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.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Sunday, December 28, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, December 19, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Memories
Yesterday fell out of a box.
The shadows grew longer,
as I ran to escape them.
The glow from each memory,
lit my lonely heart,
and the pain from yesterday,
refused to depart.
Yesterday passed by my window,
in a slow procession,
as I tried to forget faces.
Each face told its story,
of the man forlorn.
And the stories like them,
went meandering on.
Yesterday stood in my mirror.
The books were settled,
as I tried to lose count.
A tear for each smile,
a scar for each sin,
until the returning stranger,
had to be let in.
Yesterday is the fire,
around which we gather.
The splinters sting us,
and yet we stay,
to forget the cold of today.
The shadows grew longer,
as I ran to escape them.
The glow from each memory,
lit my lonely heart,
and the pain from yesterday,
refused to depart.
Yesterday passed by my window,
in a slow procession,
as I tried to forget faces.
Each face told its story,
of the man forlorn.
And the stories like them,
went meandering on.
Yesterday stood in my mirror.
The books were settled,
as I tried to lose count.
A tear for each smile,
a scar for each sin,
until the returning stranger,
had to be let in.
Yesterday is the fire,
around which we gather.
The splinters sting us,
and yet we stay,
to forget the cold of today.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The paradox of desire
Before I begin with the main idea of this post, I would like to say that it feels good to be blogging again. I hope that in my second spell I come up with some wholesome, thought-provoking posts—something more than the immature rants and outbursts that I have been spewing on this blog thus far.
Now for the main post: the paradox of desire
High-adrenalin formulas for success usually tell us that if we really, really want something then nothing can stop us from getting that something. I am sure we have all seen our fair share of suited motivational speakers and success stories on railway station bookstands or glossy posters titled “determination” and “goal” (in red block letters) with a mountain peak in the background.
My ideas are somewhat incongruous with mantras like this. Extreme desire seems to be a repellent for the very things that are desired. Life constantly mocks at us—the more we want something, the more impossible it gets for us to have it. Sky high professional ambitions drive us to the point where we turn into a confused heap of anxiety and frustration; complete devotion or infinite affection seldom form the basis of healthy relationships or friendships. I am not against ambition, desire, or setting goals, but it seems that they are not the sole ingredients in realizing our dreams. The one secret ingredient that must be garnished on top of these things is indifference—only a little pinch of indifference, without which the main course of life is incomplete. However much we love something or someone, we must be able to sit down, take a deep breath, and tell ourselves that nothing is such a big deal that we cannot live without it. The success of a Plan A lies in the presence of a Plan B.
Perhaps this idea is absurd. What about all the great sportsmen, musicians, writers, statesmen, and all of us who have moved on to higher things by not letting our circumstances put out the fire of desire that was within us? Would not the pinch of indifference have been but a full stop to our journey?
So, it turns out that I am still confused. On the one hand, a voice inside me—a voice of an annoyed eight-year-old with clenched fists, almost ready to cry because the world seems too twisted to be fair—seems to tell me that feverishly chasing our dreams is like trying to catch butterflies. On the other, a battle-hardened boxer puts his hands on my shoulders and tells me that if we want something for ourselves, we should be ready to give and take one more blow under the chin.
The only answer I can satisfy myself with is this: all humans are not equal. For some, some things are meant to be; for some others, those some things are not. The key is to accurately predict which of our desires should go into the “not meant” column and which ones into the “this is meant to be” column.
But the journey of self-discovery is the hardest one, and it has more dead ends and detours than any other.
Now for the main post: the paradox of desire
High-adrenalin formulas for success usually tell us that if we really, really want something then nothing can stop us from getting that something. I am sure we have all seen our fair share of suited motivational speakers and success stories on railway station bookstands or glossy posters titled “determination” and “goal” (in red block letters) with a mountain peak in the background.
My ideas are somewhat incongruous with mantras like this. Extreme desire seems to be a repellent for the very things that are desired. Life constantly mocks at us—the more we want something, the more impossible it gets for us to have it. Sky high professional ambitions drive us to the point where we turn into a confused heap of anxiety and frustration; complete devotion or infinite affection seldom form the basis of healthy relationships or friendships. I am not against ambition, desire, or setting goals, but it seems that they are not the sole ingredients in realizing our dreams. The one secret ingredient that must be garnished on top of these things is indifference—only a little pinch of indifference, without which the main course of life is incomplete. However much we love something or someone, we must be able to sit down, take a deep breath, and tell ourselves that nothing is such a big deal that we cannot live without it. The success of a Plan A lies in the presence of a Plan B.
Perhaps this idea is absurd. What about all the great sportsmen, musicians, writers, statesmen, and all of us who have moved on to higher things by not letting our circumstances put out the fire of desire that was within us? Would not the pinch of indifference have been but a full stop to our journey?
So, it turns out that I am still confused. On the one hand, a voice inside me—a voice of an annoyed eight-year-old with clenched fists, almost ready to cry because the world seems too twisted to be fair—seems to tell me that feverishly chasing our dreams is like trying to catch butterflies. On the other, a battle-hardened boxer puts his hands on my shoulders and tells me that if we want something for ourselves, we should be ready to give and take one more blow under the chin.
The only answer I can satisfy myself with is this: all humans are not equal. For some, some things are meant to be; for some others, those some things are not. The key is to accurately predict which of our desires should go into the “not meant” column and which ones into the “this is meant to be” column.
But the journey of self-discovery is the hardest one, and it has more dead ends and detours than any other.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Midnight
Midnight,
waiting patiently to pounce on tomorrow.
Midnight,
look to the moon and find your sorrow.
Midnight,
promise by promise a new day you borrow.
Midnight,
Leaves dare a faint rustle.
Midnight,
smell of redemption in a drizzle.
Midnight,
life still seems like a puzzle.
Midnight,
lures me with its mystic cold.
Midnight,
soothing silence makes me bold.
Midnight,
another story goes untold.
Midnight,
leads the resting ones astray.
Midnight,
I watch an angel calmly pray,
Dawn is still a truth away.
waiting patiently to pounce on tomorrow.
Midnight,
look to the moon and find your sorrow.
Midnight,
promise by promise a new day you borrow.
Midnight,
Leaves dare a faint rustle.
Midnight,
smell of redemption in a drizzle.
Midnight,
life still seems like a puzzle.
Midnight,
lures me with its mystic cold.
Midnight,
soothing silence makes me bold.
Midnight,
another story goes untold.
Midnight,
leads the resting ones astray.
Midnight,
I watch an angel calmly pray,
Dawn is still a truth away.
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