Loneliness

The fear of loneliness is one of the worst fears. Man is one being so much plagued by this fear. And loneliness feeds on fear. Fear of it makes it more powerful. Men do everything possible to keep themselves away from this ghost – they make friends, marry, have children, remarry, form clubs, drink, abuse drugs and try what not. It is a virtual devil which curbs men of their thinking power, creative capacity, their productivity and sucks out all energy. It makes one feel powerless and defeated. Sometimes men set out to oust the devil once and for all, go to any extent for the sake, lose their individuality, lose their personality only finally to find out that the ghost has returned with great vengeance. Sometimes, why most times, the enemy seems to be better than the deeds we do to get rid of him. An unfitting company makes you feel lonelier than you are alone.

The deeds we do to keep ourself away loneliness seem to fail and all the more,torment us to keep us busier than fearing loneliness. So what is the way? The most efficient way seems to be to befriend the enemy. Ya...to befriend loneliness. To enjoy being alone. Once you start enjoying it, it is no more called loneliness, it is called aloneness. Aloneness is a state of mind which the mind thoroughly enjoys. You contemplate, you learn to be yourself, you derive pleasure in it, you become creative, you explore what you enjoy the most, you improve.

After all, aloneness is the most mature state of your mind. Your mind is not dependent on anything else for happiness, it is happy by itself. Then comes the state of neither being happy nor being sad. The state of evenness of mind. But to start with, you have to enjoy being alone. If you enjoy that, most troubles, external and internal would slowly start vanishing.

Aum tat sat.

The train

Sitting in the Trans Scenic train from Greymouth to Christchurch, I am once again amazed by the pace with which times change. Here I am, sitting in the train traversing the route dubbed as one of the most scenic train routes in the world. The train travels through mountains, rivers, valleys, lakes and passes and tunnels. Beautiful river bed, snow, big lakes and forest really is a feast for the eyes. I had paid a fare which would be more than all the money I had paid for all my train trips in India. I suddenly become nostalgic about my train journeys.

Travelling in a train was one of my childhood dreams. I grew up in Udumalpet, a small town near Coimbatore. A very beautiful (which I realized after visiting many other “beautiful” cities) town adjoining the western ghat mountain ranges. Train transport was not needed for my the activites of my childhood – be it weekend holidays at my farm house to which we used to go in the bullock cart ( a “savari” cart meaning the one meant only for travel), be it the nearby temples or our relatives’ houses for which we took the local buses. Nobody in our whole family lived at a distance to be travelled by train.

We rarely travelled unless for religious reasons and most of the temples were nearby. I was about 14 when my dream of travelling by train came true. We had to go to Rameswaram for performing certain puja for my sister. The puja was prescribed by an astrologer who also accompanied us to the trip. He had the acquaintance of a certain priest in Rameswaram who would do the puja. My family which was not financially sound to spend for a holiday got ready to perform the expensive puja since it was recommended by the astrologer. That’s how I first got to go in train. We took the train from Udumalpet railway station close to midnight. I had never been awake past 8 30 pm during my younger days. In fact no one in my house used to be awake after 9 pm. But that night I didn’t sleep. I was thoroughly excited by the feeling of travelling by train.

The train arrived at about midnight. We had not reserved our tickets because the train had no reservation at all. It was a passenger train. Thankfully, it was not crowded. We managed to get seats and the astrologer slept in the “upper berth” – the luggage rack. I couldn’t see anything outside in the dark but still the sound of the rattling train wheels, the occasional smell of diesel smoke mixed with the cool wind from the window was giving me a high. In the morning, the train travelled through the Pamban bridge across the sea and after long haults here and there, took us to Rameswaram.

My train sojourns became frequent – in fact irritatingly frequent after I joined medical school in Chennai. Of course, visiting Chennai was another childhood dream which was fulfilled well past my teenage. Trains did not run direct to Udumalpet from Chennai so I had to take train up to Coimbatore or Tiruppur and then take bus to my town. Now, the cheapest train and the fastest to take us from Chennai to our place was the Intercity. It was a day train which was overbooked always. We as students, never had the time to book tickets especially in that stone age (about 8-9 yearsr ago) when online reservation was not known. We used to travel in the train sitting in the footstep, sometimes a newspaper to sit on and sometimes without it. Whenever a station comes, you have to get up, hop out to make way for people to get in. Sometimes during festival seasons, footsteps would also be full. I would not dare to sit and travel on a footstep now, for the shear fear of it. But we used to do it as if it was absolutely normal.

I have worse journeys in my memory. My worst would be the one I did between Kottayam and Chennai to attend the councelling for post graduate seats. I did not book a ticket since I had not decided about attending the councelling. Finally when I made the decision, it was too late. The train was stuffed with human beings and their belongings beyond an extent imaginable. I could hardly get into the unreserved compartment. After great difficulty and distress, I managed to get a seat on the luggage rack with four other people there. I sat at the edge of the rack with my legs hanging and could hardly change my position for the next 14 hours of my trip. Leave alone the heat inside the compartment. Nothing came out of the councelling except bad memories of a bad train trip.

Now here I am sitting in a cosy chair with a table infront of me, sipping Sauvignon Blanc looking at rivers and forests through the large glass window and writing this. Times have changed. I may not take an unreserved train trip again in india. Who knows I may. But these are things which we grew up with which make us fit to survive any bloody condition in any corner of the world. The very Indian quality of survivorship. I am proud to be part of a culture where nothing comes without struggle for it. Struggle is the one thing which can give you happiness when you succeed and the satisfaction of a honest try when you fail. Survival is a struggle and every aspect of survival is a struggle sometimes, back home. But I feel that kind of hardship is necessary in shaping you properly. Bye for now. My station has arrived.

The Remarkables and my neck

After the long long bus journey, I reached Queenstown at around sevenish. Queenstown was so busy, busier than a normal Christchurch day I  should say. The town center was full of ski shops and renatl shops and there was crowd everywhere – in the info center, restaurants, pubs, ski shops, everywhere. I found out my backpackers and settled in. Then I came out to explore a bit of the town. I could see that bungy, skydive, shotover and all other “adrenalin” activities were prohibitively expensive that the sight of the rates itself gave a bit of adrenalin high. I had one day in my hand. Sunday. I explored further. I always wanted to try my hands in skiing – again form the knowledge of skiing from some tamil movies. But I did not plan to do it in this trip.

There are three skiing areas near Queenstown – Coronet peak, Remarkables and Cardrona. The snow center where ski reservations were to be made, was already shut but I could find brochures on these fields. The remarkable beginner pack worked out to be the cheapest – transport, lift pass, two classes and equipment for 112 dollars. Not a bad bargain.

So the next morning, the snow center was to open at 7 40 am. I reached there at 7 45. There was a small queue. I made my card and then reached the bus which was to take us to the Remarkables. The bus journey reminded me of the ascent on tirupati hills in the devasthanam bus. It was very similar with hairpin bends and bit of nauseation sometimes but the difference was there was snow everywhere outside. The ski field was one of the most crowded places I had seen so far in New zealand. Lot of people were pouring in. Literally like tirupati again. I was fitted with the ski boots, skis and the poles. The boots were real tight. Came out of the rental store. There were many young boys and youth already skiing in the low areas. I asked a nearby person to help to put my skis on. There was a small slope next to where i was standing. I have this problem of acting childish sometimes.

I wanted to try and ski myself since I was seeing a lot of people effortlessly doing it. Off I went down on the slope and in three seconds i lost control and fell over on my face. The snow was powdery and soft, i was not hurt but i could n’t get up and stand either with the ski boot and ski on. I could n’t balance at all. After all, the thrill is in balance and control, not in the speed. Again, a good atma nearby helped me get up. I gave up this foolish attempt and went to the cafe to have a coffee.

The class started at 9 50. All the beginners were made to stand in rows of tens. The crowd was so much that two more were added to out row. Our instructor was a girl from UK. Cheerful and helping. She was a good teacher. She taught us how to fit the ski, how to stand, how to walk with the ski on, how to start, how to stop. This took all the morning and i had fallen atleast 8 times already. But now I was able to get up myself.

By now the sun was strong and the whole ares so warm. With the exercise I was perspiring. I took away my gloves. My hands were sweating. I liked the sport not because of the thrill of skating down in ice but because the whole game is about control and balance. I was inspired by the teacher – perhaps five years younger than me, who did the movements on her ski so effortlessly, as if she was born with the skis fitted.

 I practised in the lunch break and by the afternoon class, I was no more falling down. But my teacher was not convinced. Among us 12, i was third from last in my capacity. Others were really good. But two performed poorer than me. She prepared us for a big descent. She came in front of me. “Look mate, can you go down without falling?”.

“I think so”

“You think so or you know so? ‘coz I don’t want any accidents here. There are lot of kids around and I don’t want you to wipe out anyone. Hold my hand and come down with me”

This was like my ability tested. The tone in which she said this was not friendly. I know I am not good at control but I told her “Look I can come down myself, you go down and wait for me”

She went down. Just as I started, a kid came fast into my legs and hit me. I fell and he fell too. I got up and then with a firm resolution as to not to fall any more, headed down. I did not fall. The girl came near.

“Good, I see you have practised in the break. You are a lot better now”

After that I did not fall down. I improved. By four, the ski field closed. I went to the line for the bus to take us back. By now all my muscles were aching individually but my neck especially. It was getting cold and I could feel it on my body under the four layers of clothing I was wearing. The queue for the bus was long with  some 250 people waiting. I was in the middle. I got my place in the third bus which came after an hour of waiting. Probably skiing is like pilgrimage for these people, I thought.

All said and done, I reached my room only to find out that I have hur tmy neck badly somehow. I realised why they say “pain in the neck”. It is really nagging, like a old wife. Three days on, it’s still not gone.

I fell in love with skiing. I would probably get some more chance before I leave for my motherland, which also has a couple of ski fields. Let’s see. Let the neck get right first.

To my prospective bride (or) The married woman

                Hey my sweet young lady,

Hope you are doing well. I am good here.

I do not know where you are. I don’t know whether you would exist at any time either. But I felt a strong urge to write you a letter today. This letter I thought of writing to you after I read a book. Obviously men and women are not the same and it is normal that they think different. Their needs, their perception of a predicament and their decision making are all different.

 I had not read many women authors before. Possibly because I don’t like reading books for the sake of passing time or because I had not come across good women authors before. This book I found in the “cancelled section” in the public library. It was called “the married woman”. It was on sale for 50 cents.

The author, Manju Kapur, teaches English in Delhi. I somehow felt the book should be interesting, at least for me. I bought the book. The book is about a woman brought up with all unnecessary fears and insecurities a woman should have in Indian society. But the difference was it was from the woman’s view point. It starts with the school day crush of the girl, the affair in college with a boy who she strongly believes would marry her and with that belief goes up to a “lip kiss”. Or many mouth explorations rather. The boy flies off to a foreign country.

The frustration from deceit lingers. Memories give more pain. In between this the girl’s mother arranges for a boy to visit her house from one of the newspaper matrimonial ads. The anger and irritation of a girl is well brought out here. She is furious that her mother wanted her not to meet or talk to any boy before but now she wants her to meet and talk to a man she hardly knows. This is the irritation any girl would get with being treated as an object. I could sense it when I read the book from a girl’s point. The anger of the girl is definitely reasonable. You can’t expect an educated girl of that age to act in any other manner.

Finally after a few years an alliance is fixed. The suitor is a good looking, foreign return lad from a well to do family. All that an Indian woman would need for marriage.  The boy had liked the girl and enquired about her through someone and reached her family. The wedding and honey moon pass well. The excitement is gone and boredom sets in. The role of a traditional Indian wife is being widely misunderstood by both men and modern women. The woman always thinks that her opinion and her interests are neglected. The thousand things a working woman has to manage, the tensions in marital life, the unsatisfactory routine of sex and above all the feeling of neglect makes the woman suffer for herself. She feels caged even though she has got a good husband, two handsome children and a house in a posh Delhi suburb and blab la bla. She feels lost even though she is with her husband and loving children. She feels the hallows in her. She basically thinks too much for an average Indian woman.

I felt she did not have the many other problems a Indian woman had to face like problems from in laws and husband’s relatives, harassment at workplace, financial problems mainly for big expenditures and the like. Obviously she is a woman from upper middle class – high class level so she has to have her own things to worry about and there comes this craving for constant attention and companionship and recognition and sharing. I don’t deny that these needs are not there in the lower sections of the society but in front of the major obstacles for survival, these needs look more like an indulgence rather than a need itself.

But these needs are always there, whether overt or deep inside. The man has to take care of them. In this story we see the woman finding the companionship and love in a widow and ending up having an affair with the woman which at one point goes to the extent of threatening her marriage. The craving I would say, for these subtle things such as recognition and companionship sometimes blinds us from the gross reality. The foolishness of a woman’s mind is also portrayed in the desire on a jewellery box. The author had tried to justify the interest on the jewellery box but on this one thing I would take the side of the husband. I don’t agree with the author.

In the midst of this fluid and emotional family story, the Ramjhanma bhoomi problem is touched upon and explained and is part of the novel. That is the “useful information learning” part of the novel. The feeling of the woman to do something in this issue is being met with discouragement from family saying that is not a woman thing. That is again part of Indian societal make up.

The woman is a poet and a painter. For an artist, be it poems, books or paintings, the publishing of them is also about exposing them, their nature, their state of mind and desires and feelings. The fear of being exposed remains for a writer or a painter. For example, talking in Indian terms, the book’s description of lesbianism makes you suspect for a moment the orientation of the author herself. That is one of the “industrial hazards” writers face.

Anyway coming to the spiritual part of it, the expectations from others are the keys of disappointments. But you can’t help yourself from expecting from your spouse the things you need the most. You all the more expect the needs you have, to be fulfilled by your spouse without you demanding for them, by sensing it directly from your heart, like telepathy or something, the symbol of true love – the desire being fulfilled when it is still in your thoughts. This does not often happen with couples, the poor spouse hardly ever knows of your expectations, he or she is in her own longing s and needs from you. The art of good family life is in fulfilling the needs and getting our expectations cared for without getting hurt or hurting in the process. This is not easy. But one can definitely try.

The story ends with her lesbian partner leaving abroad and the woman left “suffering” in her family predicament. Humans are all poor little things with small little hearts needing a bit of love, care and attention. This seemingly simple thing is the most difficult concept to come to terms with.

Ok, now coming to our letter, this book opened my eyes about the feeling of a girl when a stranger turns up one morning in the house or calls her up and mentions that her dad wanted him to talk to her to make friends and marry. This is like absurd. It is pretty natural to get angry at your Dad and also at me if I do this to you. I agree. It is so many things being tested. First you don’t know who I am and you can’t start a friendly chat like “hi, are you going to be my husband?” How awkward to think like that. It is pretty odd. It is odd for me too. I have my own fantasies and dreams about my wife too. I am sure you have yours.

I am sure most of us have small crushes in schooldays. Some have serious affairs in their college days. Few don’t really get the chance of being in a relationship. It is better to have a relationship. It comes with a price. You fall in love – the most beautiful and at the same time the cruelest feeling in the world. You end up losing pretty much everything from sleep to hunger to money to time to self respect and what not. You put yourself deliberately in the mercy of the thing you love. You are filled with his/her fantasies 24*7. You are tortured by nobody but your own mind. Nothing else in the world seems important than the proximity of the loved one. It is not physical at all I know.

It is nice to have the feeling once. Like bungee jumping. It is a thing to be experienced. You actually start learning from it only when you break up. I feel a person who has had a relationship and broke up can be more mature in his/her expectations towards their spouse. It’s my feeling. You may contradict.

It was all my expectations about my future wife till date. Now I have started to think what I would give her and what I would do to keep her happy (one impossible thing in the world?). I am sure a love can’t blossom in the setting of Indian arranged marriage. The thrill of love is not comparable to the sucking pre marriage dates with the fiancé. It sucks to talk to know a person after the decision of marriage has been made. How irritating for a young modern educated girl who knows she too has her say in every decision involving her. First is about the person. He is no way comparable to my lover/boyfriend/dream boy/whatever. Though broke up now. Still mind feels the best one is that. Nothing can be compared. Still realities are bit different. It might take years before the imagery of the dream boy disappears and the current husband makes his way into the mind. I understand. It is the same on both sides. But then, arranged marriages work. Not by overwhelming love, but by consideration and accommodation. After all, that is love. You are ready to break any barrier for the loved one. But when to comes to the parent’s boy, your demands rise to the sky. That’s natural.

Again, It may be years before we see through each other. But it is a nice start to make knowingly. It is nice to start as friends. Friendship has no hierarchy. It is one good thing to start with. You may not like me for all this deliberate bullshitting. But I am like this.

 It all depends on the kind of person. There are people- simple people. Simple thoughts, simple pleasures, happy most of the time. Then there are people – who think too much. Complicated hedonics – for whom any joy gives thoughts of the pain associated. Those who like thinking just for the sake of it. Think into every damn nonsense possible. Whether this small movement today morning in the meeting might have meant something to this guy, by sitting down did I send a wrong note to that guy, by talking this would that lady might have thought something about me, thousands like these to keep you busy and the countless arguments and counter arguments take place in the vast arena of mind. You end up defeated anyway. Even when you win the argument, you have spent worthless time on this wasteful thought game. Unfortunately I belong to the second group. So all this bullshitting is part of me to be accepted.

I understand it is going to be hard for you to bear with me, that too an entire life time. Believe me, I’ll help you in that. Wishing you well always,

Yours truly,

Karthik.

The argumnetative Indian

Queenstown is one of the much hyped tourist destinations in New Zealand. It has been dubbed as the adventure capital of the world. So it was almost sinful to live in south island for six months and return without visiting this place. Since my consultants were going on vacation (they go on vacations every coupla months) first week of July (it was school holidays then) I decided I would rather escape from the sin by visiting Queenstown. Car was broke and driving in snow was supposedly dangerous, flights were prohibitively expensive coz of the ski season and so the poor man’s mode – low fare bus became the only left option to get there. In fact I was happy to choose the bus, one reason being the scenery on the way which was to be enjoyed without concentrating on the road and the other obvious reason - time to spend with a book.
I had chosen a couple of books for the journey from the library. Sulman Rushdies’s “midnight children” was the first book to be completed. Next in line was “the argumentative Indian” by Amartya Sen. This book’s title attracted my attention when I found this in the library. I had always liked arguments and discussion. In a healthy way of course. In fact the spiritual masters recommend Satsanga – company of like minded people to discuss and foster knowledge. Indians are probably argumentative it ought on seeing this big book.
The bus journey started at 9 30 am. The day was unusually sunny with good views of the distant mountains which progressively became closer, all laden with a number of inches of snow, some fresh and some a few days old. Snow was everywhere, on the roads, over the roofs, in the carparks, on the hills, snowy white everywhere.
I started with Salman Rushdie. Somehow, I was not very comfortable with him. I have started feeling that if I read a book or watch a movie, I should learn something just not get entertained. This notion is my father’s. He would always ask me if there is something useful for my exams in the movie which I was pestering my Dad to take me to. I would be pissed off so badly when he asked that every time in the same simple and innocent manner. But he eventually obliged by taking us to the movie knowing for sure that there is no useful lesson to be learnt for my primary school exam. This idea somehow probably got ingrained in me. I was hence was looking for information and learning rather than entertainment when i took a book. The initial pages of Rushdie did n’t fit into my taste.
I took this argumentative book then. The book’s introduction itself told me that I would find stuff of my interest inside it. The first essay is about the tradition of arguments in Indian history. I was suddenly reminded of the word “Dargashasthra” which I have heard somewhere. This shasthra lays down rules about the conduct an argument.
The essay in superb style elaborates Inida’s history and tradition in Amartya Sen’s view. Sen himself acknowledges the fact that provided the diversity of India, talking of India by any single person is always selected, not complete. Many facts in the essay were new and interesting to me. For example, we fail to realize that India was a Buddhist nation for almost 1000 years. Carvaka’s atheistic philosophy rejects the existence of anything more than human perception and bashes all rituals as just means by Brahmins to earn a livelihood. This school of thought is about 1500 years old and well described and acknowledged in texts. The character of Javali, a pundit in Ramayana is probabably not that popular as he is seen lecturing Rama about the Carvaka type philosophy. The scientific transaction between ancient Indian mathematicians and scientists with Persian and Arab scholars is another interesting fact. The rational thinking in India was influenced by their work and vice versa. Like Aryabhatta’s calculations about the solar and lunar eclipse were used and acknowledged widely by Arabians.
I wonder Aryabhatta’s discovery of earth rotation and eclipses were done in a period when people strongly believed in what is brushed off as mythology now – the devouring of moon by Raghu or the like. The scenario is like that of Galileo and Socrates in the west. They were outcasted and killed whereas in India Aryabhatta was widely respected. So the reaction to radical thoughts by a society is evident from this incident. The belief that the past of India is overwhelmingly religious or deeply anti scientific or exclusively hierarchical or fundamentally anti sceptical, is wrong according to the author.
Sen goes on to say that Indian literature has more rational writings than any classical language. He talks of Lokayata school which reproaches inference totally. India has a lot to know about her past. We tend to pose ourselves as the sons and daughters of this magnificient country with a rich past, just knowing very little of it, that too not in great detail. With that meek knowledge of ours we tend to look down on “Indian” ways.
More about the book will follow.

Pleasure and happiness

There are things which we enjoy doing. Some are very pleasurable. Some not that much. We derive pleasure while doing certain things but when we are done, it leaves a stint of guilt on us.Like smoking. There are many examples.These are our petty vices.We are aware that they make us feel guilty but the urge to do those exceeds often. The result is unhappiness.
And there are certain things which give us tremendous satisfaction once we had done them. They are pleasurable too. You know the examples. The examples vary with each one. Of course the satisfation you get is very subjective. The same action can gve happiness to one and guilt to another. But thinking in staright terms, the actions which are not against your conscience leave you with satisfaction and happiness. Those done merely for pleasure leave you with guilt and unhappiness. The vicious cycle continues when we run towards those same actions in refuge to our unhappiness.

It is not easy, but it is not difficult too.