Thoughts...

It occurs to me, that today, we place a lot of emphasis on the abstract. The idea began to take shape in my head, as I returned from a trip to the market with my sister. My mum needed some vegetables, so we were sent off to buy them… and to ‘top up’ my mum’s and my sister’s phones while we were at it. We spent Rs.666 (hmm… interesting number, that. Can read all sorts of significances into the incident now… but let us not digress.) on the phone recharge (333 on my mum’s phone and 333 on my sister’s). The vegetables we bought (tomatoes, peas, coriander, capsicum and lime) all came within the thirty four rupees change I got from the chap who recharged our phones.

Isn’t that strange? Food, a basic necessity- Rs.34. Phone top up- Rs.666. Apart from showing skewed priorities, and being completely unfair, I think it reflects something of today’s attitude.

A while ago, a thought popped into my head while I was going through some folders on my computer. I figured, that a computer was nothing but a way of exploring your own mind. Not only documents, but pictures, videos… everything one could save or access on a computer seemed to be an exploration of the mind. Even watching a movie, is an exercise in self-exploration, because each person reacts to a movie differently. (Connection being that you can store movies on your computer.) The internet networks different minds… gives us a way of exploring other people’s thoughts. Not directly and through personal contact as before, but anonymously, thus giving this exploration much greater scope and freedom.

When I was clumsily trying to put these two thoughts together, my dad added another aspect. He said that this was all communication. Knowledge is hyped these days, and we are willing to pay for communication rather than food.

So there we have it. Ideas, exploring minds, communication and knowledge. All of this is abstract… all our money is spent on things that don’t really physically exist. While our basic needs such as food aren’t valued as much.

Art today seems to reflect this trend, too. We have moved from realistic portraits through Picasso, and today are faced with modern art… bits of squiggles and splashes of colour among badly proportioned, faintly recognisable representations of people, animals, machines and other physically real things. Why are they valuable? Abstract art. They represent ideas…

But perhaps we are pretentious?

Who decides the value of things? Surely, we have no right to… human life, basic needs versus ideas… but then, Ideas live on, long after our transient lives have passed… perhaps, though, that is precisely the reason why we must value life more….

Who decides?

And while we dither, and bargain over tomatoes in the market, having spent five or six times that amount on a new DVD, a farmer in Andhra Pradesh commits suicide because he can’t pay off his debts.

Surely we have gone way off target here. Our system obviously needs revising.

Masterly inactivity

'Masterly inactivity' is a phrase my father often uses to talk about... well, doing nothing.

But it has some... authoritative connotations to it.

What I'm going to talk about today, however, is doing nothing. Nothing. With a capital 'N'.

To be more specific, doing nothing constructive. That sounds a bit misleading, though. When I say nothing constructive, I mean nothing to add to the general pool of human knowledge. Which may not be such a bad thing. Take a look at the internet. What a scummy pond full of convoluted information... there's so much of it, you can't sift through stuff... you can't tell whether it's information or misinformation... it's mind boggling. So me not adding my two-bits worth, might just make life easier for some who's sifting through this quagmire.

Anyway, point being, when I say nothing constructive, I don't include activities like reading and watching movies in my list of things I'm not doing. To me, they are constructive... but my reading something, doesn't add to the pool...

You get the picture. Right?

You don't?

Well, plod on then.

Hmm... I see you're still plodding. Persistent plodder aren't you?

Anyway... I have spent a week at home doing nothing (as per my definition above)... and I must say it was a thoroughly enjoyable week.

I feel I have found my vocation. And I should like to carry on in this vein for the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, in the course of this wonderful week of nothing, nothing and more nothing, I thought a thought. Which depresses me.

In order to continue doing the kind of nothing I enjoy, I must posess a few things. Namely: A supply of food, a house, electricity, cooking gas and utensils, a computer with an internet connection, an inexhaustible supply of books, cable TV, a DVD player, a telephone and a large fluffy bed.

In order to obtain all this, I require the root of all evil: money. Therefore, I must either work or obtain money by criminal means. Either case involves my doing the kind of something that I dislike. Also my total inability to lie convincingly would make for a very bad criminal. Therefore I have no choice but to do 'honest' work. Bleah.

Still plodding? Boy, are you jobless.

So. Here is a list of things I consider 'nothing'.

Eating.

Cooking with lots of garlic and coriander.

Eating out with family and family friend and getting completely drunk thanks to family friend. Did I mention that said family friend was German? Ah, you see, now, don't you?

Checking Facebook.

Doing Facebook quizzes.

Watching movies.

Re-reading old books and feeling melancholy.

Talking on the telephone.

Going over stuff you already know by way of studying.

Looking up stuff on the net, like what exactly the staff of Aesculapius was.

Sleeeeeeeeeeeping....

Still reading this? I have nothing more to say.

Analysing the Aardvark

The Aardvark claims, the Aardvark knows,

But we know not, how far he goes,

In claiming that from nose to toes,

Just who or what he is, he knows!

A few thoughts on begging

I’ve often heard people speak of beggars. The word beggar has a strange magic to it. It immediately elicits in us a number of feelings. The foremost, being pity… and if we dig a little deeper, revulsion. It is almost impossible to talk of people who beg without these associations. Yes. They are people. Let’s not call them ‘beggars’. Somehow, over time, it’s become easy to call them that. Somehow, the word ‘beggar’ elicits our scorn and a high-handed condescending pity.

I have often heard people dismiss ‘beggars’ as unwilling to do an honest day’s work. I’ve heard it said that even if they are offered jobs with full good intention, they refuse them… and with this argument comes the verdict: They are ungrateful. They deserve it.

Let’s evaluate this honestly. Doesn’t this sound a lot like our pride speaking? They deserve it, because they have refused our well-meaning attempts to uplift them. Hmmm… sounds a tad pompous, doesn’t it?

If a passerby stopped next to you at random and offered you a job at his/her house would you accept it?

Would it lend more credibility if they drove up and stopped next to you, while you were begging on the pavement?

We all hear of the occasional cases of exploitation, where people (particularly young girls) are bought and sold… where all kinds of atrocities are perpetrated on them… we’ve heard of the organ trade… and the fact that we have actually heard of these stray incidents is in itself rather remarkable. After all, who is going to miss a beggar on the streets? So, if a few of these incidents have made it to the news, it means there is a lot more of this going on than we have heard of. And which group of people is more likely to be aware of these happenings than the ‘beggars’. After all, it is from among them that the majority of the victims are taken. Is it any wonder, then, that they are skeptical of our ‘help’?

That apart, how many of us are willing to live in a completely different way from the way we were brought up? Most probably, if you are reading this article, your life might be markedly different from the way your parents lived… but as we go ‘down’ the social scale we find people clinging harder and harder to their community identity. If you were born into a begging community, to you, that is normal. Change would be hard to come to terms with.

And, even if it is indeed true that they do not want to work, even when presented with the opportunity to, it is still illogical and morally high-handed of us to decide not to ‘encourage’ begging. Perhaps they do exaggerate their ailments to elicit our pity… but what of that? How often have we gone for a movie or a play? How often have we paid for actors to deceive us? How often have we thoroughly immersed ourselves in the tragedy of the character’s life?

Why then do we find it so disturbing and repulsive when a beggar does the same? Is it perhaps the suspicion that all this is not merely an act? Is it perhaps a deep seated guilt that makes us pity them rather than empathize with them as we would a character in a movie or a play?

The momentary twinge of guilt that seeing humanity so debased brings, is quickly forgotten, and we carry on with our busy lives… but what of the beggar. The twelve year old mother, whose infant is sick… the old man, whose legs were broken, and eyes damaged with specially prepared chemicals, at his birth, so that he would evoke pity in our hard hearts and earn revenue for the one who oversaw his deformation… the child, with a broken nose, and a bent back, in whose eyes condemnation lies… what of them? What has brought them to this state?

And what happens to them after that fleeting glance that we throw them as we walk past guiltily, telling ourselves that we really don’t have any change left?

A Ballad celebrating the supreme conquests of a long lost Hero

*Transalated from the original Cormenplink by Psychoclozenge Minion IV

It happened then in Twilligrath,

That old and  ancient land,

That habitat of Bizoriths,

Those quantities of Sand...

That Abner Havoc Gilliborg,

The son of Krillitoo,

Whose blatant promiscuity,

Yielded a child or two;

Set off among the Keeglepronx,

To seek his unknown dad,

The scringle-braindest verture,

Our friend had ever had!

He took with him his frigglegree,

To keep him warm a'nights,

And on his back a Zorangi,

With feeble-fronded tights.

The nights were long, the days were hot,

But Abner saw his goal,

The finding of the Kigilfee,

Who'd fathered him, alone.

So Abner marched on through the zloo,

The flonk he minded not,

His Vicaree and Tulipoo,

They saved him from Bizorts.

The frayed and tattered Callumpig,

A likeness of his dad,

The only thing old Krillitoo,

Of worth had everhad,

He carried it with careful pride,

He guarded it with zeal,

But when he'd marched for four whole days,

He sold it for a meal.

For Abner Havoc Gilliborg,

The son of Krillitoo,

Was not the spritest brightest lad,

To ever conk a zloo.

He slipped, he slonked, he prillitrogged,

And zloshed his way up Xare,

And when he reached the very top,

Looked down and without care,

He zwiggled, zwogged, he fertilogged,

And when he was all done,

He scratched his head and wondered why,

He'd come far in the sun!

He sbeegletrogged back down great Xare,

He hellaphinged his mind,

The more he squogged, the less he brogged,

The dorgle squorncloffs' hind!

The Schiggleflinx, they found him there,

And knew him by his size,

As the only child great Gloober had,

By Krillitoo the wise!

In great deep joy, they bore him home,

To their uncharted lands,

For years they'd sought great Gloober's kin,

True heir of the Sands!

And thus was Abner Gilliborg,

Forerunner of the Clugs,

The King of Larn and Southerlands,

Supremest wump of mugs!

Sechornflix wild and briggled kwild,

The Dow of sluggy lumps,

Crowned king of all Zangilliborg,

The diggle flug of grumps.

And thus was wise old Krillitoo,

Divested of a son,

The sight and gilliflight, of whom,

Caused goose pimples to run.

So Krillitoo went on her way,

To have more scringent sons,

Her daughters Snorl and Billigoo,

They too had ample fun.

And mothers up and down the land,

They sang this song of yore,

To sons of no great mental frand,

And daughters who did whore.

So Frizzlewig and Gorgle off,

For you too may be blessed,

As Abner Havoc Gilliborg,

Or Krillitoo Kargessed!

And you, my faithful Gormenplink,

Who waded through this rot,

Have now lost all ability,

To speak without a blot.

Your mind now swirls with Zargenfloss,

It bursts with wild Slagoo,

It oozes kormenflazert's scrog,

So best of luck to you!!

My entry for creative writing in Saarang. I completely enjoyed writing it, as you can see. I guess it comes under Nonsense Verse.

A Bit of Fry and Laurie

I was going through some familiar Rowan Atkinson videos (Not the nine o'clock news) on Youtube with my parents, when we stumbled on more British Comedy. A Show called 'A bit of Fry and Laurie' by Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie.
We fell over ourselves laughing!
Try watching this!

Christmas and giving

Christmas is on its way and life is pretty exciting. Christmas parties and Carol services left right and centre… College is winding up for the holidays… clothes need to be packed, last minute notes copied… life is busy, peppered with crisises in people’s love lives, which no one but I can be told about. All in all, life’s not boring… except in class. But that just counts for five hours a day… which is where I probably get most sleep anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.

In the midst of all this, the other day, a classmate of mine comes up to me and confesses that she is my ‘Chrisma’ (‘Chrisma-Chrischild’, alternatively called ‘Secret Santa’ is a game we play in class and in the Hall. It involves drawing lots, so that everyone in class draws the name of a classmate. The person whose name you have picked is your ‘Chrischild’ and you, as her ‘Chrisma’ can send her anonymous letters and order her to do strange things, until the day of the Christmas party, when you must compensate by giving her a gift. Your ‘Chrisma’, naturally treats you the same way.). She (my ‘Chrisma’, that is) confessed that she had no idea what to get for me and asked me to come to a bookshop with her and pick a book I’d like, as her gift for me. I thought it terribly sweet of her, protested politely that she needn’t do this, and then happily picked out ‘The Grass Crown’ by Colleen McCullough. After this, I went to the bank with her. It was a five ruppee ride by share auto, and we finished the work she had there, and returned in another share auto.

On our way back, in the auto, we were sitting next to an old lady. She was old and bent and had wild white hair, in a frail wispy cloud around her head. She was very dark skinned, which contrasted sharply with her hair. She was thin and wrinkled and wore a gaudy saree with no blouse and her lips were parched and flecked with globs of thick saliva. The skin around her eyes was wrinkled and tired. She carried a tattered plastic basket, I think it was yellow, stuffed with her few belongings. She spoke to us, in a distracted faraway tone, saying she was going to Thanjavur to visit her son who was very sick. She had no money, but the auto driver had promised to take her there. This, I thought was very nice of the man… particularly coming from an auto driver. After all, auto drivers are not exactly the most pleasant species in Chennai! (ah, supercilious twit! In case you’re wondering, I was talking about myself.) Predictably enough, the auto (I forgot to mention that it was a blue auto. Blue autos are strange, in my opinion.) broke down. The auto driver kindly flagged another auto down for us and we piled in.

I wondered what the old woman would do… would this auto driver also take her, free of charge? I decided to pay for her.

I asked my friend how one could get to Thanjavur. She said bus was probably the safest bet. It would cost around two hundred rupees. I thought about it and took out two hundred rupees from my wallet. My grandparents had given me two hundred rupees for my birthday. I thought this would be a good way to use it. I held it in my hand, ready to give it to her when we got down.

We got off at college. The auto driver looked expectantly at the old lady.

She told him magnanimously to keep going. When he asked till where he was to keep going, she replied, till Thanjavur. He grinned sarcastically and asked whether she was going to Thanjavur in the auto. She nodded. He laughed and drove off with her, in the direction of the bus stop. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t expect her to pay… but I don’t know whether the bus authorities would take the same view of things and give her free rides. I hope she gets to Thanjavur. I hope her son recovers.

Why didn’t I give her the money?

I didn’t know how to. I wondered what my friend would think. I wondered whether anyone would steal the money from her.

I thought too much.

And I didn’t know how to give.

 

I don’t know how to give.