The Supreme (In)Justice of India [old/unfinished]

I thought it would be the wonder of the broomstick that would set me down to my keyboard again or perhaps some bumbling old fool with a white topi on his head and a black conscience spewing out utter nonsense... maybe the idiocies of some sections of the legislature or even police, yet it is the Judicial arm of the triumvirate of bodies that run this 'glorious' nation that has prompted me to begin to type yet again.

Most of you already know, but for those unlikely few who don't and are pondering what this old and wizened institution may have done to incur my... interest, let us just say that old not always means wizened. Sometimes it also means more deeply prejudiced and blind to the lay of the land and the truth of some matters.

The rights of the LGBT community are non-existent as per our apex court and as per conservatives deeply rooted in age old bias their wrongs are many, their mere existence being the foremost and most offending one of all it seems. These communities, deaf and dumb to any new inputs from the field of science, continue to tout the 'unnatural' nature of such dalliances as your friendly next door gay/lesbian person would like to indulge in. Judging by media and societal 'outrage' on other topics worthy of such it seems for them rape carried out by 'godmen' is alright, an acceptable 'natural' phenomenon but consesual sex between two members of the same gender is a horrifying crime. To them the sexual harassment of women is only just about as objectionable, if not lesser, than the existence of people who may have affection for people of both genders or even the same as themselves.  

But as always, I digress. The point I wanted to focus on was the 'unnatural' nature of such dalliances.

The human mind is a wonderful thing, our brain, that pinkish blob of flesh housed between our ears in that part of the body rather elegantly referred to as the cranium has a level of complexity to it that even modern medical science is yet to fully probe, but from what we do know right know is that much of how we act depends upon how our brains develop. Our sexual orientation is one such thing that stems from the development of that cheerful pinkish blob at least this is what my brain drags up from that room in my head labelled as 'What Little I Know' (a room whose contents are very little, I assure you) and from what little I'd read once upon a time. Thus when you come across a person who is gay or lesbian or bi-sexual it is not by choice that they 'became' so, it is how they were born, it is in their heads in their hormones. They are that way because, to use a slightly inelegant phrase, they were programmed that way.

In the case of transgenders the 'unnatural' tag is even more ridiculous for it is by a twist of nature itself that they are who they are. One does not choose at puberty or at birth that they will become a member of the gender currently referred to as the third gender by the politically correct, it happens. it happens because of the way our bodies are, the way our hormones function.

"Know Thyself"

"Know thyself"

A Delphic Maxim from Ancient Greece. A truth thousands of years old yet still valid; a fact which may seem strange in this modern world of multiple and metamorphosing truths where tomorrow's lie is today's truth and vice versa, or in some cases the truth merely becomes an unconfirmed rumor, one of many millions that throng the 'news' channels of today. Though to be fair, I am comparing a philosophical (perhaps psychological, too) truth to the truths of the news that we see today and being from different fields perhaps comparing the two would be as fair as comparing an aircraft with a bike, or a pile of poop as would be apt for some 'news' agencies.

The context, usage and factors that influence vary a lot. 

Ranting apart: Know thyself, this little truth is oft repeated in the simple everyday philosophies espoused by others, be it people of a particular school of thought or self help authors or philosopher-authors like Paulo Cohelo (of this last last mention I am a bit unsure, though a reading of one of his books leads me to believe he may in truth espouse all I say he may espouse). People preach "love yourself", but to do so you must know well and truly who you are, and what you are to love oneself truly rather than in the narcissistic manner that one comes across so often in others, even the traitorous self to some extent. 

And yet, despite this popular knowledge, acceptance and demand people find it tough to do so. It's as though we have a mental block in our heads, not unlike the DMRC Diversion signs found so commonly in Delhi just a few years back (and even presently if you traverse certain areas of the national capital), that says "Nope. No way you want to go down there buster. Why not rather think of that awesome book you read, or that show you watched, or perhaps drool a little and relive that ice cream binge in your head?" If you somehow make it past these blockades and begin to actually analyse yourself, collecting tidbits of information contained in scraps of memory and echoes of long forgotten incidents, events momentous and mundane now lost in the dusty old annals of ancient history, sooner or later the Trojan Horse will turn up.

What is this Trojan Horse? Well, it is the severe self-criticism of your actions that hides behind the benign mask of going over past mistakes to understand and prevent a recap in the future. "Oh, a helpful dose of self-analysis" you go and let it in and when you turn away to return to your job at the forensics lab of old deeds and memories the horse opens up and out comes the treacherous worm.

"Self-analysis huh?", it goes (I guess) "Well, how about this treasure trove of stupid things you did and shouldn't even forgive yourself for? Here, go beat yourself over the head with all this"

After which, mission accomplished, it promptly vanishes lest some eager gardener, caretaker of the mind's twisted little green patch of floral delights, come over to whack it over the head and 'vanish' it for good.

Those who make it past the first stage oft falter at this second one and it takes a tremendous will of effort to do so. For some twisted reason our 'hearts' find it easier to forgive others than it does itself (and a real interesting piece somewhat related to this can be found at the blog of a rather outspoken and talented (and also quite delightful) lady by the name of Minal- http://rainbowsandrape.blogspot.in/2014/01/2014.html)*.

Does it derive from some inherent fault in our 'Emotional Mind', is it related to self-esteem issues, or is it something else altogether? I know not. What I do know is that it can be fought and that only when you crush that wicked little worm that'd have you ranting against yourself will you be able to know yourself truly, accept yourself, and perhaps change yourself for the better, thus attaining that little modicum of peace we so covet.

I myself have oft tried and have as frequently failed to make it past one or the other. Though sometimes I do take a few steps away from that serpentine menace and gain a little more insight, but the modicum of peace I mentioned above? It still eludes me. 

Don't let it elude you.


*EDIT: The lady in question has long since deactivated her original blog. To those who have but recently read this piece: I am sorry but I'm afraid that piece is no longer accessible to us denizens of the World Wide Web. 

Random Rant

Following up on my previous post and a conversation I had this evening.

Writing well, scripting flowing verses or paragraphs upon paragraphs of writing that readers ingest without complaint, not realising just how any the pages/lines went by, all this is an art. An art I practice or attempt to. Sometimes I fail, like my latest poem on the other blog. It came out beautifully in my head but there were a few holes and in patching them up the beauty is lost.

But that is not what this piece is about. When it comes to writing, I can write a fair bit. I can probably impress some people with it if not many, and when I'm 'in the zone', or get my mojo in order, or feel inspired as such I can write very well; I can script pieces of utter bullshit that don't seem so, or pieces out of bullshit that don't display any characteristics of their source of origin in their content, and no where is this more visible than in my 'conversations' with people, girls especially, online. The spontaneous comment-upon-comment chats are fine and perhaps the more honest ones, but the ones sent in WhatsApp messages or to people's Facebook inbox, how honest are they? After all, if I can write 14-20 lines on a chat and keep the conversation going for a bit but struggle when talking face to face to get even two lines beyond the perfunctory 'hi' and 'what's up?' isn't that but an example of how dishonest my writing is and how my writing oft lies to others about my social skills, my intellect, my poetic nature or linguistic skills?

Anyway, rant over. Signing off for now.

The Artist's Dishonesty

All artists and poets do is represent the ordinary in a different light, through a different perspective or lens; as something extraordinary by blithely plucking it out of context; and in all this we are dishonest.

 A man gifted with the brush can paint alive an apple seemingly under more pressure than poor Atlas as he endeavors to hold up the heavens, the celestial sphere. Another gifted with words would make of a cup of tea something of such beauty as to rival Aphrodite herself or of the act of travelling to work such a an ordeal as to challenge even the most celebrated epics. Yet are these objects and acts all that we portray them to be? We would like to think so, yes, yet it does not mean that they are so.

Some things can be worthy of such praise and oft these talents do unlock and reveal new interpretations of life, useful or truly moving ones; as in a fallen leaf one can see a microcosm of death, hope, and a sort of rebirth- the cycle of life, while in an abandoned toy by a dusty old veranda one may be brought back to the nostalgic past and made to remember all given up in the haste to grow up and then abandoned leaving one foundation-less, lost and wondering where innocence went and why it won't return.

Yet not all things are so, and yet armed with my words and my camera I do often paint them to be more than they are, create, at least in my head, epics and tragedies revolving around mere twigs or iron bars, bent old beams and mannequins, and even mundane events like a class in college to a hour long wait.

And in this, I am dishonest.

NOTE: That I use 'we' as though I were one myself may seem presumptuous to many, yet we all are artists, some of words, some with paint, some use light and some music; while others are of sports, or of legalese and logic, and even of skin and blood. The only difference is that in many the artist but slumbers, or is made to, and thus seems non-existent while mine only half slumbers, and walks about in my head, in a semi-aware daze.

All I Ask

A little solitude, is all I ask
Yet it is not in loneliness I seek to bask.
Cheer and company I would desire
Yet it's hard when your hopes are afire.
So this wall I do erect,
Of apathy, yet,
Under this mask
All I ask
Is not for solitude but for
Someone to care.

-Attention seeking, that's the word that summaries this piece perfectly. It's a sad, horrid part of me that I do not like much, but I've accepted is part of my psyche (and needs to be purged). No one likes an attention seeking maniac, and hence I do try and control, yet my control is not absolute, and it does slip. Often.

Life

Life...

A gift, a puzzle eternal

To the common man, but to

The kittens that are our philosophers

A monumental ball of yarn to play with,

While faking, for others, knowledgeable airs

And employing pompous syntax to theorise

Some ridiculous theories again and again

With long winded statements; paragons

Of the syntactically, grammatically

Complex; veiling simple, even

Absurd ideas. All in all:

A farce.

Life, is but a wonder, a gift.

    A gift much too beautiful,                      much too simple, and yet complex

To be tarnished by the farce is the ‘intellectual’ drivel

 Hiding behind the mask of sophistication

That reduces everything to instances of

   Perception and perceptions of perceptions

   In an endless word-game that starts nowhere

     Leads to nothingness and has no purpose and aim.

Another piece revolving around philosophy and stuff... but then again, that, among many other things, IS what this blog is about.  :D   <-That's a grin, in case you're wondering.

A Disclaimer :D (Warning: NOT humorous...)

Very often I seem to end up posting stuff that seems to have some deeper meaning and some resonance with some of the slightly better known threads of thought (the proper term would be schools of thought) which may give you, my faithful, (hopefully) mildly gullible, yet intelligent readers the illusion that I actually have a highly developed intellect and that I have some deeper philosopher within me who assesses everything and after long periods of deep, ponderous thought comes up with those ‘truths’ that I very often tend to post hither and tither. Well, rest assured that nothing could be further from the truth. I am but a pseudo-intellectual young man playing at philosopher while he procrastinates and leafs through some random book ranging from the witty Wodehouse, to heavy stuff (like Freud to name a not-so-recent one) while doing justice to the wide smattering of fiction that comes in between ranging from space operas (read epic sci-fi) to thrillers and courtroom dramas, and yes even though  it stings my ‘manliness’ to admit this, the occasional romantic piece of nonsense a la Sparks, and Cecelia Ahern two*, as long as the story doesn’t have nauseous amounts of purple prose and flowery dialogues, THAT I just cannot stand.

So that’s all I am truly, a guy who reads a lot and ends up thinking a lot with his thoughts often being influenced by recent experiences and books, if not an outright muddle of thoughts projected into my puny skull by means of text or that combination of the audio-visual sensory inputs as is so common these days (and is responsible for the zombification of a majority of the world’s population).

However this does not mean that everything I come up with is a result of paraphrasing other people’s thoughts. I agree that many times my thoughts and ideas may match a lot with someone else’s but many times that just means that I have arrived at a similar conclusion after my own deliberations, however meagre they may be. And I do have the grace to Google any quotations I may come up with, or come across in the vast messy jungle that is my head, so that I can give the proper author credit and I don’t let the possibility of it being my own creation ripen in my mind until and unless even Google can’t trace the quote, which means that either it is from an extremely obscure text/author or that it is indeed an indigenous product of my own thought processes.

Oh, and one more thing. I sometimes end pieces abruptly, like this.

P.S. I love adding foot notes and even postscripts. :P

P.P.S. Another, shorter, disclaimer: my vocabulary isn't as awesome as it seems. I use Google and thesauruses at times.

P.P.P.S. Grin-emoticons in the title never come out the way you think they will (yes, it's supposed to be a grin up there).

 *Intentional pun seeing that I've read exactly two books of each author.