THE OLD MAN IN THE PARK – CONVERSATIONS RESUMED

THE OLD MAN IN THE PARK – CONVERSATIONS RESUMED

Well I did not go to the concert the next day not because I did not want to meet the old man; in fact I did want to, but other things kept me busy. The Kutcheri season had ended but I thought that I may bump into him in some concert or the other in the neighbourhood sometime. I did look forward to it for I felt there was something else to him than the flippant exterior he presented. I was therefore pleasantly surprised when a few days ago I met him in the park, sitting there all alone and watching the children play, with a smile on his face. As I approached him he looked up and said to me – 

“Well there you are. Did I really bore you so much that you decided to skip the rest of the music season? I am glad that we meet again and I promise that I shall not intimidate you with my remarks. Come sit down here if you have the time and may be we can talk a bit about the good old days. Sorry, but that’s all I know about now”.

I did not hesitate and sat next to him and said “Frankly I was looking forward to meeting you again. You interest me”

He laughed “Funny, whoever would find an old man interesting? But I like your openness and you have patience. That’s what I gathered when I met you that day. If my guess is right you are in your early sixties isn’t it? Now may be you can guess my age”

“Eighty five at least”

“Eighty seven to be precise”

Though he did look old, he appeared physically much younger and mentally very alert. But there was something sad in those eyes. He was obviously a very intelligent man who had seen and undergone all the trials and tribulations that life could offer. I looked at him and smiled.

He carried on “I come here nearly every day in the evening and watch all the people who come here. It is not curiosity, but as I watch them the park seems to come alive. After all as one sees his end approaching, he wants to feel ‘life’. As I sit here, the evening slowly drifts away as dusk settles down and then the night creeps in. I am in the dusk now and soon it will be night and I will go home”.

It was a lonely man that I saw sitting next to me, but one who had accepted the coming of the end. He had seen it all. I asked him “who else lives with you at home?”

He laughed “Home? Well I had one till last year as long as my wife was alive. Now of course I have a house where I stay with a servant to keep me company. He is also getting on in years. I brought him along from my village where he was living as a destitute and now he looks after me, as faithful as a dog. Sorry I couldn’t find a better expression”

“What about your children? Where are they?” I asked.

“No, I don’t have any children. There is a brother and his family who do come to see me frequently as they stay nearby. My wife passed away last year. You see we had been together for more than sixty years. It was only a question of who will go first and she did. What saddened me was that she had to go after suffering for some years. She had cancer and many a time I have wished she had gone much earlier. But when I look back now, I am not dissatisfied with the life that I have led, except for the fact that there were no children. But I did find other outlets to compensate for that. I love children and I have done my bit for all those destitute and orphans in my own way and it has given me and my wife great happiness. You may wonder why we did not adopt a child, but that is of no consequence for in the end we ended adopting many more this way. After the death of my wife I have slowly withdrawn into myself, but I do find a lot of solace in music and that’s why I do not miss any concert that is held in this neighbourhood. My friends do drop in at times but now one cannot have a conversation with them for they also have their problems. That day at the concert and now today I find it easy to talk to you though you are a stranger”.

As it was getting late I got up and asked him “Will you be leaving now? I can walk along with you till your house”

He said “No go ahead. I shall remain here for some more time. But we shall meet again I hope. You can always find me at this spot and next time I promise that I shall listen to you; till then, bye and all the best”.

As I walked out of the park, I turned back to see him, a lonely figure on the bench as the dusk settled. The night was slowly creeping in. that’s what life is all about – the dawn, the light of the day, the twilight and then the all consuming darkness.

THE OLD MAN IN THE AUDITORIUM

THE OLD MAN IN THE AUDITORIUM

I entered the auditorium and found it nearly full. There were seats available only in the back rows and I wanted to get closer to the stage. I always do that for I like to see the artiste perform from close quarters; gives a better involvement and feel with what’s going on. As my eyes wandered across row by row, my attention was drawn to a hand waving at me indicating that there was a vacant seat over there. The owner of the hand was an old man. I sat down after he removed his handkerchief which was placed there as if the seat was reserved for someone that he was expecting to join him.

He was perhaps at least twenty years older than me and that’s why I referred to him as ‘old man’; not that I was very young! The first thing that struck me was the person himself – lean, thinning white hair on the head, unshaven face, piercing eyes and acquiline nose. He was dressed in a white shirt and a dhoti; looked as if they needed a cleaning, I mean the dress.

As I sat down I said “Thank you sir. But I thought that you had reserved this seat for someone whom you were expecting. I am sorry if I have inconvenienced you”.

‘Absolutely not, the pleasure is mine. I put my handkerchief there as I did not want some idiot to sit next to me. Since you did not look like one, I waved you over” he replied.

I was thrilled that here was one person who did credit me with some sense. But at the same time I was apprehensive that by the end of the concert he may come to the conclusion that I was one, an idiot. This was a classical music concert and though I always enjoyed listening to the music, most of my time is spent in watching the reactions of the audience.

He continued “You see during last night’s concert I was driven to exasperation by the gentleman sitting next to me. Not only did he applaud at the wrong moments but also started singing along and expressing his appreciation with loud grunts. I had to walk out in the middle of the concert for I could not bear it any longer. I only glared at him and did not say anything for we have grown up believing that we should not offend anyone through our words, that’s why I ensured the seat was vacant today. You seemed a decent sort of person and I took a chance”.

“My God!” I said to myself. What an effective way of ensuring that I did not in anyway upset his enjoyment of the concert. This old man was shrewd. His piercing eyes said it all.

The concert was yet to start and the musicians were still busy tuning their instruments. The child in the front row stood up on his seat and directed his attention towards the old man. What a sight it was! Two pairs of eyes separated by at least eighty years staring at each other without either of them giving up. The child then started making faces at the old man and pushed his tongue out of his mouth and then said something, which I guess only the mother sitting next to him could understand. Twice or thrice she cajoled him saying “don’t do that darling, you should be a good boy, otherwise the policeman will come and catch you”. When she found that this had no effect she turned her attention back to the stage.

The old man visibly upset, turned towards me and said “See this is how they bring up the children nowadays. Can you ever imagine such things taking place in the good old days? There is no discipline now, whether at home or in the schools. My mother would have smacked me on the butt and ask me to behave myself. And in the school the teacher used to wander with the cane in his hand to ensure no one misbehaved. Now neither do they discipline nor do they teach. Wherever you go it is only crowds you see and it is only money that makes up your life. In the good old days one could go to a concert, sit on the ground and listen to the artiste sing without the constraints of time. Sometimes the concert would go late into the night. Now the concert ends before the artiste starts to feel the music”.

I knew that I had to be careful with my responses and so I said “Yes, what you say is absolutely true. But I guess we have to accept what is happening now. This is a different era and the world has moved on”.

He gave me a thoughtful look and was about to say something when the concert began. He settled back in his chair to listen to the artiste singing. I watched him and it was fascinating to see the change in his expressions as he closely followed the nuances of the music that emanated from the stage. He appeared to know each and every composition that was rendered, for in between he would lean over and tell me the name of the raga and the name of the composer. During one such break he said “Why do they try to pack in so much in two hours. By the time you get into the mood of the raga, it is over. Have you ever been to the concerts of the past greats? The alapana itself would take an hour. Have you attended a concert of MDR (M.D.Ramanathan)? What an artiste! He used to make each note linger in the air as if he was caressing them”. I did not answer for the next composition had started. I pondered over what he had said. In a sense what he said was true. I myself have been transported to sublime heights listening to Bhimsen Joshi’s abhangs late into the night. You can’t blame anyone. Who has the time now? One tries to pack in as many things as possible within the time available to him. I thought that it was like having mini meals during lunch breaks. But one has to recognise that there is still enthusiasm among the younger generation to learn despite all the constraints and challenges that they are subjected to now. They have created opportunities for themselves and learnt to survive. So it is not always proper to talk of the ‘good old days’ for the reality is different now.

When the concert ended, he asked me where I lived and when I told him he said “That’s not far off and I presume that you walked over here. My house is on the way only and we can walk back together, if you don’t mind”. I didn’t mind for by this time I found that there was something very interesting and genuine about the old man.

As we walked, he asked me in Tamil “So where did you dump all your garbage till now (Kuppai kotinay in Tamil literary means ‘dumped your garbage’ but does not have the same effect when translated into English. That is where I guess translations lose some of the effects of the original)?” and seeing the expression on my face he laughed, “Don’t take it seriously. I only meant to ask you where you worked”. I also laughed and told him that I was in the Bank for thirty five years and retired.

He had retired as a pretty senior official in the State Government. He asked me whether I would be there at the concert next day. I told him that I was not sure. How could I tell him that still a generation separated him from me? What the ‘good old days’ for him were ‘very old days’ for me. I was still in my cradle.

Maybe I shall go to the concert tomorrow, if not the music at least to resume my conversations with the old man.

THE TRAVAILS OF AN ASPIRING AUTHOR

THE TRAVAILS OF AN ASPIRING AUTHOR

It all started with ‘Nothing’ you can say and ultimately nothing happened.

Am I confusing you? Forget it, it’s nothing. But seriously it all started a couple of years ago when I was having coffee with a friend at a restaurant. During the course of our conversation he asked me –

“So what have you been doing till now? When you retired last year you told me that you were planning to write a book and have it published. What happened?”

“Nothing”, I said.

“What do you mean nothing?”

“Yes, I am writing a book. It’s nearly complete”.

“Oh! I guess it is should be a romantic thriller”.

“No. It’s actually ‘Nothing’”, I said.

“What do you mean? You just told me that you were writing a book”.

“Yes, the name of the book is ‘Nothing’.”

“My God!” he scratched his head in exasperation. “If it’s nothing, what the hell are you writing about?”

“Well, it’s about ‘Nothing’. I have nearly completed the first draft. If you want to see it, I shall mail it to you”.

He nodded, finished his coffee and walked out. I presumed that he had said yes, so I sent him a mail but I am still to hear from him.

Actually it all started after my desperate attempts to read Sartre’s ‘Being and Nothingness’. It was too heavy both by content as well as weight. Ever since it has been sitting in my bookshelf and looking down at me as if in contempt. I decided that the only way I could get it out of my system was to write a book myself. If someone could write something about nothing then why shouldn’t I?

Few days in to my writing, one day my wife found me sitting at the computer and staring at it. She asked “What are you doing just sitting there and staring at the computer?” I replied “I am writing a book and now I am just thinking”. She looked at me strangely and then asked “You never told me. Anyway what are you writing about?” I replied “I am writing ‘Nothing’”. She did not reply but switched off the light leaving me with my computer and the desk lamp on. She then said “Anyway, I am going to sleep and you can continue writing ‘Nothing’”. So now you know how it started.

That was just the beginning of my travails. As I continued to progress in my quest, I was many a time besieged by delusions of grandeur – a successful author, award winner and bestseller. I even thought about how much I would be offered by way of advance for my next book. At last it was over, I mean ‘Nothing’.

I was now ready to get my book published. I was told that there were two ways of publishing, one the traditional and the other self publishing. On the advice of some of my friends I opted for the traditional publishing as it did not entail expenditure once the publisher takes up the book for publishing and the entire distribution and marketing will be done by them. But again I was advised to have the manuscript read by a third person other than the family, to get a proper feedback on the contents.

I thought that was not difficult as I had several of my friends who I knew would be willing to that. So I sent it out to two of them. They are still to get back to me. Now looking back I presume they were in a quandary as to what to give as feedback, but it is also possible that they never looked at it. But anyway I thought that fortune favours the brave and walked into a publishing house only to be told that I may go back and send my manuscript by post or mail it to them. Of course they were courteous enough to ask me whether it was fiction or non fiction. I said that I would decide and then send them. Actually I did not know where my book would fit in. I guessed that ‘Nothing’ should be fiction and accordingly chose the genre. Don’t you agree?

To cut a long story short six months later my manuscript was returned. I was told that even if it had been accepted I would have to wait in the queue before my book was taken up. My agony was cut short. But I did see a light at the end of the tunnel. Yes I could go for self publishing.

I did it with the basic package to cut down my expenses, as I was confident of my editorial skills (not realising that I was the author and not likely to improve the quality of the manuscript) and marketing (oh yes I was sure that with all my friends in the social media networks and the readers of my blog, I could do a decent job). I forgot to add, that there are any number of self publishing houses, who are only too keen in publishing your work as long as they make money out of it for the rest is your responsibility. But they did help in making something out of my ‘Nothing’.

I forgot to mention that in the process of editing my book I think I did a fairly good job of it for I was able to reduce it by about fifty pages. If in the process you ask me what was left I can say ‘Nothing’. I must have read the book at least twenty times before I decided to call it off. I was overcome by ‘Nausea’ as Sartre would put and for the first time I understood what ‘nothingness’ was. A few more attempts at editing and I would have been left with nothing. I was also reminded of the time when in the process of trimming my beard and the hair on my head i ended up near bald ( not that there was much of it) and a french beard.

Well then came the next part and I thought that should be easy. I announced in my social media network that my book was at last published and requested all my friends to purchase, make a review and post it on the site. There was a tremendous response from my friends on the social media network. I had more number of likes than the number of books sold.

But I was a satisfied man, as at last I was successful in making something out of ‘Nothing’ and I don’t mean money, for I am still far away from breaking even.

At the end of it all I sang –

Nothing comes from nothing,

Nothing ever could

So somewhere in my youth or childhood,

I must have done something good.

A DISTANT REALITY

 A DISTANT REALITY

A number of friends observed that my last post ‘A Distant Dream’ was nostalgic and reminded them of their own childhood and the dreams that they had grown up with or the books that they had read. So I decided that I shall once again undertake an exploration through the lanes of nostalgia. There are two distinct emotions that come into play here – to relive those moments which have left an indelible imprint on my psyche and a travel down in search of my roots.

I have never seen my grandfather for all practical purposes. He passed away when I was only six months old. But I have heard a lot about him from my mother, elder brother and sister and others. What I did learn and realize was that he was an extraordinary and spiritually elevated person. It was in this context that I talked about my native village Gopalasamudram. Ever since I have nurtured a wish to write about him, but I also realised it can never be authentic for I have only heard and never really knew him. So I got down to writing what you may at best describe as fictional biography. I have a long way to go for I have just started but thought that I should share at least a bit of what I have begun. I do not know whether I will be able to go forward and complete it, but the journey is giving me immense joy. I find it extremely hard to reconstruct the socio-cultural milieu that was prevalent then. One of the reasons is that this can best be captured only by writing in one’s own native language.

How can I recapture the raw smell of the soil, the whiff of paddy from the fields, the fragrance of jasmine from among the tresses of women (so typical of Tamil Nadu) or watch the lazy and languid march of the cattle on their way back to their sheds as the sun sets with the cowherd walking along with his arms over the stick on his shoulders, the aging Brahmin standing on the banks of the river completing his evening prayers or listen to the bells ringing and the haunting drum beats emanating from the Shiva temple! It is very difficult. They reside there frozen back in time and in the corners of your mind. How do I bring them out through words?

‘SANKARA

Sankara slowly got up from his bed, the time was four thirty in the morning. He made his way to the puja room, opened the door and then prostrated himself before the pictures and idols of the various Gods that were enshrined there. He then washed his face and mouth went to the quadrangular, a common feature of the houses in the village, picked up his towel and a dhoti which were hung up on the clothes line to dry the previous day and moved towards the entrance. Meenakshi was also awake and was moving about in the kitchen, preparing for the coming day. Sankara called out to her and she went to close the door as soon as he left. This was a normal day and this was how it began. All these years the routine had never been broken.

It was still dark as Sankara made his way to the river to have his bath and be there to receive the first rays of dawn and say his morning prayers as an obeisance to the Sun God. As he passed the Siva temple, he bowed his head in reverence and continued. The silence that engulfed him was briefly interrupted by the rustle of the leaves as a gentle wind blew across the trees. For a man of lesser stature, the ghostly shadows and the silence would have been intimidating, but Sankara found his communion with God in that stillness.

He walked across the narrow bridge over the vaykaal(canal) and climbed the mound which separated it from the main river. He descended and went towards the mandapam ( a pillared outdoor hall) on its banks. The Thambiraparani flowed silently, and as the dawn slowly broke one could see the silver waters waiting for its first bathers. Sankara was alone when he stepped in. As he bathed he dipped his head thrice into the river and stood up facing the east as the sun slowly rose and the first rays danced across the waters. His hands folded he said a small prayer. He dried himself in the mandapam and sat down to do the sandhya vandanam. He loved this peace that surrounded him and as he did his pranayam he could feel himself breathing in the atmosphere of sanctity that prevailed, the gentle caressing sound of the Thambiraparani as it wound its way across the rocks on its bed. He picked up his clothes that he had spread out for drying in the mandapam and started his way back home. On the way he waved a greeting to a few of his friends who were proceeding towards the river. Sankara was a man of few words and his friends knew that and did not stop to talk to him but waved their hands to acknowledge.

Meenakshi had bathed by the time her husband came back from the river and set about arranging for his puja. She knew that he would not touch or have anything to eat or drink till he had completed his morning worship.  Having been married for more than fifty years now, she was used to his routine.

Gopalasamudram was a quaint little village though a panchayat in the district of Tirunelveli, in those days unspoilt by the intrusions of city life. The agraharam where Sankara lived was one long street, where everyone knew everyone else. The street was bound by the Siva temple at the eastern end and a Vishnu temple at the western end. The entry in to the agraharam was right in the centre literally splitting it in to the west side and the east side. Behind the agraharam on the northern side flowed the Thambirabarani river. One had to cross a small bridge over a canal which was called as the vaykaal of the main river before climbing over a mound to reach the river bank. The river was ever flowing and the water was crystal clear, one could see the bed of the river and the fishes. The river derived its name from the fact that it was said to contain copper. Though there have been various interpretations for its name, there was a sanctity attributed to it as it was believed to be as old as the puranas and epics. In fact it was said that it is mentioned in the Mahabharata as an asylum where the Gods had undergone penances for attaining salvation. It wound its way from its origin in the Pothigai hills in the Western Ghats and flowed to merge with the ocean in the Gulf of Mannar.’

I could not avoid repeating the last paragraph from the last post for the sake of keeping the continuity.

But I have expressed my desire to some friends that the richness of the native literature should be spread beyond the boundaries of its origin. Though the lyrical quality cannot be captured it will help in understanding the richness of thought and culture. Authentic translations should be available and I am sure there are enough scholars to do that now. It will be a great contribution in creating awareness among the non native population and as a legacy to posterity. The great writers and thinkers of the twentieth century though they wrote in their native language, their works were available to a large audience and spread beyond the boundaries of the country of origin because of the translations.

A DISTANT DREAM

A DISTANT DREAM

‘If wishes were horses then beggars would be kings’, I do not need a horse, neither am I a beggar, nor do I want to be a king. My wish is very simple but I know it can never be fulfilled. The simpler the wish the tougher it becomes.

I have always wanted to live in a small cottage beside a stream with the hills in the background and the lush green paddy fields in front and as the gentle breeze blew across, causing ripples on the sheet of water I would watch the paddy dance, a slow waltz. I would read ‘The Solitary Reaper’ and listen to the song of the lonely reaper waft across the fields. I would wake up to the morning sun just peeping out from the hills and the chirping of the birds on the trees in my backyard and then the milkman would arrive with the milk, fresh and undiluted straight from the udder. Then in the garden with a steaming cup of coffee on my rocking chair breathing in the freshness of the morning and then off on my morning walk to the village nearby being greeted by friendly faces. The unpaved street cleaned and sprinkled with cow dung mixed water with kolams in front of each house as if reminding one that the street was the canvas on which every house let their creativity flow. The only mode of transport, the bus would make its visit twice a day to keep you in touch with the outside world. The newspaper at least two days late ensured that you were always behind what was happening out there, not that one was really bothered about being out of sync.

You may wonder whether I am in a time warp. Does such a world exist? I woke up to the reality that this was a dream, a distant dream and would remain as such. But I remember that such a world did exist in my childhood not as a dream but as a reality. It is not that I was born and bred up there but every time I went to my native village during the school vacations I always returned with these images and may be these are recurring as dreams now. The first initial of my name is the name of my village and the second my father’s name. I never dropped using the first name as it tied me to my roots and an identity that I still treasure.  

Gopalasamudram was a quaint little village those days though now it is no longer so. It was a panchayat in the district of Tirunelveli, in those days unspoilt by the intrusions of city life. There was one long street, where everyone knew everyone else. The street was bound by the Siva temple at the eastern end and a Vishnu temple at the western end. The entry in to street was right in the centre literally splitting it in to the west side and the east side. On the northern side flowed the Thambirabarani river. One had to cross a small bridge over a canal which was called as the vaykaal of the main river before climbing over a mound to reach the river bank. The river was ever flowing and the water was crystal clear, one could see the bed of the river and the fishes. The river derived its name from the fact that it was said to contain copper. Though there have been various interpretations for its name, there was a sanctity attributed to it as it was believed to be as old as the puranas and epics. One had to travel by a bullock cart to reach the village from the nearest bus stop which was two miles away. I always enjoyed the holidays, playing with the others my age and older, below the trees. My grandfather spent his life there and I am sure my father would have wanted to go back and settle there. If you ask me whether I want do it, the answer is that it is not possible. I can dream but I also realise that I cannot now do without all the comforts, if that is what we can call it. We have been caught up in vortex of wants and wanting more and more. When I did get an opportunity to visit my native place I found that two distinct changes had taken place. One, the village was no longer a village but a small town by itself and the other a dilapidated village inhabited by old and mentally unstable elders because the succeeding generations had moved away to seek a new life to the cities and across the seas in keeping with the changing times. The remaining still held on to their past realities which had now become a dream.

I am not at all comparing the past with the present. I can only say that life was simple and the wants were fewer and it suited that generation. With the progressive evolution of the human kind, the succeeding generation’s wants have increased and life has become more complex. That is why we would like ‘If wishes were horses beggars would be kings’ to come true. Of course we are not satisfied with only horses and we want to be kings. Nothing wrong with that, for we have expanded the boundaries of our knowledge and may be we are in a better state of understanding of the working of this world. We have built our lives on Liberty Equality and Fraternity, but the quest for power and dominance still rules.

But I still dream for that is all I can do now. I know it will remain as a dream. I speak for my self only for I still ache for the simplicity and innocence that appears to have been lost somewhere down the line.

IF

IF

A few days ago I received a mail from a friend which read “A two letter word in English has more meanings than any other two letter word and that is ‘up’. It is listed in the dictionary as an adverb, preposition, adjective, verb or a noun”. I enjoyed reading the paragraph with all the usages of ‘up’ incorporated in it. It set me searching for words that had great significance and impact on our lives. In the process I narrowed my search down to three words – a single letter word, another two letter word and a three letter word – ‘I’, ‘If’ and ‘God’. While we have always talked about the first and the third which represent the ego and the all encompassing, we have to recognize the role played by ‘If’ in the conduct of our lives.

For a long time I held the view point that the root cause of misery in our life is the word ‘If’. A majority of us spend our time thinking about the choices we have made in life and how things could have been different ‘if’ we had chosen otherwise. There are certain choices we have made because they were within our power to do so. These are mostly centered round marriage, love life, studies, career etc. Things could have been different and may be I would have led a better life than my present state. I am not happy, I feel miserable. I am helpless when I start questioning my origins and why I was not born under more favorable circumstances. I question God and blame him for all the misery that I am undergoing now. Of course there are no answers, when someone comes along and says it is due to my Karma and I am atoning for my sins in a previous birth. All the same I am miserable. Most of the time, we end up blaming extraneous reasons for our mistakes and retreat into a shell of self pity. In all this, ‘if’ is a post mortem of our past and dissatisfaction with the present reality.

Since then I have realized that I had been unfair to the word ‘If’. This is a word that is a philosophy by itself. I thought that ‘if’ I am in a position to accept the present state of existence than I have been successful in erasing out all negative effects of my past actions. So here ‘if’ lays down a condition to help us towards acceptance so that we move on.

I remembered a poem ‘IF’ by Rudyard Kipling which I had read during my school days. Though I did remember a few lines I had to do some search for the whole poem. I am reproducing only the first stanza and the last four lines here –

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating

 

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

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

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

This perhaps is one of the most inspirational and motivational poems to have been written. It was written by Kipling to his son. May be a hundred years have passed since then but the message is eternal. Here ‘if’ lays down the path to a greater understanding and perhaps a way towards achieving the goals we have set for ourselves. Like Kipling says in the last two lines – “Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And- which is more- you’ll be a Man my son”.  As per Khushwant Singh,  Kipling's If is "the essence of the message of The Gita in English.

When I read Kipling’s poem again after so many years I was also reminded of John Lennon’s song ‘Imagine’.

  - - - - - - - - - - --

 Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Here one realises that this also talks about all the conditions to make the world a better place to live. ‘If’ all this can happen we can have heaven on earth.

When I had remarked that -‘if’ is the root cause of all the misery in this world, my friend replied “The word ‘if’ is an embodiment of pure atheism. Creating certainty is in our hand. Anxiety about future, punctuated by the word "if" is pure atheism, according to Mahatma Gandhi”. I had to take his word, for I have not read Mahatma Gandhi.

While I understand anxiety, I cannot accept that creating certainty is in our hands. Also that ‘if’ is pure atheism. I am sure some of my readers will have their viewpoints on this, which they can share on this space.

WHY I BLOG – WISHING EVERYONE A HAPPY NEW YEAR

HY I BLOG – WISHING EVERYONE A HAPPY NEW YEAR

As the year 2013 ends, I wish all the readers of my blog A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR and wish that 2014 fulfils all the hopes we have nurtured and our goals achieved. For me personally this will be the start of a new year of blogging and I hope that I shall be able to explore, share and sustain your interest in what I write. It is not a selfish motive, for it is you out there, who have given me the encouragement and an opportunity to understand myself better. Your comments and active participation in the discussions on my posts have helped me evolve as a better writer. I am ever grateful for this, for I have discovered a joy in being able to write. When you blog you choose to share what you write in a space you feel is your own but something that you would like everyone to see. In that sense it is on the public domain and I have learnt a few lessons on the way. We may choose to write on anything we want, but ultimately it should connect with the reader. I learnt a lesson during the early stages of my blogging life. The first was from my daughter, who said that I write well but she is unable to comprehend what I write. The other was from a respected senior colleague who said nearly the same thing, but added that my writings were philosophical excursions that many may not connect with. I realised that I had indeed been languishing within myself and recording them there.

We have our own take on various issues that we like to write about. One has to remember that this is a personal opinion put up on the blog and comments from the readers will always be there. These should be looked at as the different opinions that exist. There is no question of a correct opinion, as these are always subjective, but we do learn a lot and realise that there are contrarian ways of looking at things. One thing I have consciously avoided is being judgemental or making sweeping statements. This is also a forum where the reader is heard.

A ‘blog’ is a combination of ‘Web’ and ‘Log’. In short it is a log of thoughts and writing posted publicly on the World Wide Web. It is not a diary or a book, for a diary is used to record your personal thoughts and a book is a long term project laid out and developed over a period time.

For me personally it has been a space to immediately transfer my thoughts on. The faster I do it, the more truthful I am to what my thoughts are. Of course it undergoes its share of editing to ensure that the grammar and spellings are in order and a relook at it to ensure that sensibilities of my readers are not hurt. For instance my post ‘A Walk in the Rain’ was written soon after I had really experienced the exhilaration on my evening walk along the beach. My post on ‘A conversation with my beard’ came naturally as I sat in front of my computer in the night wanting to write something and as I stroked my beard as is my usual habit. I found that these posts connected more easily with my readers as they could relate it with there own experiences  whether it be the sheer joy of living or looking at events happening around them. I have consciously avoided posts on political and financial topics for I am not really interested in them after having spent a major part of my life in their midst. I guess that there is a different forum for all this and ultimately I am not a journalist.

I have also found that it is important to have a proper heading for each post on your blog, for apart from the readers in your friends circle and other related ones, there is a huge audience out there who make searches through the net on topics they are interested in. I found that my posts on art, book reviews or on literary and philosophical personalities still continue to have page views long after I had posted them. I am saying this, because I acknowledge that I have found it important to have more and more people read what I write, for this is what motivates me to continue exploring and refining my way of looking at things. I also admit that I like it when people like what I write.

So let me thank you for making me richer as a human being who is able to understand and empathise with people out there. That is the truth and it is not vanity when I say that.