baba biba boom
Para pira param pam boom
Yeh yehe
What is it that keeps me moving?
It’s a beat in my brain…its’ a rhythm in my soul
It’s tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main....
Chalte jana…chalte jana
Are you ready?
Yeah…keep on moving
Beep Beep.
Yeahhhhhhhhhhh…
I open the back door of Qualis, sit inside, and shake hands with colleagues. Qualis groans, trembles, and zips on the road.
Sun is ruthless and angry today, but I am protected by the sensitive shade of trees. Sometimes I wonder what will happen if all these trees are gone.
Still some time left for my cab to reach, I plug in the microphone cable in my latest Nokia 5800 mobile. Remo Fernandes, the famed singer of the O Meri Munni…Munni Munni Babe number, diverts my attention from the squeals, coughs, and screeches of passing vehicles. But I am playing a different song of his. It starts in this manner:
{A fusion of different instruments}
Lyrics:
Yeh, kaisa mor hai…rukna na chahe mann
Peeche murna bhi muskil…lekin mane na mann
Ankhon main tufan sawalon ka…dil main jawabon ki pyas
Lakh pukare parchahiyan…mujhe chalna hai Suraj ke sath
Aja sanam ush ujale ko choo lein…sochey tu kya?
Mere hathon main chalna akela…toh mujhe kar de fida
My black leather shoes gently start striking the earth surface. I notice some ants moving. I stop.
Suddenly I notice that the road is filled with such chaotic romance that I desire to witness every minute happening.
I look at the drivers, riders, and passengers in bigger vehicles. All lost in their world, doing their respective karmas. But only passengers have the privilege to do anything. They can talk to other passengers, ogle at the beauties in the bus or dispersed around the road, or daydream.
In Indian roads, cycles and scooters were omnipresent at one point of time. During those times, it was easier to cross roads. You saw a scooter or cycle coming and you’d not even think that it could in any way be a danger. The cycle rider used to tinkle the bell, but you would show him your right hand, gave him a stern gaze and cross the road like a lion. But now some sort of expertise is necessary. Today’s time requires that you exercise your eyes a bit before crossing the road. Only after many left-to-right and right-to-left rolling of your eyeballs and a few quick permutations and combinations in your brain, you cross the road. And that too like a sheep.
Suddenly I see an attractive girl on the other side of the road. Wearing tight black jeans and white shirt, she emerges from the DDA buildings. She tosses her silky, shampooed hair, making them float backward. Her fair skin shines under the clear sunlight. From her demeanor, it seems she is aware of her attractiveness and she is aware that people around are watching her—from the buses, autos, small cars…and from the helmets on scooters. She is conscious of the attention— every moment. She is carrying a subtle smile, a smile that she has learnt to carry since she grew younger. Boys must have fluttered around her—in school and colleges, around her mohalla, in shops. She must have received thousands of greeting cards, several calls from so-called-lovers. She may even have fallen for a few, the ones who were consistent in their expressions and who could promise a glint of romance in their eyes. The smile on her lips, which energizes her whole body, assures her every day that she is in demand. Swaying her body as if a feather floating in the air, she walks toward the Bus Stop and soon merges with the rest of the crowd.
I see toward my right. A cow is standing at a distance—a silent and peaceful cow. She seems to be in her own world, not at all interested in the hustle-bustle around. I realize she is munching on the waste from the nearby dustbin. Her motive is over and now she wants to experience the other side by crossing the road. She waits for the vehicles to stop, but they don’t. Finally, she starts to cross the road without caring for the moving traffic. Buses groan, scooters tweet, and small cars blare their horn. But the cow crosses the road unperturbed and with the same peace and dignity, maybe thinking—to hell with you all assholes…you mechanical robots, you’ve eaten all the grass and trees around…you selfish creatures…because of you I’ve to dig my head in dustbins…you drink my milk and prepare that wonderful tea using my milk in the morning…haven’t your parents ever told you the importance of a cow in Indian setup. Fuck off! Let me cross the road.
And she crosses the road with her large impassive eyes. Vehicles move…
Remo Fernandes is on this line now:
Chalte jao chalte jao....are you ready?
Yaa (background artists)
Keep all moving…keep all moving
Suddenly a crow flies over my head, casting its moving shadow on the road, and perches over a wall on a house at the other side of the road. It rotates its head around, adjusts some food between its beaks, flies back to the tree and lets out its caw caws. Maybe he is telling the house owner: You paunchy rabbit…you threw a stone at me yesterday…now see I’ll eat all your pickles one by one even if I’ve to visit a doctor later on.
A small sized, as round as a football, and chocolaty colored kid—wearing a Sando and a Bermuda— distracts my attention. He carries a polythene bag, which he wants to throw in the dustbin on the other side. He waits for the traffic to stop, but it doesn’t. So without waiting much he throws the bag toward the other side of the road with the intention of hitting the dustbin. But the bag splits into two pieces, one part hitting the dustbin and another finding way at the center of the road. A policeman, who is normally sleeping in his one room cabin, suddenly emerges from there and waving his oil-polished stick asks the boy to remain standing where he was. The boy shivers and wants to run, but remains standstill. Policeman twists his ears, gives him gyan, lets the boy open his strangely white teeth, and creates a terror for some time before letting him go. Policeman is happy. His task is over, of punishing someone. The half-split part of the polythene remains where it was. Some passing vehicle will crush it and then only will it be known what is inside.
A maroon colored Qualis screeches in front and from there a few hands wave in my direction: my colleagues. They smile. It seems they noticed me lost somewhere. I smile and look at my shoes, over which a thick layer of dust has taken residence.
Remo Fernandes is on this line now:
{Salsa type music}
Sabalaba biba boom
Baba biba boom
Para pira param pam boom
Yeh yehe
What is it that keeps me moving?
It’s a beat in my brain…its’ a rhythm in my soul
It’s tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main
Tirkit mann main....
Chalte jana…chalte jana
Are you ready?
Yeah…keep on moving
Beep Beep.
Yeahhhhhhhhhhh…
I open the back door of Qualis, sit inside, and shake hands with colleagues. Qualis groans, trembles, and zips on the road.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Time is passing by...
Blazing hot and humid weather of Saturday kept us indoor. August has approached, but rain is nowhere in the sight. It rained scantily a fortnight ago, but that created more trouble rather than bringing any respite. Venturing outside means getting severely burnt, so we kept ourselves indoor: my friends and I.
In India, people can discuss endlessly on any topic. And people can easily find ways to do that. Keshavji moved in the Kitchen and came back with 3 steamy cups of tea. And that was enough to create an atmosphere. With intense sips of the warm tea, Keshavji initiated the discussion telling about a prediction of world coming to an end in 2012, prediction made by some astrologers in a newschannel. Sanjayji's eyes popped out of his spectacles and he said "Acchaji!" And there was no stopping anybody after that. All past, present and future erupted: from Nostradomus to Hitler to present nuclear weapons.
I added, "Yes, Nostradomus said something like that...but I guess that was the year 2000, not 2012."
"Acchaji, Sanjayji's eyes came erupting out this time." "His predictions have been very accurate so far: from the rise of Hitler to the collapse of World Trade Centers," Kehavji added more spice to it.
"Do you know Hitler and his girlfriend were shot dead?" Keshavji added.
"But I heard he could never be found and got buried under one of his buildings."
"No, that's wrong...he and his girlfriend were shot in full public view," Keshavji flaunted his knowledge of history.
"By whom?"
"Some American soldier."
"Quite a lucky guy whoever got a chance to do that."
"Whatever...If world comes to an end, all must die at once. No discrimination. It shouldn't be that one place vanishes before another...everything should evaporate at once," I put my point. "Is there any way of escape?" Sanjayji asked quite seriously.
I added, "Perhaps, there is one way: we all collect a number of oxygen cylinders and jump into an ocean...we'll wait there until things are under control." And there was a loud cackling of sounds. "There is no escape in the ocean too. If the center of earth's gravity is disturbed, even oceans will not remain at one place," Sanjayji flaunted his knowledge of physics.
"This prediction can be a bluff, just to draw some public attention," Kehavji added. "Even if that is so, the world will end soon...Today, the nuclear nations have the nuclear capability to destroy the whole world 5000 times. The way Taliban and other militant organizations are operating, that dooms day can be any day." "Right," Sanjayji acknowledged pensively.
Chutku, who had remained silent so far, stood up and said, "Do you know Alexander Technique?"
"No," a unanimous reply.
"The technique is to help your life force flow uninterruptedly through your backbone." "You can do so by maintaining a good straight posture, by not bending your back...it helps one remain straight...at the present moment, no past and no future."
And there was silence after that.
Note: While accidentally coming across a magazine with an article on Hitler, I got to know that he wasn't shot dead. He commited suicide along with his wife. Keshavji's history knowledge lacked sharpness ;)
In India, people can discuss endlessly on any topic. And people can easily find ways to do that. Keshavji moved in the Kitchen and came back with 3 steamy cups of tea. And that was enough to create an atmosphere. With intense sips of the warm tea, Keshavji initiated the discussion telling about a prediction of world coming to an end in 2012, prediction made by some astrologers in a newschannel. Sanjayji's eyes popped out of his spectacles and he said "Acchaji!" And there was no stopping anybody after that. All past, present and future erupted: from Nostradomus to Hitler to present nuclear weapons.
I added, "Yes, Nostradomus said something like that...but I guess that was the year 2000, not 2012."
"Acchaji, Sanjayji's eyes came erupting out this time." "His predictions have been very accurate so far: from the rise of Hitler to the collapse of World Trade Centers," Kehavji added more spice to it.
"Do you know Hitler and his girlfriend were shot dead?" Keshavji added.
"But I heard he could never be found and got buried under one of his buildings."
"No, that's wrong...he and his girlfriend were shot in full public view," Keshavji flaunted his knowledge of history.
"By whom?"
"Some American soldier."
"Quite a lucky guy whoever got a chance to do that."
"Whatever...If world comes to an end, all must die at once. No discrimination. It shouldn't be that one place vanishes before another...everything should evaporate at once," I put my point. "Is there any way of escape?" Sanjayji asked quite seriously.
I added, "Perhaps, there is one way: we all collect a number of oxygen cylinders and jump into an ocean...we'll wait there until things are under control." And there was a loud cackling of sounds. "There is no escape in the ocean too. If the center of earth's gravity is disturbed, even oceans will not remain at one place," Sanjayji flaunted his knowledge of physics.
"This prediction can be a bluff, just to draw some public attention," Kehavji added. "Even if that is so, the world will end soon...Today, the nuclear nations have the nuclear capability to destroy the whole world 5000 times. The way Taliban and other militant organizations are operating, that dooms day can be any day." "Right," Sanjayji acknowledged pensively.
Chutku, who had remained silent so far, stood up and said, "Do you know Alexander Technique?"
"No," a unanimous reply.
"The technique is to help your life force flow uninterruptedly through your backbone." "You can do so by maintaining a good straight posture, by not bending your back...it helps one remain straight...at the present moment, no past and no future."
And there was silence after that.
Note: While accidentally coming across a magazine with an article on Hitler, I got to know that he wasn't shot dead. He commited suicide along with his wife. Keshavji's history knowledge lacked sharpness ;)
Thursday, November 6, 2008
It was my day...
Today was such a wonderful day that I couldn't have waited more to write. When I reached office, I logged into my laptop and opened my Outlook Express. Since it takes time to receive e-mails in Outlook, I moved to the Tea Machine and soon returned with a cup of tea. I pulled the chair and gave a cursory glance to all the e-mails of the day. A response from one client, then another. And then...oops!!! An e-mail from Bill Gates. My hands rapidly moved toward the mouse and in a flash of seconds the e-mail from Bill covered the entire window. It read:
Hi KC,
How are you? Are you fine? I saw your resume in one of the jobsites. It impresses me, and I was wondering if you are looking for a change and would like to work with Microsoft.
Your friend,
Bill
I checked the e-mail address from which it came, and put it in Google. I was surprised to find that it was the same e-mail address that one site mentioned Bill Gates uses to receive emails for philanthropic work.
With my every facial cell exploding with a smile, I called my friends and showed them the e-mail. There was an excitement around, and everybody started playing with me. "Now, KC is a big thing," one of my friends said. Others followed.
For the next 3-4 hours, everbody in my team kept mentioning that e-mail to have fun.
In the meantime, I kept thinking "why an e-mail from Bill?" If somebody is really playing with me, why didn't he send me an e-mail from Barrack Obama, who the previous day won the presidential election.
Around 6:00 in the evening, I came back after having some snacks and sat on my machine only to find an e-mail from Barrack Obama. How on earth can that happen? I hurriedly opened the e-mail, which read:
Hi KC,
I hope you are doing well. Thanks for supporting me. I've finally managed to win the election. I will sometime meet you soon.
Regards,
Barrack
I called my friends, and there was a loud guffaow.
Later in the evening at around 7:30, we had a quarterly gathering of our office. Some awards were to be distributed, and some big guys had to give some presentations on the company's growth in the quarter.
After the presentations were over, the award ceremony started and with the enunciation of a nice paragraph by the anchor, my named was called, "And this Star Award goes to none other than Kalicharan". A loud applause followed. My colleagues pushed me from the back and there I was in the dais. My company's biggest boss handed me the award.
Big bosses generally don't say anything on this occasion except handing awards...
But quite surprisingly, my company's biggest boss held the mike on his left hand and my award on his right, and moving toward me, he said, "It wasn't just about the good work that you did in that project, but the way with which you made the customer feel really good by your proactiveness-- that speaks a lot about the attitude you carry." The second biggest boss followed by adding something more nice to it.
I couldn't believe all this. This hardly happens.
First, the two biggest bosses of the world-- Bill, the richest guy and then Barrack Obama, the leader of the richest nation. Even though somebody played with me, it doesn't matter. And then after that two biggest bosses of my company doing the same.
Sometimes everything goes so well without your putting any effort and sometimes everything goes wrong with your putting so much of effort.
Hi KC,
How are you? Are you fine? I saw your resume in one of the jobsites. It impresses me, and I was wondering if you are looking for a change and would like to work with Microsoft.
Your friend,
Bill
I checked the e-mail address from which it came, and put it in Google. I was surprised to find that it was the same e-mail address that one site mentioned Bill Gates uses to receive emails for philanthropic work.
With my every facial cell exploding with a smile, I called my friends and showed them the e-mail. There was an excitement around, and everybody started playing with me. "Now, KC is a big thing," one of my friends said. Others followed.
For the next 3-4 hours, everbody in my team kept mentioning that e-mail to have fun.
In the meantime, I kept thinking "why an e-mail from Bill?" If somebody is really playing with me, why didn't he send me an e-mail from Barrack Obama, who the previous day won the presidential election.
Around 6:00 in the evening, I came back after having some snacks and sat on my machine only to find an e-mail from Barrack Obama. How on earth can that happen? I hurriedly opened the e-mail, which read:
Hi KC,
I hope you are doing well. Thanks for supporting me. I've finally managed to win the election. I will sometime meet you soon.
Regards,
Barrack
I called my friends, and there was a loud guffaow.
Later in the evening at around 7:30, we had a quarterly gathering of our office. Some awards were to be distributed, and some big guys had to give some presentations on the company's growth in the quarter.
After the presentations were over, the award ceremony started and with the enunciation of a nice paragraph by the anchor, my named was called, "And this Star Award goes to none other than Kalicharan". A loud applause followed. My colleagues pushed me from the back and there I was in the dais. My company's biggest boss handed me the award.
Big bosses generally don't say anything on this occasion except handing awards...
But quite surprisingly, my company's biggest boss held the mike on his left hand and my award on his right, and moving toward me, he said, "It wasn't just about the good work that you did in that project, but the way with which you made the customer feel really good by your proactiveness-- that speaks a lot about the attitude you carry." The second biggest boss followed by adding something more nice to it.
I couldn't believe all this. This hardly happens.
First, the two biggest bosses of the world-- Bill, the richest guy and then Barrack Obama, the leader of the richest nation. Even though somebody played with me, it doesn't matter. And then after that two biggest bosses of my company doing the same.
Sometimes everything goes so well without your putting any effort and sometimes everything goes wrong with your putting so much of effort.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
We are alive…
It was 5 O’ clock in the evening, and we were standing on the pavement of a not-so-busy area of the famous Connaught Place market, trying to locate a vintage coffee house. With our hands on our foreheads to avoid the direct sun rays falling on our head, we looked upward toward an old, medium-built shopping complex, which engulfed in it several pigeon holed shops, to search for the coffee house.
And there lurked from the opening of the second floor an old white wooden plaque broken from the right bottom side indicating the coffee house in faded bold letters. This was the coffee house that Anil had incessantly talked about for 10 minutes before reaching the place.
This coffee house boasted of its rich past. People belonging to political fraternities and elite classes often frequented this place once, and the place claimed to have been a hub of all major political conspiracies.
After climbing the steep, dark staircase of the first two floors, when we finally approached the entry point of the Coffee house, we were greeted by the murmurings of the old people, who seemed to be occupied with some secretive, contemplative talks. The ambience pervaded in it a touch of seriousness. From the broken glass windows, the light streamed in the room in sufficient amount—which tried to cover up the serious, dull ambience.
As our feet moved forward crossing the threshold, we could see some eyes glinting toward us as if trying to probe ‘How come these young guys here?’ and as if curious to know ‘Have Café Coffee Days stopped their Indian operation?’
We looked around focusing our eyes in different directions to find a place, but the entire place seemed packed.
Exercising our eyes for a while, we finally managed to locate an empty table near the half broken window, which gave an outside view of the activities happening on the roadside. The table was broken from the middle and bent to whichever side the more weight was put, so we preferred not to put our hands over it. Air conditioners didn’t work; in place old Usha fans rotated in fast speed over our heads, offering no respite from heat. With that kind of air, it was hard to conquer sweat, so my hanky found a way out of my pocket and delicately moved over my sun-attacked face.
After resting ourselves for a while, we cocked our heads in every direction to look for a waiter, but the place seemed to be deserted of them. After waiting for a while and filled with disappointment, we moved to another room in search of a waiter and luckily found an empty chair opposite to the manager’s desk to sit on. With his spectacles touching the tip of his thick nose, he looked grimly towards the long register, which he held loosely on his hands, and seemed oblivious of and uninterested in the activities happening around. It seemed as if he was bored of his monotonous work— and his life as a whole. From the group of Uncles sitting nearby, one spoke a few words of the famous Pakistan transferred Indian revolutionary poet, Faiz Ahmad Faiz:
“Har admi main hote hain 10-20 admi. Agar kisi ko dekhna ho toh kayi bar dekho (Every man has in him 10-20 men. If you want to see a man, see him many times).”
It seemed he had followed those lines a lot during his lifetime, and now he was telling others to follow that. Oh! quite late.
Suddenly from nowhere, a waiter, wearing white clothes and a Gandhi cap, appeared in front of us and asked for an order. “What is there in the menu?” Anil hungrily asked. With an obsequious smile, he quickly babbled a list of items on offer. “Three coffees and two cutlets, please.” The waiter vanished, and we waited in silence till the order arrived.
After having a quick round of coffee and delicious cutlets, and looking around the old, dilapidated interiors of the coffee house, we had come out wondering why this place registered such a memorable past.
Weather was sultry outside as a result of the intermittent drizzle a day ago, but the air carried in it a touch of approaching evening freshness. Evening had started to register its presence by the fading sunlight, casting a long shadow of the buildings on the wide road. The roadside market buzzed with different activities— it was packed with people of different age groups ambling inquisitively, hawkers attracting customers by their loud offerings, and sleepingly autoricksaw drivers waiting for their customers. Several shops on the roadside formed a pattern of eclectic choices to the passersby, who often stopped for a while to have a look at the items on offer.
Looking at the poster outside the Rivoli theatre, my friend screamed, “Hey, you guys want to watch Singh is King?” My another friend’s chuckling voice showed interest. With a twisted nose, almost at an angle of 60 degrees, I immediately followed, “I’ve watched it. It’s ok.” Nobody said anything after that, and we moved on along the pavement. “What to do then,” said Anil complainingly. “Let us first explore some books, and then we’ll go in a pub to have some beer,” I said. It was warmly agreed, and I saw two happy, blinking faces.
We moved further looking for a bookshop. Just nearby on the pavement was one, touching the iron-grilled boundary of the wide road. With rapid strides, I moved towards the place and, on reaching the place, I leaned forward to have a good look of the books dispersed over a thick piece of cloth lying on the rough, cemented pavement.
I’ve often observed that I loose my control when I am surrounded by books. I should have been a librarian in my past life.
I liked the cover of a book, held it on my hands, and tried to look inside of it. My friends peeped from the backside— looking at their respective choices.
The cover of the book I was holding read The Age of Kali by William Dalrymple. Cocking his head from the left side of my shoulder, Anil said excitedly, “He is a good writer. He wrote The Last Mughal.” The book seemed to be good to me too. I was still in the process of deciding whether or not to buy it when a loud sound brought the calculating process of my brain and the cheery movement of the marketplace to an abrupt halt. Hardly had we got time to think what it was, another earth-cracking sound just in front of us made the book I was holding fall off my hands. The sounds had enough power to fill in the atmosphere a feel of terror. The sound emanated from the Central Park— the place at a distance of only 150 meters— which was covered by a wall and a thick bush, blocking the view of the blast site. Some people came running down from the gate in such a manner as if uncertain what actually had happened.
People who were carefree a minute ago seemed panic stricken; they ran toward their respective vehicles in order to flee away. A boy and a girl whom we had seem roaming intimately with each other for quite a while were now running in opposite directions. It was perhaps their first date.
Immediately, after the blasts, dark smoke had billowed in the sky and had hung above the blast area. Our mouths were agape in utter disbelief. Maneesh hurriedly said, “What to do now?” “Let’s quickly move back,” Anil responded even more hurriedly. With our feet moving forward and our heads still turned backward, we ran away directionless to leave the place. We waved our hands towards many autoricksaws, but they were already full, so we moved swiftly towards the main road to find one. Jostling with the buses and scooters in the slow moving traffic, we managed to catch a bus. Maneesh had to go to a different place, so he took another route.
We were relived to be inside the bus, but still clueless what actually had happened. After a few moments, Anil’s mobile clinked, indicating an SMS from Maneesh. Anil read “There was an autorickshaw that blew up”. Even the bus didn’t seem safe now. ‘What if the third bomb was implanted inside this bus?’ the thought came. But then who knows, it could be on any of the other auto rickshaws outside. Soon the bus filled to its capacity, but traffic showed signs of no movement. In a matter of few seconds, there came barging from the backside a series of ambulances and fire brigade buses, all screaming loudly to find a way forward. Everybody in the bus seemed to be speculating in that noise about the blast. They had their own versions of the incident, but nobody was certain of what actually had happened.
To our relief, in a minute’s time, the vehicles in front started to move, clearing the way for our bus to take the left turn and pickup the speed. My friend’s mobile rang, and his serious sounding Tamil conversation of a minute removed the curtain of mystery. Moving the mobile swiftly down from his ears, he said with elated eyes, which seemed to be popping out of his spectacles, “There were five blasts—one in CP, one in Janpath, one in Gaffar market, and one in M Block market.” With my mouth wide open, I hissed “Oh! My God”. Situation was far grimmer than what it looked. These serial blasts had taken place only a month after a series of blasts in Ahmedabad, Bangalore, and Jaipur. On the way back, Anil’s cellphone rang at regular intervals to give us the updates.
With the air touching my face from the open window of the moving bus, my thoughts moved towards the people who were victimized.
People go merrily with their family members for shopping, and nobody expects all this. In such incidents, some family members loose their lives while some by way of destiny are alive to moan over their family members’ death, which in no way is a better condition. The blood splattered dead body of a smiling and close family member just a minute ago becomes a torment for the life time. The person lives, but the heart-rending images remain hung on the deepest core of his mind just to wake him up often in the night. The ones who were now dead on the roadside didn’t know it would happen to them. They didn’t want that. They had just come to enjoy and to find some joy in shopping for themselves and their family members.
Anil and I didn’t talk much on the way back home except the updates that he gave me on regular intervals.
On reaching home, I switched on the television and there flashed pictures of the blast area—blood, unconscious bodies, and crying people. Sniffer dogs were running and sniffing around the blast area, and police personnel were trying to match their energy levels. A young balloon seller, crying helplessly and who claimed to have seen the terrorists who planted the bombs, was being taken by the Police. The newsreader reported that there were many more bombs planted in that area, but they were defused now— one at India Gate, the place we crossed walkingly in the daytime; another one in a dustbin outside Rivoli where my friends had wanted to watch the movie and the pavement on which we had walked carelessly for quite some time and where I held that book on my hand; and a few others in the Central Park, a place where my friend was desirous of going to buy some DVDs.
It was unbelievable to think that we had walked in every that area that could have snatched our body from us and thrown us without our wish to another unknown dimension if only those remaining bombs had blown off. I couldn’t believe that we had walked “so closely and so happily” with death for 30 minutes around that dustbin outside the Rivoli theatre.
Isn't it really an "Age of Kali?"
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Shareef (Good Man)
A few days ago I had a discussion with a friend over a community website. He said something to me, which I didn’t associate myself with. So I responded by saying “Don’t tarnish the reputation of a good man.” To this, he responded, “How do you define a good man?”
And that made me think…my mind took me to my childhood days.
In my childhood, I often found grandmothers, middle-aged ladies, and school and college going girls often appreciate guys who spoke less, didn’t look directly into eyes and blushed often while talking. They were tagged Shareef. But, as time passed by, I observed the same guys getting changed entirely— many a time I often saw them becoming just opposite to their images given to them by those beautiful ladies of different generations.
How did this change come about in those shareefs?
The same shareef guys were sent to boarding schools for further studies because of the lack of good schools in their home town. Suddenly finding themselves in a new place with no restrictions from parents and nobody in the neighborhood to watch them, they did what that desired. When a human being suddenly finds independence, his wildness finds a way out and his hidden and suppressed part becomes visible. Something similar happened with these shareef guys. Their angel-like images were a product of their parental guidance and the neighborhood they grew up in.
When a human being lives in his home, he has to follow rules of the home. In a subtle, but powerful way, rules of the neighborhood and the whole society also affect human being’s life. His actions outside home or inside home are watched not only at home but are of interest to the neighborhood as well, and so the human being adjusts to live in a shell of family and neighborhood, trying to create an image that doesn’t create any trouble for him.
But in hostel life was different. No more conformances to rules and no restrictions. What do you expect from young guys? Unless they carry some sense or the teachings of their parents are mixed entirely with their blood, they are generally directed towards something wild. Bunking often from classes, waking up the whole night, and spending time outside watching some movie in a nearby theatre are a few of the things that the young blood likes. Things like rules and so called sense don’t remain so important then.
That is what happened to these guys, so they couldn’t remain the same.
On holidays, when these different looking chaps came home, a striking difference was visible in their demeanor. The way they talked and walked was entirely different. The same beautiful ladies frowned looking at them this time and said “Shareef bacchon ko pardesh ki hawa lag gayi (City has changed these good chaps).”
I grew up hearing these lines and often wondered that the same Sushant who hardly let a single word come out of his never opening lips was blabbering those abuses starting with B and M. Cigarettes and tobacco had become his close associates, and he would often be spotted with his group—all equipped with iron chains and nickels. In some cases, I even saw somebody being thrashed by Sushant and his group.
I forgot to tell you that he was no more called Sushant. He was now Michael, the reason for which was he now danced well, fluttering his bamboo shaped legs, accentuated by his tight jeans, unstoppably whenever somebody played an adrenaline pushing dance number. His dance supported well by alcohol was one of the reasons of his popularity. Without caring about his image, I often observed girls looking appreciatively toward him while he danced. Even though I never saw a single girl falling in love with him, I noticed most of them liked teasing him and being teased by him. I often overheard some such exchanges of those moments, and I mostly found them senseless.
Sushant had remained a very close friend of mine till the time he set off to his hostel in a remote location. On the day of his leaving for his hostel the first time, I remember him being a quiet, fear stricken guy standing on the roadside waiting for the bus. Sun shone brilliantly on his white skinned face, which was intruded by thick lines of mustard oil finding way from his scalp. He wore black polished shoes and clutched a big square shaped iron suitcase with his name printed in white bold letters. His father stood on the opposite side of the road, and his mother peeped from the half open window—her face covered by a part of her Saree and tears rolling down her cheeks. In such occasions, I often found every mother doing the same. They don’t come out and show their emotions to children. They are emotional, but they don’t want their children to be emotional.
I had noticed that as the bus approached Sushant, his fear had grown stronger. The fear of going to an unknown place was evident in him.
But within one year of remaining in that new unknown place, the fear stricken and innocent looking Sushant got changed. For the first time, he failed the exam and his involvement in a list of activities forwarded by the school authorities made his parents call him back.
This one year time period was his transition period from Sushant to Michael. A shy, quiet guy metamorphosed into a guy who now preferred to be among groups of hooligans who were often spotted whistling at girls. He didn’t do these activities in front of those ladies who once admired him, but the change in his aura was enough to let those ladies say, “Sangati kharab hai iski (His company is bad).”
Like Sushant there were others too who were once tagged as shareef, and now they all could be seen with all those iron chains and nickels cramped in different areas of their clothes.
During his one year in the hostel, Sushant had come home 3-4 times on holidays, and I had observed all the changes in him. His hair style changed, his dressing style changed, his walking style changed, and his vocabulary changed. In fact, I can say quite confidently I saw all the developmental phases he went through to become Michael.
I was somehow unaffected from the so called bad practices, and in the entire village which was divided by a long road I would often see older people, while talking among themselves, pointing at me and saying ‘Bishtji’s son is the only one who is unaffected’. There wasn’t even a temptation of doing those filthy things in my mind, but when it came to being a part of cricket tournaments, I broke the rules. I remember bunking my school in quite a few occasions just to participate in some.
Being a reliable opening batsman and a handy leg spin as well as medium pace bowler (not like Manoj Prabhakar), I found respect among this group and we often roamed with each other. Once my maths teacher, who used to appreciate me a lot, made me stand up in the class and reprimanded me “Aur ghumo un logon ke sath. Tabhi itne acche number nahi aye tumhare (Be in the company of hooligans. That’s why you haven’t scored well this time).”
Teasing girls was one thing that I never supported. I considered it to be a very cheap act—a few bunch of guys passing comments on a lonely girl and seeing those strained marks of fear on that girl. What bravery is that? That’s not being a man at all. But I saw those so called friends of mine doing that often whenever one passed by. At those moments, I would change the angle of my neck and would feel very bad, but at the same time I liked the adventure of sitting with these directionless youths near the roadside on a small bridge hanging over a small canal. We would often talk till darkness engulfed the houses around and there were chirpings of only crickets (insects found in villages) emanating from no particular direction. There were only voices telling stories—faces were invisible in the dark. Ghosts were the favorite topics that occupied strong interest. It’s hard to express, but they were the golden moments—a spherical shaped bridge, water flowing under it producing a music that fused well with the sounds produced by crickets, and wind caressing our faces in a flirtatious way.
After completing my schooling, I came to Delhi for higher studies. During the time in Delhi, I kept getting updates about Sushant and his group. They failed the exams and couldn’t pursue further studies. Their family member almost shunned them. That was enough for a wake up call, so they looked for some source of income.
A few years ago when I went to my place, I heard that Michael had opened a restaurant with his group. They serve people in a different way—not with chains and rods of course.
I heard ladies say ‘Sudhar gaya time pe, nahi toh gaya tha hath se chhora (He changed his habits on time; otherwise, he would slip away from his parent’s hands.’)
I met him and found some touch of realization in him. He retained his old image back.
Experiences change people. After a lot of experiences of different aspects of our lives, we form conclusions, which are based on what we did that made us feel good and what brought us trouble. And then rules are formed—rules telling what one should do to get good results and what will bring bad results.
Some people have to go through a lot of experiences to realize for themselves what is good for them while some don’t even require one experience because they are already realized by their deep observation.
And that made me think…my mind took me to my childhood days.
In my childhood, I often found grandmothers, middle-aged ladies, and school and college going girls often appreciate guys who spoke less, didn’t look directly into eyes and blushed often while talking. They were tagged Shareef. But, as time passed by, I observed the same guys getting changed entirely— many a time I often saw them becoming just opposite to their images given to them by those beautiful ladies of different generations.
How did this change come about in those shareefs?
The same shareef guys were sent to boarding schools for further studies because of the lack of good schools in their home town. Suddenly finding themselves in a new place with no restrictions from parents and nobody in the neighborhood to watch them, they did what that desired. When a human being suddenly finds independence, his wildness finds a way out and his hidden and suppressed part becomes visible. Something similar happened with these shareef guys. Their angel-like images were a product of their parental guidance and the neighborhood they grew up in.
When a human being lives in his home, he has to follow rules of the home. In a subtle, but powerful way, rules of the neighborhood and the whole society also affect human being’s life. His actions outside home or inside home are watched not only at home but are of interest to the neighborhood as well, and so the human being adjusts to live in a shell of family and neighborhood, trying to create an image that doesn’t create any trouble for him.
But in hostel life was different. No more conformances to rules and no restrictions. What do you expect from young guys? Unless they carry some sense or the teachings of their parents are mixed entirely with their blood, they are generally directed towards something wild. Bunking often from classes, waking up the whole night, and spending time outside watching some movie in a nearby theatre are a few of the things that the young blood likes. Things like rules and so called sense don’t remain so important then.
That is what happened to these guys, so they couldn’t remain the same.
On holidays, when these different looking chaps came home, a striking difference was visible in their demeanor. The way they talked and walked was entirely different. The same beautiful ladies frowned looking at them this time and said “Shareef bacchon ko pardesh ki hawa lag gayi (City has changed these good chaps).”
I grew up hearing these lines and often wondered that the same Sushant who hardly let a single word come out of his never opening lips was blabbering those abuses starting with B and M. Cigarettes and tobacco had become his close associates, and he would often be spotted with his group—all equipped with iron chains and nickels. In some cases, I even saw somebody being thrashed by Sushant and his group.
I forgot to tell you that he was no more called Sushant. He was now Michael, the reason for which was he now danced well, fluttering his bamboo shaped legs, accentuated by his tight jeans, unstoppably whenever somebody played an adrenaline pushing dance number. His dance supported well by alcohol was one of the reasons of his popularity. Without caring about his image, I often observed girls looking appreciatively toward him while he danced. Even though I never saw a single girl falling in love with him, I noticed most of them liked teasing him and being teased by him. I often overheard some such exchanges of those moments, and I mostly found them senseless.
Sushant had remained a very close friend of mine till the time he set off to his hostel in a remote location. On the day of his leaving for his hostel the first time, I remember him being a quiet, fear stricken guy standing on the roadside waiting for the bus. Sun shone brilliantly on his white skinned face, which was intruded by thick lines of mustard oil finding way from his scalp. He wore black polished shoes and clutched a big square shaped iron suitcase with his name printed in white bold letters. His father stood on the opposite side of the road, and his mother peeped from the half open window—her face covered by a part of her Saree and tears rolling down her cheeks. In such occasions, I often found every mother doing the same. They don’t come out and show their emotions to children. They are emotional, but they don’t want their children to be emotional.
I had noticed that as the bus approached Sushant, his fear had grown stronger. The fear of going to an unknown place was evident in him.
But within one year of remaining in that new unknown place, the fear stricken and innocent looking Sushant got changed. For the first time, he failed the exam and his involvement in a list of activities forwarded by the school authorities made his parents call him back.
This one year time period was his transition period from Sushant to Michael. A shy, quiet guy metamorphosed into a guy who now preferred to be among groups of hooligans who were often spotted whistling at girls. He didn’t do these activities in front of those ladies who once admired him, but the change in his aura was enough to let those ladies say, “Sangati kharab hai iski (His company is bad).”
Like Sushant there were others too who were once tagged as shareef, and now they all could be seen with all those iron chains and nickels cramped in different areas of their clothes.
During his one year in the hostel, Sushant had come home 3-4 times on holidays, and I had observed all the changes in him. His hair style changed, his dressing style changed, his walking style changed, and his vocabulary changed. In fact, I can say quite confidently I saw all the developmental phases he went through to become Michael.
I was somehow unaffected from the so called bad practices, and in the entire village which was divided by a long road I would often see older people, while talking among themselves, pointing at me and saying ‘Bishtji’s son is the only one who is unaffected’. There wasn’t even a temptation of doing those filthy things in my mind, but when it came to being a part of cricket tournaments, I broke the rules. I remember bunking my school in quite a few occasions just to participate in some.
Being a reliable opening batsman and a handy leg spin as well as medium pace bowler (not like Manoj Prabhakar), I found respect among this group and we often roamed with each other. Once my maths teacher, who used to appreciate me a lot, made me stand up in the class and reprimanded me “Aur ghumo un logon ke sath. Tabhi itne acche number nahi aye tumhare (Be in the company of hooligans. That’s why you haven’t scored well this time).”
Teasing girls was one thing that I never supported. I considered it to be a very cheap act—a few bunch of guys passing comments on a lonely girl and seeing those strained marks of fear on that girl. What bravery is that? That’s not being a man at all. But I saw those so called friends of mine doing that often whenever one passed by. At those moments, I would change the angle of my neck and would feel very bad, but at the same time I liked the adventure of sitting with these directionless youths near the roadside on a small bridge hanging over a small canal. We would often talk till darkness engulfed the houses around and there were chirpings of only crickets (insects found in villages) emanating from no particular direction. There were only voices telling stories—faces were invisible in the dark. Ghosts were the favorite topics that occupied strong interest. It’s hard to express, but they were the golden moments—a spherical shaped bridge, water flowing under it producing a music that fused well with the sounds produced by crickets, and wind caressing our faces in a flirtatious way.
After completing my schooling, I came to Delhi for higher studies. During the time in Delhi, I kept getting updates about Sushant and his group. They failed the exams and couldn’t pursue further studies. Their family member almost shunned them. That was enough for a wake up call, so they looked for some source of income.
A few years ago when I went to my place, I heard that Michael had opened a restaurant with his group. They serve people in a different way—not with chains and rods of course.
I heard ladies say ‘Sudhar gaya time pe, nahi toh gaya tha hath se chhora (He changed his habits on time; otherwise, he would slip away from his parent’s hands.’)
I met him and found some touch of realization in him. He retained his old image back.
Experiences change people. After a lot of experiences of different aspects of our lives, we form conclusions, which are based on what we did that made us feel good and what brought us trouble. And then rules are formed—rules telling what one should do to get good results and what will bring bad results.
Some people have to go through a lot of experiences to realize for themselves what is good for them while some don’t even require one experience because they are already realized by their deep observation.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Vivekananda's Chicago Address-- WHY WE DISAGREE, 15th September, 1893
I will tell you a little story. You have heard the eloquent speaker who has just finished say, "Let us cease from abusing each other", and he was very sorry that there should be always so much variance.
But I think I should tell you a story which would illustrate the cause of this variance. A frog lived in a well. It had lived there for a long time. It was born there and brought up there, and yet was a little, small frog. Of course the evolutionists were not there then to tell us whether the frog lost its eyes or not, but, for our story's sake, we must take it for granted that it had its eyes, and that it every day cleansed the water of all the worms and bacilli that lived in it with an energy that would do credit to our modern bacteriologists. In this way, it went on and became a little sleek and fat. Well, one day another frog that lived in the sea came and fell into the well. "Where are you from?" "I am from the sea." "The sea! How big is that? Is it as big as my well?" and he took a leap from one side of the well to the other. "My friend", said the frog of the sea, "how do you compare the sea with your little well?" Then the frog took another leap and asked, "Is your sea so big?" "What nonsense you speak, to compare the sea with your well" "Well, then," said the frog of the well, "nothing can be bigger than my well; there can be nothing bigger than this; this fellow is a liar, so turn him out."
That has been the difficulty all the while.
I am a Hindu. I am sitting in my own little well and thinking that the whole world is my little well. The Christian sits in his little well and thinks the whole world is his well. The Mohammedan sits in his little well and thinks that is the whole world. I have to thank you of America for the great attempt you are making to break down the barriers of this little world of ours, and hope that, in future, the Lord will help you to accomplish your purpose.
But I think I should tell you a story which would illustrate the cause of this variance. A frog lived in a well. It had lived there for a long time. It was born there and brought up there, and yet was a little, small frog. Of course the evolutionists were not there then to tell us whether the frog lost its eyes or not, but, for our story's sake, we must take it for granted that it had its eyes, and that it every day cleansed the water of all the worms and bacilli that lived in it with an energy that would do credit to our modern bacteriologists. In this way, it went on and became a little sleek and fat. Well, one day another frog that lived in the sea came and fell into the well. "Where are you from?" "I am from the sea." "The sea! How big is that? Is it as big as my well?" and he took a leap from one side of the well to the other. "My friend", said the frog of the sea, "how do you compare the sea with your little well?" Then the frog took another leap and asked, "Is your sea so big?" "What nonsense you speak, to compare the sea with your well" "Well, then," said the frog of the well, "nothing can be bigger than my well; there can be nothing bigger than this; this fellow is a liar, so turn him out."
That has been the difficulty all the while.
I am a Hindu. I am sitting in my own little well and thinking that the whole world is my little well. The Christian sits in his little well and thinks the whole world is his well. The Mohammedan sits in his little well and thinks that is the whole world. I have to thank you of America for the great attempt you are making to break down the barriers of this little world of ours, and hope that, in future, the Lord will help you to accomplish your purpose.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
