With apologies to Kodak and the like

Memory can be a strange thing. Sometimes it is a stalker, persistently reminding us of moments we would like to forget; sometimes the kind stranger who covers us with something warm when we are out in the cold; and perhaps sometimes an old friend we can visit for consolation, advice, inspiration, or hope.

What is a photograph but an attempt to capture a memory, to put a colorful bird in a cage, to run into the kind stranger, to give the old friend an address we can always find? And then came lenses, Eastman Kodak, zoom, flash, Polaroid, SLR, digital photography, camera phones, and megapixels. Capturing a photograph has become a hobby, a profession, an art, a passion, and, for some, even an obsession.

But the mind still remains the best camera, the best instrument of photography. There is something one-dimensional about photography. Light is its only tool. Even video recording has a limited arsenal- sound and light. Capturing a true photograph, stuffing a moment or two in time into your pocket, giving physical form to a fragment of memory, requires perception, of the thousands of stimuli and emotions whose complex interplay gives birth to a single moment in our lives, and not merely precise measurement of the physics of light and sound. What was I feeling like when the photograph was taken? What did I smell, hear, or react to? Which emotions were racing through my head and heart? What madness was I just about to be guilty of? These are all questions that cannot be answered in megapixels. The mind captures the moment; the mind captures that infinitesimal yet profound fragment of our insignificant yet confusingly active lives.

In my moments where I want to visit that old friend, I do not flip through albums. I find myself opening little snuff-box-sized boxes of these moments. Where I can feel the crispness and innocence of a blue sky that I once saw; where I am stirred by the deep melancholic sound of ocean waves meeting their eventual fate on a rocky seashore; where I am overpowered by the mystic gloom of the evening fog (smog?) that enveloped the ocean and the horizon as I crossed a marvellous bridge. Strangely enough, I have no photographs of the moments that have stayed with me longer than others. Maybe that's because life's most special moments never announce themselves with a pose--when they come, we are never ready with a camera. But I am digressing here.

Here is perhaps what makes the mind's "camera" more special to me: a photograph captures the moment like a hunter would a prize, but when we capture a moment or object of beauty in our mind, it is a tribute, and to some infinitesimal yet profound extent, an act of surrender.

I wonder how many would agree. :)

A Dream

Little drops of golden sunshine filled his hitherto empty bowl. He looked up at the sky, his eyes shining with joy and intelligence, clear as they were because of the innocence that he still played host to. In his eyes was the reflection of the sky, which was still crisp and true in its azure hue. He felt warmth on his skin, but he did not know where it came from or why he felt it. The warmth made him feel like more than a collection of chemicals and organic substances—the warmth assured him that he had a right to hold that bowl and that it should, at least occasionally, be filled with the golden drops. A stream flowed nearby—he heard its constant gentle murmur; as if the stream was conversing meekly with everything that happened to be along its path, as if it was whispering little secrets without knowing whether little secrets can be whispered safely. The boy started walking towards the murmur, curious as he was about where the soft rolling sounds were coming from. The azure sky swiftly turned into a ceiling of dark green, with only a few sieves in it that barely allowed the sunlight to touch the bed of dried leaves, fallen fruit, and traveller’s footprints that was the forest floor. The boy still had his bowl, and he kept looking at it, sometimes to admire the golden drops, sometimes to make sure they were still there, and sometimes to simply feel secure among the trees that towered above him and the jungle that was breathing its intimidating chaos through the damp wind. As his steps—sometimes hesitant, sometimes bold, sometimes hopeful—led him along a path that the bewildering complexity of the jungle did not let him understand, he began to perspire, and the cold drops of sweat reminded him that he was alone in this little adventure of his. A few wandering moments later, he stopped to catch his breath and comprehend what he was doing. He wanted to know why the forest was aloof and unhelpful, almost proud of its power to perplex. Just as fear and reason began to win the incessant war that they waged on courage and innocence, he heard sweet music from one of the trees. The ceiling began to appear darker than before; but this time, it was because the darkness was in contrast with a brilliant crisp ray of light, with a touching glow that made all the demons born of the insensitive darkness of the jungle and conceived by its incomprehensible chaos instantly turn to dust. The glow belonged to an angel—a being of captivating beauty, with an intoxicating fragrance, with eyes that seemed to shine and bring out purpose in a meaningless existence, a warm embrace to melt a thousand cold winters, and a smile that for a moment, seemed to be the only believable truth in the forest that existed only to deceive. The angel drew him into flight, and even though he did knew he would never be able to find his way back to where he began, he gave himself no choice but to follow.
When his eyes opened, he was by the stream that continued to meekly murmur its little secrets. He tried to remember the sweetness and exhilaration of his flight. He did. But his bowl was gone, and so was the angel. The stream continued to whisper; the pure untouched stream was calling out to him to look into the gracefully flowing mirror of truth. In the mirror, he found a rugged man with scores of scars running across his face and a body that was now sprinkled with bruises, the souvenirs from his journey through the forest. And there he sat, looking into the stream, listening to it, and making peace with his bruises; he, the guardian of innocence and adventure.

The growing distance

You and I,
just faces in a picture,
lines from a forgotten song,
stranded in our silence,
we forgot to sing along.

You and I,
ships lost in the fog,
with no dreams to explore,
not sailing but drifting,
to our own desolate shore.

As Time plays hearse,
and love is buried deep,
hearts and faces so cold,
they dare not weep.
We heal our wounds,
with an empty sigh,
both you and I.

Sunlight

There are few things as inspiring as sunlight. Sunrise and sunset—sources of beauty that are so close to us, touching us softly but powerfully whenever we care to watch. Over the past one week, I have had the fortune of watching the sun rise over a creek every single day. The crispness and freshness of the morning light never fails to inspire me. The morning rays seem so much purer than everything else they touch, renewing promise and optimism each day. Even more amazing is the number of forms in which they can be seen. Whether filtering in through a glass window, piercing a gap between curtains, or breaking into a room as a sharp beam only to illuminate the chaotic dust particles, morning rays are beautiful. Then, there is the sky; azure sky, especially in the winter, is the perfect background, the perfect prop for sunrise to unveil its act of promise and beauty.

More intoxicating and captivating (personally, at least) than sunrise is sunset. Sunset is so beautiful that I am almost intimidated by its beauty when I try and describe it. If sunrise is inspiring, sunset is moving. There is a richness and depth to the setting sun that cannot be matched. The color of the mighty sphere just before it goes down is breathtaking—like the dance of pure fire in a flux of molten gold. This color calls out to the beauty within each of us that is fighting a losing battle against the inevitability of destruction but appears increasingly beautiful as it tries to prove its worth against a cursed end. And then, there is the sky. Sunset far outdoes sunrise in transforming the drab afternoon canvas into an intoxicating mix of color. An invisible magical paintbrush waltzes over the sky to wash the evening sky with various shades of, what I will call for the lack of any word that can do it justice, sunset color. After the sky, there is the glow. Where sunrise pierces, sunset envelopes. Gently, like children whispering little secrets into each other’s ears, the sunset envelopes our evening with a moaning glow that, for a few moments, seems to change the context of our existence. Finally, there is what sunset does to water—the trail of light from the sunset glistening on the surface of the sea, like a trail of bleeding memories that disappear into an ocean of sorrow. Stand on the seashore, and the trail will trace a path from the horizon to your toes. A graceful, touching, crying, smiling, powerful, and beckoning sunset—suggesting perhaps that the end can be more beautiful than the beginning.

The Earth is indeed a fortunate planet, to receive unconditionally something so pure, especially when its inhabitants make it play host to a world full of corruption, deceit, and compromise.

Magnidude: The magnitude of dudeness

The Dude can be spotted in a few places. The Dude never falls ill, and neither is The Dude ever in a bad mood. The Dude’s room is in a mess, but The Dude can find everything he needs to. The Dude always looks spiffy, even if he does not wash his clothes; and when The Dude does wash his clothes, he never has a sock missing. The Dude never wakes up early, but The Dude is never late. The Dude never has to rely on public transport, and even if has to, he can catch the train just as it is leaving. The Dude rarely got caught in college; and even if he did, he always managed to avoid major trouble. Nobody dislikes The Dude; and even if they do, they forget about it pretty soon. Everyone laughs at the The Dude’s jokes. The Dude is always noticed at parties, and everyone thinks The Dude can dance well. When The Dude speaks, nobody is bored. The Dude always wins at poker and tennis. The Dude has a way with the ladies. The Dude is so cool that he the laws of thermodynamics do not hold wherever he goes. The Dude always has a retort/answer/witty remark. In fact, The Dude always has the last word or last laugh, or both.

Please report any sighting of The Dude in your neighborhood immediately to the nearest CCC (Coolness Control Center). We need to monitor The Dude and his activities, or else The Dude will strike without warning, leaving you dazed and confused with an infeariority complex (the condition where one feels that he or she is afraid of more things than The Dude is). If spotted, please do not attempt to reason or conduct conversation with The Dude, because he might just disappear after talking you into believing in WMDs (the Ways & Means of Dudeness). Leave the rest to DDD (Director of Dude Disposal). There is no reward for supplying information about The Dude and his movements—it is your responsibility as a citizen of this world to stop The Dude and ensure that things always appear impossibly difficult and complicated.

Save the environment: defeat The Dude.

Happiness versus Euphoria

Happiness or euphoria? It can be a tricky choice to make. I suspect that the role of this choice in shaping the complex contours of our lives is grossly underestimated. Rarely do Sunday columns or self-help books discuss this choice in detail.

To begin with, how do we define happiness or euphoria? They are states of being. Happiness and euphoria are so hopelessly subjective that it would make no sense to try and describe them here. But I’m sure that in our own way, in our own combination of people, places, objects, and emotions, we can define these things for ourselves.

What is required to make a choice is knowledge of the difference between the two—perhaps subjective as well, but here is my version of it.

Euphoria is more elusive. Happiness is easier to get. Euphoria is a result of something special, something rare and above average. Euphoria has its roots in special talent or sparkling intelligence; like when you listen to a brilliant piece of music or read a few words full of subtle wit. Euphoria is a buzz that goes through your head and tells you that life is worth living after all. Happiness is poor man’s euphoria. It may not be everywhere, but it is relatively cheap. I feel I have made a compromise when I am happy but not euphoric. In a world that seems to be going to pieces, happiness seems to be getting increasingly uncommon. In the end though, happiness feels rather mediocre.

But there is the dark side of the force. Euphoria is dangerous—its addictive—and the lack of euphoria can rightly be held responsible for the sharp sense of depression and futility that I am sure has stabbed each one of us at least once. This is perhaps the reason why more people seem to prefer being happy than chase after euphoria. The pursuit of happiness is a safe goal; the quest for euphoria is a risky proposition.

The choice that people make reflects in everything around us—in music, art, literature, cinema, and in people and their sense of humor. The lack of creativity or intelligence in so many things that we see is a result of people being lured by the low price tag and push-button effort that are characteristic of happiness.

What would happen if more people began to demand euphoria? What would happen if we raised the bar? My guess is we would have more suicides, more people on antidepressant drugs, art with more substance and creativity, and more intelligent humor as opposed to commercial wonders, prime-time television, and social networking.

Ultimately, it’s a choice.

The love of appreciation

People express themselves in many forms—some write poetry, some make music, some paint pictures; the list is endless. In fact, in daily life, people are always expressing their innermost desires and ambitions in some form or another even without their knowing it.

I have always wondered how much of the motivation for expression or creativity comes from the true love of expression itself and how much from the thirst for appreciation. Many of us would like to believe that the need for appreciation or fame is not the reason why we do what we do. We do what we do because we love doing those things. But there is always that little void, however small, inside us waiting, almost begging, to be filled with a little praise, approval, and perhaps even love. That little void is why musicians perform in front of audiences, why there are art galleries and not art warehouses, why I am writing this article on a blog instead of simply saving a copy of it for myself. It is unfortunate that there is this complex interplay between chemicals and electric impulses in our brain that is responsible for the dreadful currency called emotion; and sometimes, we are held hostage by the uncontrollable greed to make a profit in this currency.

Would we play music if we knew nobody is ever going to listen to us play? Would we paint if we knew nobody is going to look? Would we write if we knew nobody is going to read? Does there have to be an external reward associated with every pursuit?

My suspicion is that we are always on the lookout for some form of positive feedback. I have tried to kick the habit. But I always want to see eyes shine when I look into them, and I want to hear the thrill in the voice that speaks about me. And I am sure I am not the only one. This thirst for appreciation is self-destructive. Self-destructive because what is at the core of appreciation is an opinion, and opinions are quite often biased, skewed, or just plain blind. It seems too risky a proposition to surrender personal happiness to such a fair-weather-friend.

Eventually, we have the right to do what makes us happy and feel like there is a point in staying alive. But perhaps we are better off steering clear of the desire for external rewards.

Now, the hypocrite that I am, I post this on what is perhaps the most widely accessed medium in the world. It seems like there are still mountains to climb.