Guess Who???

Benazir Bhutto !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera

Its been quite some time since I wanted to read the author. Thanks to Arjun, that I got an e-book. (Thanks to my credit card, bought the book too the very next week).

The story could have very well been one of those Mills & Boons fictions, revolving round a doctor and his wife, his mistress and her lover. It is with incredible ease that Kundera takes us through pages and pages of infidelity coupled with long narrations on his genre of philosophy.

Since history "never" repeats and we hardly get a chance to say if our actions were right or not as nothing occurs again for to compare, the author doesn't give any absolute sense of right or wrong. Not even when he scorns at the Soviet Invasion of Czech and Czech communists. Though the doctor loses his profession that was his passion, in the end he is a happy man being a mere truck driver. His wife, who was always jealous about his mistresses, finally learns to separate love from physical intimacy.

Kundera's own loss of freedom of expression might have affected this novel, yet there is an underlying lack of trust or discomfort the painter mistress in the story goes through in America. Though she enjoys the freedom, she is equally disturbed of being buried in that alien land. She wants to fly free even after her death.

The entire novel can be viewed as an individualistic view on the communist régime – it is with amazing dexterity that Kundera avoids any political opinion in this regard. It is only the loss of individual freedom that matters, that again doesn’t really go with the freedom struggle we understand.

Nietzsche's doctrine of the eternal recurrence is what the novel starts with and Mozart is a leitmotif. I understand how well and easily Nietzsche fits in, but what amazes me is how incredibly well the author brings up Mozart. Then again, it is a review on Oedipus that is the centre theme of the whole book.

I can't say this is purely fiction; I would rather call it an explanation of his philosophy.

Che Guevara

There is something so fascinating and thrilling about people who fought for their ideology, the ones who sought a radical change in our lives. They live on in our minds years after they were crushed and buried. Their words echo, their cause shine while their oppressors perish.


As a child I had read a book which was either written by Che or was about him. I don't remember even the content. But it had a profound impact on me. Since then the man in that beard and military uniform has been the epitome of revolution for me, the personification of courage and change.

I do lean left, but that isn't the only reason why I admire him. I don't see Castro, Lenin or Trotsky in the same light. Though I tend to blindly align to the leftist thoughts most of the times, I have always admited the flaws of the same people and thoughts deep in my mind. With Che, it is different. It is the man in him, the ideologist, the icon that I look upto. It is the courage he shown till the last moment, the principles he stood for that made him leave his ministry and fight for his cause again. No one in the entire history of mankind would stand up to him, atleast in my mind. For the very same reason, I can never buy a T-Shirt with his imprint on it.

This August when I went home, I searched for the book all over my place. But that was gone. All that I remember now is that there was another awesome book kept on its side Charithram Enne Kuttakaranallennu Vidhikkum, which also got mysteriously vanished. I don't have the faintest of idea who wrote that or of which country's struggle was that. But those were the first ever books that made my blood "boil".

Either my Dad has generously donated that as a part of the pile of books he gave for the local library or my Mom threw it off as a part of the junk during our shifting. Either way, it is a huge loss.

The Song of Solomon - Toni Morrison

This is the story of three generations or four that unwinds thru the youngest of them all. The trauma of the upcoming "nigger" Macon Dead, who alienated his only sister to avoid getting a feel of "those" uncultured, penniless southern Negroes.

The whole story happens in a world so real, yet so unreal. There is a mystery yet no mystery. What caught my fascination the most was that the book was also telling the history of a long suppressed race; a race whom the "whites" considered nothing more than puppets to dance at their whims and fancies, whose lives mattered nothing more than the cost of a bullets.

The author transcends the notions of associating wealth or social position to happiness or satisfaction by showing how miserable people are at both the ends. Macon Dead due to his greed and Pilate with her complex. But Pilate could Sing like an angel. Macon couldn't even love his family.

Nowhere does the author confuses us with emotions like love, compassion or exploitation, it is rather a balancing mixture of all or a lack of any. What could it be if Hagar wanted to take the life of Milkman 'cos she loved him the most on earth? Who was right, Milkman's father or mother?

The novel doesn't give any definite answers, doesn't even attempt to give any answers. It just leaves us in a slight desperation to know who took the gold and who killed whom leaving ample space for our imagination.

Marquez

This is the poem that appeared in a Peruvian daily as his farewell poem, when Garcia Marquez was treated for lymphatic cancer. He had completely withdrawn his public appearance by then. Well, he had no choice but to come out lest people would have thought he wrote such terrible poems ;)))

The Puppet

If for a moment God would forget that
I am a rag doll and give me a scrap of
life, possibly I would not say
everything that I think, but I would
definitely think everything that I
say.

I would value things not for how
much they are worth but rather for
what they mean.

I would sleep little, dream more. I
know that for each minute that we
close our eyes we lose sixty seconds
of light.

I would walk when the others loiter;
I would awaken when the others
sleep.

I would listen when the others
speak, and how I would enjoy a good
chocolate ice cream.

If God would bestow on me a scrap
of life, I would dress simply, I
would throw myself flat under the
sun, exposing not only my body but
also my soul.

My God, if I had a heart, I would
write my hatred on ice and wait for
the sun to come out. With a dream
of Van Gogh I would paint on the
stars a poem by Benedetti, and a
song by Serrat would be my
serenade to the moon.

With my tears I would water the
roses, to feel the pain of their
thorns and the incarnated kiss of
their petals...My God, if I only had
a scrap of life...

I wouldn't let a single day go by
without saying to people I love, that
I love them.

I would convince each woman or
man that they are my favourites and
I would live in love with love.

I would prove to the men how
mistaken they are in thinking that
they no longer fall in love when they
grow old--not knowing that they
grow old when they stop falling in
love. To a child I would give wings,
but I would let him learn how to fly
by himself. To the old I would teach
that death comes not with old age
but with forgetting. I have learned
so much from you men....

I have learned that everybody
wants to live at the top of the
mountain without realizing that true
happiness lies in the way we climb
the slope.

I have learned that when a newborn
first squeezes his father's finger
in his tiny fist, he has caught him
forever.

I have learned that a man only has
the right to look down on another
man when it is to help him to stand
up. I have learned so many things
from you, but in the end most of it
will be no use because when they
put me inside that suitcase,
unfortunately I will be dying.

Greek, Latin & Poetry

It is not so easy that my brain cells decipher poetry. I see numerous blogs by budding poets and flattering comments. People dissect each line and some quote them in their "wha-wahs". I sulk my face thinking why am I like this?

I have a better understanding when it comes to Malayalam poems. I can still recite some of my favorite lines. But in English, I hardly went beyond our good old Twinkle Twinkle little star.

I wondered why that if I can appreciate those forwards wishing you good luck or photos of nature with amazing captions, I am not able to appreciate poetry far better. Though I had acquired a taste for reading at the early stage of my life, poetry as such was never so in demand. One or two books of Vayalar and ONV was there at home. I have evn one prices for poem recitation at a very innocent age when I didn't really think but just mugged up the whole lines.

The real problem is, I guess, my language. Most of the times I stick to simple words, the reason being I am not so confident about the hi-fi words. I kind of feel that most of the poems and even fiction or some posts we read here in the blogosphere is mere showing-off of language. It is hard to come by a genuine blog.

Oops ... I am digressing from what I had intended to write. Confident that poetry can never be my cup of tea, I had even stopped trying to read them even if it was from the Worsworth or Emily Dickinson's of the world. I just don't get them. They are always a mystery and misery for me.

It is accidently that I read a poem by Neruda once. I couldn't believe myself that I not only understood but also enjoyed !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Neruda is a staple diet these days. Reading poems has also given me the courage to try reading some other poets as well.

Neruda is simply The Best. He wrote about the least important and the most trivial of matters with the same ease he wrote about intricate subjects. He isn't showing off his talent but letting us enjoy sparks of his genius. His language is genuine and free flowing. While reading him I get the feeling that he might have written them in 10 or 15 minutes, just as they came to his mind.

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Pablo Neruda

Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky

I know it is absurd to talk about a classic nearly after more than a century. I have rerad this masterpiece almost a decade back. Offlate I hardly had any work at office and I stumbled onto this e-book.

I have always admired Dostoevsky for his intense writing. It is easier for a writer to go surreal and leave a touch of warmth or sadness in your mind. But Dostoevsky plays with real emotions, the most probable plots and take you thru an emotional turmoil.

It is a long book with a mundane theme backed by the sheer power of words that I am at awe than a good long story. I would rather watch a movie in that case.

Had it been some other writer, I doubt if I would have read through pages and pages of sheer emotions going thru the protagonist's mind. I recollect literally feeling miserable throughout the book when I first read this book. Once more, I felt the same. It is not the story that really mattered, its his way of telling a not-so-unique story.

He & She

She : This will not work out.

He : Don't say that. Life is not going to be as smooth as you think.

She : I can't be someone else. You may find me a narcissist or egotist but my individuality matters to me.

He : Cut the crap. Who is asking you to be somone else? What is the problem? You are forming some fairy tale ideas in your head and making long lasting problems in both our lives.

She : I am thinking about the practical side of it.

He : Well, I think all you need is some rest. Stop living in some dream world.

She : I need some time. I have to think.

He : Sure. I'll hold the phone.

She : What?!!!!!! See, I will call you back.

He : You are disillusioned about the whole thing. You are forming your own idea than trying to understand what it really is.

She : Well, let us talk about it later.

------------------------

Tring Tring

His friend picks up.

Fnd : Hi, I'm Fnd.

She : Err .. Hi, How are you?

Fnd : Doing great. How are you?

She : Great. How is work.

Fnd : Boring as usual. And yours?

She : Going. Err... Can I talk to him?

Fnd : No. He is a little busy.

She : Can you tell him its me?

Fnd : He is here and he asked me to pick the call. He will call you back soon.

She : OK.. By the way, what is he upto.

Fnd : He is just finishing his NFS. He will call you after that.

She : WTF?? @#$$#%^%R^*&T*

Helllpppppppp

The Book of Mirdad has been such a hyped book in my mind since I first read about it in an Osho speech. I am not an Osho follower. Rather I hardly agree with him, most of the times. But yes, I admire him as a great orator or writer. The way he churns out sentences is simply superb. And then, he is superhumanly brilliant too. Think of any thing under the sun and he has a different and deep take on that.

It wasn't easy getting a copy of this book. I have been searching almost all the book shops for nearly an year. No one has even heard of it. I tried in different CrossWords, to no use. I even placed an order with them. They called me after a week and said they couldn't get it. I have no idea how to place an order with Amazon.com. Do they accept indian currency? Well, haven't yet tried dealing with them though there are lot many thing I covet in their site.

May be the CrossWords guys got sick and tired of me asking about the same book or they thought of it as a sudden demand for an arcane book by different people, they finally managed to get the book and sent me a copy last week.

I had and still have great expectations on this book. After all, I trust Osho's judgment, for such a voracious reader he is. He says:

"And it is a book to be read by the heart, not by the mind. It is a book not to be understood, but experienced. It is something phenomenal. Millions of people have tried to write books so that they can express the inexpressible, but they have utterly failed. I know only one book, The Book of Mirdad, which has not failed; and if you cannot get to the very essence of it, it will be your failure, not the author's. He has created a perfect device of words, parables, situations. If you allow it, the book becomes alive and something starts happening to your being."

Geeeeeee. I am failing miserably. All I have manged is the first four chapters, three or four pages each. Since I couldn't make out much, I tried reading again. I have repeated the same chapters thrice by now and the so called wisdom of the book still eludes me. Prophet was such an easy read and this is rated above Prophet.

I am almost giving it up. Guess, my brain is really peanut sized as they say ;((( Somebody helllpppppppppppp

Men !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Are all men like this or is it just a couple of them in my office?















All men are not slimy warthogs. Some men are silly giraffes, some woebegone puppies, some insecure frogs. But if one is not careful, those slimy warthogs can ruin it for all the others.
~Cynthia Heimel

Do I need my space?

I can't exactly name it, but there is this feeling that overwhelms me at times. A sort of an ennui, an emptiness or an indifference. I have no reason to attribute to it but it happens. It gobbles me up for an agonizingly long period which disturbs the feeble balance I maintain in my life. Everyone, however close they are, feels so far off and disconnected and nothing interests me. The times I feel all alone in the most crowded of places and with the closest of people.

I wonder what, after all, am doing. Getting up everyday, going to work, come back and sleep; filling the gaps with talking to people who bother about me and sometimes, whom I bother about. A pirate movie or an old melody can cheer me up for a while. But I have to go back to my cocoon, invariably.

I get restless for reasons I can’t comprehend and don’t find solace even in my soliloquy, which I resort to almost all the time. I can’t keep quiet. I have to talk. It can be on anything- personal worries, the food I eat, the shampoo I use, some happy moments etc etc etc. And I am hardly interested in any audience, ‘cos I have found out that my”self” is my best audience. So if I am not talking to you, you or you, I am surely talking to myself. These talks are so sincere and real to me that I forget my surroundings and get all caught up in the conversation. People find it funny to look at my expressive face when I am busy with my”self” and those who are familiar with my habit, just give me a hard jerk and I give that embarrassed smile.

Off late, I feel that I am getting these attacks of numbness too often that usual. This is badly affecting my relationships. It is very rare that your kith and kin understand your mood swings. You can go on talking about the need of your “space” or the power of silence and at the end of it they still worry what worries you. I am on the other end, badly need my space. Yet I slyly yearn for someone to reassure me they are with me. So there is a conflict. I have to have the cake and eat it too. And no human being on earth would cater to my requirement at that time.

I guess, this happens with everyone. But the manifestation may vary. Some may seek space and some may seek solace. My problem is that I seek both and such a formula is yet to evolve.


A lifetime of happiness! No man alive could bear it: it would be hell on earth.

George Bernard Shaw