The thoughts that make

It was while I was crossing the busy street that I saw a familiar face, though he had substantially wrinkled and walked with some difficulty using a walking stick, it was his broad forehead and alert eyes that helped me place him as my teacher.  His shriveled hands were still firm as I held him and help to the old style wooden chair of the coffee shop. The coffee shop was a heritage building almost ready to be demolished.

“We haven’t met in three decade, I think” he strained his mind, and I could see his forehead knitting around the brow.

“Oh yes it’s been a long time, I always thought I will meet you right in the middle of the street” I haven’t had anything to say. He nodded.

“You must unhinge from the past, the society, the authority…and find the meaning of it” he was continuing from where we left almost three decades back as if all these years haven’t changed a thing. He had interrupted the talk and excused to the toilet, and as he came back he had shriveled and aged, or else he had put on a makeup –a convincing one at that. The world around had become much smaller and congested, or maybe it’s in mind.

“You will find true meaning of things in isolation, in your own self. Over the centuries human societies have put in lots of muck as traditions and way of life. You will have to go back to where it all started. The beginning of human nature, the slyness of things”. He took a deep breath, he was wheezing and dabbed his mouth with kerchief. The veins of his hand seem like dark thread wrapped under his skin that didn’t show any purpose. “There is so much to read and know. So much. So much that a lifetime is not enough. You must know. Start from the beginning. How the thoughts form and take hold of mind to create no more thoughts. The pits of habits we move into. You read and then you think. Then you think…” he had started to relapse. He still had the hold that tends to tug one’s soul. Limited by his frail body, the vessel couldn’t contain the immense and so the struggle. 

“There is a tribe which holds that tree of life brings all prosperity” I informed him, trying to fill in the awkward silence. “…sometimes they even draw their primeval tree in the shape of sun”.

“That is true. It has to come from nature, the sustenance. The source of all being” he spoke quietly clearing his throat, with deliberate pauses. “You realize how deep that thought is. It is not incidental or superstition, but based on observation and understanding. The comprehension of entirety and the place of everything in it” he coughed. We ordered two cups of black coffee. I sensed that the aroma of roasting coffee seeds had filled up the hall. He didn’t seem to notice it. As I observed him I unexpectedly came to the realization that what had drawn me towards him weren’t sentimentality or emotions but his drive towards logic and all the frailties that comes with it. His insistence on critical questions and his intellectual vigor seems to have had an abiding impact on me.

“I was hoping to meet you. I always knew we would meet. It is important to assess and relook the frameworks that make us. It is sad that we have to go since detaching is the only way. It is worst way of life we have here” he took a deep breath. “The tradition, the culture all churning out people who have lost their passion towards life and move in some delusion”. He was trailing so I thought to ask him what was bothering me.  

“What about the intellectual class, the supposedly learned. How do we estimate them?” I asked, my enthusiasm arose, as was the case decades ago, when he made a compelling argument. Questions started to rush and stampede my mind, and many times in these moments I stopped listening. It used to excite me immensely and I riveted to his line of thoughts like a tethered animal. He used to say with a chuckle ‘that shouldn’t diminish your animal spirit Pappan. You must never be domesticated’, and more seriously ‘Freedom is an opportunity but people are trapped in their own chains despite living in free world, the democracy and all kind of technological opportunities. It will take another century or so to come out of our primitive selves. No safety net, nothing to fall back on is how you get the glimpse of immense possibilities of life”. I could sense his compassion “The rush you see for sense of security is anathema to freedom. It is a deep rooted malaise, psychological defect that society gives it to the individual. You must escape that’. I was reminiscing these when he said as if on a cue

“Our democracy has understood freedom only at a primitive level. It seems people have hinged on democracy as another form of security for their miserable uncertain lives” he raised his frail hand, I felt a kind of energy exuding from his enthusiasm that brought me closer to him.

“People don’t have much option they have always been under control, therefore they really don’t understand what freedom means. It’s like a bird that has lost the ability to fly and doesn’t have any use of its wings. It carries the wings as a burden as we carry our choices as traditions, where it could soar it sits defeated devoid of any sense or purpose” he took a pause “but buoyed by camaraderie of social being”. I was getting affected by his thoughts and so felt obliged to add “The choices seemed to be created by the market and we get trapped in these and forget the wonders that life offers”

He smiled “You haven’t changed much in all these years” and brought his hands together. I held his fragile hands, they were unearthly cold as if there weren’t any blood in it. His eyes were misty and glimmered through the folds of skins “You are now truly home Pappan”. It was strange to hear my name from him after all these decades. It sounded unreal as if a waft of air has blown in the wrong direction.  Familiar yet quite strange like the mist that clears to reveal the favorite tree, still there on the hilltop, same as ever, all the while you were afraid that it will vanish in the darkness. I felt a calmness enter my being. I was in silence.

“It’s when you are truly home that you realize the God has changed. That what took you out is not what brought you in. The path is never the same”. His words floated around my being before entering in a deeply satisfying state. “The superstitions, habits, hope…holds no value as it once did”

All the years flashed through my mind, the insecurities, ambitions, hopes, fear, addictions…all that we do to get hold of the reality and make meaning out of our lives. Then gradually the meanings changes and you realize one more dimension to it. It’s not futility of it all but a brighter realization of freedom.          

I heard him say “Don’t wait for any guidance from any superior forces, there isn’t, it’s all in you. It is waiting for you to enter”

“I thought you believed in God, the religion, the community” I had known him to be very social man.

He didn’t think much on what I asked “The struggle to control is what defines our purpose. We move towards decrepit world devoid of any understanding. It’s indoctrination to fate. The mind loses the purpose. Its dead people the society creates”.

I recall him mentioning about ‘mindfulness’ in his talks, and as I was young and so didn’t listened to him, as much as I wanted to ask and create an impression. So after three decades I asked with intent to understand “What is mindfulness?”

He held his thoughts for few minutes before he revealed “It’s a deep understanding and connecting with the reality, the awareness of ones being. The mind is aware of the purpose and purposelessness, and moves away from the thoughts but is in sense with it. The mind doesn’t relinquish its reason nor does it allow any guidance”. As I listened intently, he tapped my shoulder playfully and said in characteristic humor that always laced his serious thoughts “The awareness of this freedom is mindfulness”

We were silent for some time. He sipped his coffee while my attention was diverted to some commotion outside in the street, apparently an expensive car had brushed a cycle rickshaw, but the obese man in suit at the driving seat claimed a contrary narration, and had held up the traffic unless the issue was sorted. The man in suit made no attempt to come out of his air-conditioned comfort. After some pauses he continued, he raised the cup next to his chin. I could see the steam waft across his face, and his face diminishing into a mirage.

“When the subconscious and unconscious are bound into awareness then no one can manipulate your thoughts and hence actions. It’s only mindfulness that can negate the market, and the spurious needs it creates. It must become your expression. Your resistance. This is not your uniqueness but the uniqueness of the humanity. It is not triumph of self. Its humanity finding the meaning and empowerment herewith, its democracy”. As he said these I could not see his face, the steam from coffee had become much vigorous and enveloped my spectacle lens. I could no longer see him but felt an apparition getting up and moving across the room.

A man tapped me on my back “Sir I think you drowsed. It’s unlikely for anyone to drowse in coffee shop”, it was the waiter, he smiled as he handed me the bill.

“But where is the man who was sitting here? An elderly man with pointed nose” I enquired rubbing my eyes that had started to ache, and looked around in bewilderment.

“There wasn’t anyone with you. You came alone here and then you drowsed. You have not even touched your coffee” the man insisted and gaped at me awkwardly. I looked at the cup on the table, a thin film of cream had settled on the surface that quivered under the impact of the fan.  I could hear the commotion outside, the obese man in suit was still at the driver seat and hadn’t made any attempt to come out. I could see that he was sweating.      

The day the sun hid

 It was odd that it rained. Looking at the sky you wouldn’t think it would, there weren’t any clouds. The young lad at the sales counter had few seconds before another customer approach for billing, he could see a piece of sky from the tinted glass of the mall. He though couldn’t see the billowing clouds in the horizon, it rose rapidly as if there was an explosion somewhere far off. The blue sky appear dull brown through the glass, he doesn’t like it a bit. Occasionally he could see a kite soaring like a moving crack through the window. He thought it would fissure through the whole building. The red beam from the machine identified the barcode and approved with a click, the price had entered and summed. He returned the change and attempted a smile but withheld it as the customer had turned away and moved to the exit. If it rains now then the pond will be overflowing with water, the monsoon had only retreated a month ago, the field, the ground, the whole land was saturated. There were fish in the water, the old man warned some of these catfish have horns so be careful. The fish jumped out of water to avoid being caught, he thought they were only excited as he was. It rained like a carpet of water sprayed from a hose broken at different spots, some places it rained more some places less. He thought that is how it must rain, it shouldn’t be same. He liked the way the plastic felt in his hand, smooth and glossy, he could feel the content inside and imagined the taste. Sometimes he smelt, they all smell like paint, fresh as new. One bird is for sadness two is for joy, he didn’t held it against the sky. The number of birds has gone down. The old man says the city has gulped down the birds and the trees, one day it will gulp him too. He felt a strange knot along his neck and shoulder, a dull pain that spread all the while. It must be the way he sat, he tried to improve his posture and be erect. The effort didn’t last long, he had slackened. The fingers punched the keyboard, it was an old model computer so he had to hit harder, it hurt in the afternoons and was sore in the mornings or maybe he is imagining it. When it rained the trees conspired by spreading its branch and sucking all the raindrops. The earth was disemboweled, the brick red mud flowed through rivulets that grew bigger and wider. It was fun to run through these muddy streams, sometimes the foot would get stuck and water starts to form a puddle around the legs till they are like stumps.  

Rows and rows of finely packaged products in multicolored hue filled the shelves. He could see droplets of water sliding the pane and blurring the view, the sky was dull brown balloon that was bursting along the seam. It pounded the glass viciously and rattled the ceiling. Light music of flute and percussion blunt the noises that were thrashing the outside world. The melody waft and bounce along the shining clean floor of the mall. The colours shimmered on the reflective walls like smudged wild flowers. The old man walks along the rivulets unblocking the clogs and let it seep across the field, a pair of egrets studiously follow him. A startled grasshopper was instantly consumed. The earth now glistens in shades of green. Green is the colour of life, he says, while brown is decay. The numbers add as he hit the ‘enter’ key and wait for the bill to be printed, it made noise faintly resembling an annoyed lapwing. You must let the earth seep through your feet, they are your roots, when the old man touches the tree his hands become the branch, his veins start to throb with life. His eyes go further deep inside the sockets as his soul enter the tree. I only know to live and more I live more I offer, that is what sustains me. The clouds have hid the sun, the dull light had turned darker. The salesman could see the world across the glass pane getting dark, much faster than he thought. The world was closing on him and he was steadily collapsing into a smaller space. He stopped the billing and held his head so that it doesn’t burst. The middle aged customer was perplexed out of her routine as she searched around for help, she couldn’t decide what to buy. The world was splitting into hundreds of pieces each moving away randomly, sometimes criss crossing and tangling in itself.  Another man at the counter had frozen at the sudden turn of event and waited for things to return to normal.  The sales boy stood up, walked out of his counter and the mall. Outside it was grey. He gently caressed himself along the face and neck, and decided to run as fast as he could.                        

                

How to tell an Antlion from a Damselfly?

I am at the traffic junction, between a black Mercedes and a beggar limping with extended hands that held some coins. I look at the beggar and then at the man tapping his fingers on the steering. This is absurd I thought how could two worlds be so unreal. But I had to choose and choose one world at a time, enter and strip for my voyeuristic delight. The hopeless beggar looked an easy option, since I hadn’t (yet) perfected the art of slipping through window panes. It is not that I am not trying, I try it every morning but window panes are the toughest. I close my eyes utter some mumbo jumbo and here I am inside the body of the beggar. What a miserable fellow he is. I don’t understand his thoughts but I know I am hungry and decide to go to nearest restaurant, I am not allowed in. I gave a loud curse, the ferocity even surprise me. The thought of food seem etched in my mind, every action guided to fulfill this mission.

In the forest by the bush lived a spider that spins its web. Late into the noon a damselfly got trapped in the net. The dainty fly was least petrified and asked the Orb if eating make him less happy. The spider reflected on the query and said he never thought about what he ate.

So here I am, begging has become my second nature. The moment I see someone approaching, I slouch a bit, exaggerate my limp and contort my face into gloominess that had reason to excite empathy. I though am concerned about my behavior since it has acquired a cloak of instinctiveness that I regret. I want to have a control, a say on how I approach a situation. I want to strategize, to study each individual’s worth before exhibiting my craft. I don’t want to waste my artistry of misery on philistines. I spent time in observing, collecting critical information –like for instance footwear can tell lot about the person. An old clean pair was sure sign of not only stingy but natural immunity to histrionics.

Damselfly was confident of her ability of guise. She asked if the wise spider doesn’t think an elegant creature like her should live more than a mere insect. The spider had begun to spin his web around her, making her immobile. Then the spider sat to ponder.

I am getting used to my desolate soul. I walk all day without much purpose. Sometimes a sight catches my fancy and I hang around the vicinity, meanwhile contemplating nothing. The thought of what I wear or where I go don’t seem to be my concern. It really didn’t matter as long as I get something to eat. I stand next to an eatery, the sight exaggerate my senses. The anguish is real and difficult to ignore by humane. This is what I like, to be around food. But I am asked to move; a guard came and pushes me aside. He hit me with stick and tries to kick me. I trip sideways. Tricked him didn’t I. He warns me of dire consequence. I defecate in my trouser, it dribbles along my leg. I can feel it go all the way down. I enjoy it, so I smile, though it does labor my stroll. I sometimes get the urge of keeping my legs apart and walk. It isn’t funny though.

The spider’s query: what difference it makes to me? Damselfly wasn’t distressed, she knew it takes time. You will see all the beautiful around you. It’s a matter of aesthetics, she said. It’s what pleases the eyes.

I am sitting and tapping my legs. I search my memory to find any remnants of what I might have been. The past is a difficult matter but I must still try. The sun is hot and dripping heat. There aren’t many people on the street. A crow disembowels a dead rat. I am recalling a house that has no garden. Wait a minute there isn’t any house. Sure there is I tell myself. So it must be. I don’t like arguments. It is a small house in brick paint and creepers climbing the wall. The door opens to the forest. I am in the forest. Isn’t that a spider I see happily feeding on a damselfly? Or is it an antlion? What difference does it make?

The diagonal

The paintings are placed with substantial gaps between them, so that there is too much wall a soothing creamy coloured wall. The wall is tall and end in array of ventilators that are rectangular small slits, afternoon summer sun burn through the splits in eye numbing brightness. The room is like a deep tight pit with no windows and only thing that could enter from the street outside was muted faint but incessant calls of cuckoo from the tree in the courtyard. There was nobody else in the gallery and I could hear echoes of my own footsteps, the panels of the floor are in alternative squares of light blue and brick red. It was an unusual choice of colours, it increased the thickness in the air. Environment of the room though was controlled as indicated from the readings on the instrument hung on the bottom corner: Temp:27, Hum:68%. On the stool next sat the security guard in bright blue outfit and a matching cap, he drowsed. His hands lay limp towards the floor. I am now standing in front of the painting that covers few feet of the wall, it is about the size of a window. There are dismembered limbs, a head sink in deep blue vastness, it is frozen in anguish, a perpetual soulful anguish in a hopeless mess. A sharp unyielding cruel yellow streak through the canvass, in a brutal finality. I shook and see the painting disturbed by my silhouette, the unkempt hair seeping out, I am held. It turns ash with a surprise, a surprise not auguring pleasant. The features on the faces are almost indistinct, it is as if a terrifying thought was summoned and instantly exited. It was a peculiar face, an expression that wasn’t supposed to be there. It was unbelievable, not seen even on dead faces that saw worst of violations.

The horror of dying mixed in astonishment of recognizing the faces of perpetrators. It was a devastating expression, of loss and incomprehension. The disconnected limbs are contorted in dissipation, life has oozed out slowly, deliberately. A disembodied palm bloom in complete submission while a female torso in revolting pale orange makes a futile attempt to wriggle out. The contrast with blackness is gruesome. I stand there in rising sense of uneasiness. The man sleeping on the stool had his head dug into the belly, and could fall over any moment. I was immobilized, the red and blue of the floor panel seem moving, and spinning at tremendous speed, I am loosing myself. I am being broken into pieces. The anguish trapped in the painting could be heard now. So much sobbing fills my ear that I cover them, still no avail I pluck them. I see the blood, I can feel it, there is so much warmth in the pain. Only voice I now yearn to hear is that of the cuckoo on the tree outside.

(painting by Tyeb Mehta IGCNA Bangalore)