Autumn of IITM

It's a hot, sultry afternoon, and I am taking rest in my room, after lunch. My room is hot but cosy, and it's very calm and quiet outside -- I can hear only songs of birds and the wind. I rise from my bed; get dressed slowly, like a person with no purposes; come out of my room, and, after locking it, start walking. I am walking very slowly, completely aware of everything around me. The corridor of the hostel is deserted, and every room is locked -- there is none in their rooms! The sky is blue and there are small, bright, white clouds scattered around. I start descending the stair case -- descending is always easier than ascending! I know that my bicycle should be somewhere in the porch, though the exact location I never care to remember. Without any difficulty, however, now I am able to locate it, as there are only a few of them there. I get on the bicycle with ease and start driving towards my lab.

The afternoon is hot and sultry. And the roads are almost empty, except occasionally for some people riding to the canteen for food or returning to work.There are trees on both sides of the road, giving me shadows, and thus saving me from the heat of the scorching sun. I see some young girls in white-and-green school uniform coming from the school for lunch break. They are talking to each other continuously while looking around and enjoying the afternoon. Their faces are gleaming with immense joy which make them even more beautiful. Until I pass them my eyes keep scanning them -- I see their happiness, liveliness, innocence, and joy. I look at every guy passing me as though I am trying to learn something from his face; they all pass me, with calm faces.

The afternoon, though hot and sultry, looks beautiful and serene. As I am heading towards my workplace, I look at the long road; I can see till the next turn, which comes a hundred meters away. I sense with wonder that my immediate future is waiting for me on the road and I am passing through my life as I ride the bicycle. Suddenly, there comes a soothing breeze, caressing my face and hair, as if it wants to tell me something; a shower of dead, yellow leaves from the trees falls on me... and around me. I wish if this moment would just freeze and stay forever... but, no: it passes me... and I go on.  It is autumn in Chennai. The trees are becoming dry and leafless. They remind me how they (and me) celebrated the winter and spring. That joy is gone. Those moments are gone. And we will also be gone. There is none on the road, and I can see until the next turn. Everything is green... and serene. Again, another moment, which I wish to freeze. I don't know if the world is a reality or a mere idea. But, at this very moment, I love the very idea... that I am alive. And... I know... I will be gone tomorrow....

Sandeep Palakkal
March 19, 2010.

Women's Bill: The First Step

Indian Rajya Sabha passes with 191 against 1 votes "the women's bill" for reservation up to 33% for women in the parliament seats. Now the Lok Sabha should pass the same for it to become effective; will it happen?

"Now the fight is no longer between the boys, but between us--girls": Sushma and Brinda celebrating the moment. (photo courtsey to The Hindu daily, March 10, 2010).

On Baudolino, Snow, and white lies

    "... I am a writer of histories... Where will I put the story that Baudolino told me?" [Niketas]
    "Nowhere. The story is all his. And anyway, are you sure it is true?" [Paphnutius]
    "No. Everything I know I have learned from him, as from him I learned that he was a liar." [Niketas]
    ...
    "It was a beautiful story. Too bad no one will find out about it." [Niketas]
    "You surely don't believe you're the only writer of stories in this world. Sooner or later, someone -- a great liar than Baudolino -- will tell it." [Paphnutius]

This is how Umberto Eco finishes his novel "Baudolino"--just by admitting that "I am that someone (of course, a great liar than Baudolino) who has now told you the great story of Baudolino, which, in turn, is a great lie". Thus he joyfully laughs at himself, and once again reinforces his concept of a novel. For, I remember him saying in "The Name of the Rose" that he (or the narrator in that story) was writing it, claiming to be based on a true historical event but without assuming the narration to be historically true, to enjoy the sheer pleasure of writing. But, at the same time, both his stories named above are very beautiful, investigating on the deep nature of human beings--their love, deception, hatred, jealousy, lust for mysteries etc. And in every aspect these novels are more than imaginative: they are brilliantly intellectual. And this is why I love his novels. I believe that this philosopher-cum-medievalist-cum-semiotician-cum-novelist has written five novels, and I, having finished "Baudolino" this week, am already feeling an internal urge to read all his other works.

"Baudolino" is the story of Baudolino, who lived in twelfth century as an adoptive son of the emperor Frederic, and his mysterious ventures. Specially, he ventures deep into Asia, probably into India, to find a lost Christian kingdom of "Prester John". Baudolino is an intelligent, learned, widely read man, who easily learn any language--a skill that helps him wander into the unknown places. His most celebrated talent is the ability to tell lies so convincingly. Maybe, Umberto Eco means that he was a great story teller. Anyway, the novel is written as is told by Baudolino to Niketas. While reading, like "The Name of the Rose", I was thrown into an unknown medieval world. In this novel also, again as in "The Name of the Rose", the main character (Baudolino) walks through a lost, ancient, underground cemetery, where dead bodies of monks are kept. That was a beautiful moment of the novel.


This weekend, I also finished another novel from another exceptional novelist, which I was reading in parallel with "Baudolino". It was "Snow" by Orhan Pamuk. Unlike "Baudolino", which takes place in twelfth century, in the medieval Christian world and Asia (or India?), "Snow" is set in Kars, a remote city in Turky, in the modern times (90's), in the modern Muslim world. The story is based on the headscarf issue in Turky, and, more than that, it talks about IDENTITY. Yes, a conflict of identity between the Western and Muslim worlds. The perspective of radical Islam is portrayed well. I, being from India, can see the point, and, after reading the novel, have started doubting my own identity as an Indian. To what extend am I really Indian, or Malayalee, for that matter, vis-a-vis am I influenced by Western thought? I don't know. As always, I find an excuse for my ignorance: I am not so intelligent to answer this (any) question.

In "Snow", the author starts narrating the story of his poet friend, Ka, who ventured to Kars to meet the woman of his dreams, Ipek, and to propose her. He is then caught in the political and social issues in Kars. Finally, the author, Orhan, himself becomes a part of the story and talks to us as a character in the story. This was very beautiful. Furthermore, to my surprise, and to provoke me to remember my own opinion on Eco's concept of a novel, a character, Fazil, in "Snow" tells the author, Orhan:

"If you write a book set in Kars and put me in it, I'd like to tell your readers not to believe anything you say about me, anything you say about any of us. No one could understand us from so far away."

To this, the author replies:

"But no one believes everything they read in a novel."

My question: does the author imply that the entire novel was a lie that he created out of his imagination to say something that he wanted to say (of love, deception, jealousy, identity, Western vs Islamic)?

Lately, I have started coveting to become a man, a BIG liar, who can imagine a lot, who has a repletion of words in his consciousness, and to write great stories.... My god (though I am an agnosticist in theory and atheist in practice, to tell a lie), if I were to become so!!!

Lost Freedom

Mother, you created me free,
I was free to savour your milk,
And enjoy my life.
But I created a cage,
And imprisoned you there,
Hoping to gain greater joy,
And power.
I did not know that I was
Incarcerating myself.
Losing all my freedom,
Now I live in vain....

--Sandeep Palakkal,
Feb 12, 2010.

Roads and highways: another view.

Inspired by Sankar's roads and highways:

I don't know how to differentiate between a road and a highway; quite unsurprisingly, I don't have the insight Kundera possessed. But I've traveled enough, on the roads and on the highways. When I am traveling on the road, I am not free: I have to constantly take decisions as to which way to turn, where to stop etc. I'm still in the common life that I am always in. But when I am on the highway, I feel a sort of free of myself. I know that the highway has a destination, and that is the same as mine. I just have to go, without effort, without much thought; it is like a river flowing effortlessly to its destination, without worrying about it. In that process, I am free and can see a lot of dreams. During such a journey, my dreams are absolutely "unnecessary", without any particular aims. That is what I mean "I am free". If somebody ask me which is better, a journey on a road or on a highway, I've no answer. I don't know!

Quite recently, I had a long journey on a highway. However, this time, I was not free of thoughts, and was not aimless. I was struggling to make a solid decision on something concerned with my life. Of course, I forgot the highway, the destinations, and myself.... I swear, I will never forget that nauseating journey.

Inner Voice

This is between us, you and me.
I am communicating to you
Through this unsophisticated poem.
You know, poetry is my way
To understand me.
Me? Who is the me?
That is the doubt now....
Is this me a thought?
No, I've conflicting thoughts.
But me is peaceful.
Is this me a feeling?
No, I've conflicting feelings.
But me has integrity.
Is this me an ego?
No, my ego is a burden to me.
But me is soothing to me.
Is this me a body?
No, my body is sick.
But me is strong.
Is this me an action?
No, all my actions are empty.
But me is my only meaning.
Then who is this me?
Who knows? And who cares?
All I know is that
The night is cold;
It is late, silent, serene;
And my bed is warm, cosy;
And I am almost sleeping.
Or I no longer can say
If I am awake....

--Sandeep Palakkal.
Chennai, Jan 2010.

Song of a Mystic

When I said I have infinite fingers,
They felt I am crazy,
For, none can  have infinite fingers.

When I said I have infinite intelligence,
They assumed I am deluded,
For, none can be infinitely intelligent.

When I said I have infinite talent,
They replied I am arrogant,
For, none can be infinitely talented.

When I said I have infinite joy,
They said nothing,
For, they didn't understand me!

--Sandeep Palakkal,
Jan 2010.

Why don't I hate?

(Ref: http://sandeeppalakkal.blogspot.com/2010/01/reason-to-laugh-constitutional-rights.html; and its comments)

Q) Why don't I hate human beings?

A) Because, my hate is a paramount instinct; it is reserved for the great.

Some "serious" thoughts

Chennai is cool these days. I can't believe that I am in Chennai, especially after the hot summer that we had last year. So, again, after the really hot summer and this really cool winter, I have started loving hot days and cool nights!

Yesterday, I sat in my room, feeling the coldness of the night, with a lot of dreamy thoughts in my mind. I was not disturbed by any worries of life. The night was very silent, and I could even hear clearly the dogs barking somewhere at distance. I was just reminded of my home and school days. Elders used to say that dogs bark and howl in the night when they see "Yamadeva" coming on his vehicle, a big cow (or was it bull?),to take lives of people; and I used to imagine him, riding a big, black cow, holding a sword shining in the moon-light. I felt nostalgic.

Then I lay down on my bed, though sleep was nowhere near. I felt cold, very cold; I craved for warmth. I put a thick bed sheet on my body (in Chennai--oh, I still can't believe!). Then I closed my eyes. Calm... release... silence.... There was no thoughts in my mind; or rather, I was thinking through images. Many a time, I visit a world, far away, hundred-thousands of light years away from earth; humans haven't yet discovered that world, and I hope they will never. It is beautiful... green... silent... calm... full of animals, birds, trees, and everything that is on earth, except human beings. Hence there is no nonsense, or I don't have to check if something is nonsense or not! I walk on that lonely planet alone, with a calm but thinking mind, sometimes stopping to talk to some animals and birds.

Today, the world is that of the working man's. Everyone is working hard. Work is worship. When I was dreaming under the thick bed sheet, enjoying its warmth, I felt no urge for anything. It was relaxing, calm. Then it occurred to me that the modern man doesn't know why he/she is alive. They have just forgotten the simplicity of life. Work, worship, god, religion, marriage, war, gossip, bikes, cars, roads, people, music, movies, books... the world is full of nonsense, and noise. I just went outside the campus recently, just to get out of the boring campus life. I found only people, in buses, trams, roads, everywhere. Vehicles were continuously flowing on the roads. Why? After all, it was a Sunday evening, and why can't people just rest at their homes? I don't know.

Thinking all these, yet feeling serenity in the mind, I fell asleep... when? I don't know...

Now, will you call me a misanthrope?

A reason to laugh: Constitutional Rights; Fabrication; Twist; and Forgery.

Rathore refused to speak to the media, saying, “Only if you have the constitutional right to make me speak, I will talk."

The Hindu, Dec 31, 2009.

Does a 14 year old girl, who is a budding tennis player, living in India, have the constitutional rights to grow up, playing tennis, leading a successful career and a happy life, with her parents and brother, or does she have the constitutional rights at least to dream so, without having been raped and harassed, and finally prompted to commit suicide, by a person who knows and talks about the constitutional rights, like you for example, Mr. Rathore sir? Does a 14 year old boy, living in India, have constitutional rights to register a complaint against a police officer who raped his sister, without the fear of being charged with fake cases and humiliated in the public and the police station? I am an ignorant, so do I ask these questions.

[Rathore's] wife Abha, who is also his lawyer in the case...alleged that “fabricated, twisted and forged” allegations were being presented by the family of the victim in the case, in which Rathore was sentenced to six months in jail. 

The Hindu, Dec 31, 2009.

Ms. Abha, possibly you know that the victim has a brother. When the case against your husband was going on, the brother, who was just 14 years old, was "framed" and a number of "twisted and forged" cases were charged against him by your husband, who was the DGP of Haryana, and his men. That young boy not only faced "fabricated, twisted and forged" allegations, but was undergone horrendous torture. We would like to hear your valuable comments on this, not as a lawyer, nor as Rathore's wife, but as a civilized human being.

Mr. Rathore, I don't hate you, because you are just a human being. But I just would like to remind you that you are a grave shame to humanity. And you know it... you know that you are guilty!

Dear reader (if there is any), what do you feel? Aren't these people making a mockery of all of us? Do you feel hurt, or shame, or nothing at all? Or, do you, like me, just feel like laughing?