I recently spent some time in the Ashram of a particularly popular Holy Man. I am not going to name him, because I genuinely mean no disrespect to him and have no desire to offend his followers, many of whom I have grown to become exceptionally fond of.
My reasons for visiting and staying at the Ashram had nothing to do with a need for spiritual guidance, or even a curiosity about it. It was a business trip for all practical purposes. Nevertheless I had heard a great deal about this guru, and was promised many times that the visit would change my life forever. Perhpas it will be a more gradual change.
For the moment at least I came away deeply unimpressed. Not with the guru himself, who I only saw once at a distance, but with the Ashram and the majority of the people there*. Can you spell petty? (I can it seems). It was ridiculous. The guru's right hand man, who was to help us with some of our arrangements, lied to us, to our faces and not very well, since we caught him in the lie a few hours later. This from the man who is the most devoted disciple of a guru who preaches truth and honesty above all. It was embarassing. The women who are in charge of seating within the hall where prayers are conducted are entirely power mad. For them, the ability to refuse a chair to a sixty year old woman who couldn't sit on the floor, was clearly exhilarating. Where is all that compassion now?
The other thing that bothered me, and actually bothers me about all religions, is the overwhelming belief of the guru's infallability and omnipotence. I was told many times that I had not come to the Ashram of own my free will, but because the guru had summoned me, a caim I found disturbing and rather demeaning too. It implies that the followers of this man have no free will, no ability to make decisions or chose the path they are on, even if the path is this particular branch of spirituality.
What perhaps bothered me most of all, was the money. The overwhelming mountains of it. I met people who have given up everything to live and work in the Ashram, and still had to pay rent. I saw electronic equipment that would make the Pentagon drool. I saw enough air conditioners in the offices of the higher officials to cool four football stadiums (Renunciation is also a tenet by the way). The purpose of this sect is to help the poor, but they spend crores of rupees on their guru's birthday celebrations.
What was missing, most prominently, was the feeling of peace I had expected. Having embraced the lifestyle preached, the people in the Ashram weren't above pettiness and politics. They were rude, they pushed, they cut in front of you in ques, they lied and fought and were the same human beings that they have alwasy been, except each and everyone of them was a hypocrite in the worst way. Having embraced the tenets of this guru, they seemed to believe that they are somehow better than the 'non-believer' (my word not theirs), whether they adhered to the beliefs of their faith or not. It felt more like a frat house, than an Ashram of a divine being.
I don't doubt the faith, I don't even doubt the man. I just think that his followers are destroying his reputation and need to practise some serious introspection, which is ironically, also a basic tenet of the faith.
*I did mention earlier that there were people I was fond of, and there were, but just a handful. And I may not understand their faith, but I do wish to respect it.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Thursday, 5 August 2010
At Home - Bill Bryson
I don't usually write book reviews, because I don't read books I don't love. So if I begin a book and I am not passionate within the first chapter or two, I simply stop reading, and thus reviews of books tend to be a bit pointless. However, there is an exception to this rule, as with all rules, and the one author to make it through the tiny loophole that presented itself, is Bill Bryson.
I love Bill. I don't just love him as an author, I tend to love him as a kindred spirit, as my kind of person, as someone with whom I could have a great and wholesome relationship because, based on my extensive and comprehensive reading of his work, I have come to the conclusion that we are in fact the same person (The only point of discernible difference between us I should like to point out, is that he doesn't like dogs. But that’s it). So I will read anything he writes, anything at all. I would read his grocery list if that were available for perusal.
Which brings me to the point. I recently acquired (and at only two thirds of the MRP, Heeheehee) his newest book, and have been in a tizzy of excitement ever since. Entitled 'At Home' it is a history of the humble abode, and all the other humble things that make up the bulk of everyday life and have done so for ever but never got the credit and recognition they deserved. Until now. Truly typical Bryson, the book is stuffed with bizarre and baffling trivia that awes and entertains all written in his wonderfully lighthearted, yet acidly irreverent style.
So why am I writing a review? Last night, circa 3:00 AM, I finished the chapter on Drawing Rooms and was struck with a rather unusual emotion. Well not unusual in itself, but certainly unusual in the context of reading a Bryson. I was... unsatisfied, and mildly irritated. So remarkable was this, that I spent many minutes trying to make sure that the source of my discomfort wasn't external. I checked the air conditioner and the mosquito repellent. I poked the dog awake to make sure she wasn't trying to make me let her out (mild irritation appears to be a ferociously infectious condition) and drank some water just to be sure I wasn't thirsty. It was no good though, I was mildly irritated by Bryson and I couldn't pretend I wasn't.
It isn't that book is bad, it is, as I said, typical Bryson, which is a good thing, but also allows me to confidently review the book before I have finished it. Though stuffed with interesting trivia narrated in his wonderfully lighthearted yet acidly irreverant style, his jokes have become, well, a little predictable. And I have never noticed before how deeply disorganised he is. Or perhaps it is only this book, but the chapter on the scullery, for example, takes you on a somewhat complicated journey through the life of the average servant in 18th century England. This is confusing enough to be honest, but he takes this a step further by including a story about a gentleman who wrote a history of the French Revolution and another who had an extremely complicated wig. And though I remember all this, and think it was rather funny, I have to admit I simply can't recall what purpose the Scullery actually served.
See what I mean? It’s wonderfully entertaining, but it doesn't make any sense. It’s like reading '1001 Jokes by Bill Bryson'.
Regardless, and in the words of Bryson himself, I will devour it (Yes I realise it’s an odd line to quote, but that's how Bryson quotes come to me. Odd one liners that I really shouldn't bother crediting to him). I will probably love it also, but for today, I am mourning a little. I'm sure it will pass.
I love Bill. I don't just love him as an author, I tend to love him as a kindred spirit, as my kind of person, as someone with whom I could have a great and wholesome relationship because, based on my extensive and comprehensive reading of his work, I have come to the conclusion that we are in fact the same person (The only point of discernible difference between us I should like to point out, is that he doesn't like dogs. But that’s it). So I will read anything he writes, anything at all. I would read his grocery list if that were available for perusal.
Which brings me to the point. I recently acquired (and at only two thirds of the MRP, Heeheehee) his newest book, and have been in a tizzy of excitement ever since. Entitled 'At Home' it is a history of the humble abode, and all the other humble things that make up the bulk of everyday life and have done so for ever but never got the credit and recognition they deserved. Until now. Truly typical Bryson, the book is stuffed with bizarre and baffling trivia that awes and entertains all written in his wonderfully lighthearted, yet acidly irreverent style.
So why am I writing a review? Last night, circa 3:00 AM, I finished the chapter on Drawing Rooms and was struck with a rather unusual emotion. Well not unusual in itself, but certainly unusual in the context of reading a Bryson. I was... unsatisfied, and mildly irritated. So remarkable was this, that I spent many minutes trying to make sure that the source of my discomfort wasn't external. I checked the air conditioner and the mosquito repellent. I poked the dog awake to make sure she wasn't trying to make me let her out (mild irritation appears to be a ferociously infectious condition) and drank some water just to be sure I wasn't thirsty. It was no good though, I was mildly irritated by Bryson and I couldn't pretend I wasn't.
It isn't that book is bad, it is, as I said, typical Bryson, which is a good thing, but also allows me to confidently review the book before I have finished it. Though stuffed with interesting trivia narrated in his wonderfully lighthearted yet acidly irreverant style, his jokes have become, well, a little predictable. And I have never noticed before how deeply disorganised he is. Or perhaps it is only this book, but the chapter on the scullery, for example, takes you on a somewhat complicated journey through the life of the average servant in 18th century England. This is confusing enough to be honest, but he takes this a step further by including a story about a gentleman who wrote a history of the French Revolution and another who had an extremely complicated wig. And though I remember all this, and think it was rather funny, I have to admit I simply can't recall what purpose the Scullery actually served.
See what I mean? It’s wonderfully entertaining, but it doesn't make any sense. It’s like reading '1001 Jokes by Bill Bryson'.
Regardless, and in the words of Bryson himself, I will devour it (Yes I realise it’s an odd line to quote, but that's how Bryson quotes come to me. Odd one liners that I really shouldn't bother crediting to him). I will probably love it also, but for today, I am mourning a little. I'm sure it will pass.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Stone
There are huge glass windows. In every perfect afternoon, there are always huge glass windows.
We sit. In leopard print chairs, facing the street, watching traffic and the odd glint of glass through rough jute blinds. The wooden floor squeeks under my feet as I kick of my blue brocade sandals, I reach for my Iced Tea, with too much ice as usual, I brush the hair out of my eyes, I reach for the soot between your fingers.
And then I look up at you. You smile and I wonder what you're thinking. You look overawed. As if you're watching something you've never seen before.
You kiss me. Gently, you brush your lips against mine and grimace as they come away sticky with lip gloss. We laugh and you tug at my hair making me ash all over the floor, but we dont notice.
The ravioli rears its head and we lean away. You pick up your beer, the bottle catches the tired sunlight and reflects stars over the white walls and dark brown wooden doors. You take a deep drag and lean back into the light, and I see myself in the huge glass windows, looking at you.
I look overawed. As if Im watching something Ive never seen before.
I wrote this on the 13th of September, 2006. I remembered it suddenly, a few days ago and felt the need to re-post it.
We sit. In leopard print chairs, facing the street, watching traffic and the odd glint of glass through rough jute blinds. The wooden floor squeeks under my feet as I kick of my blue brocade sandals, I reach for my Iced Tea, with too much ice as usual, I brush the hair out of my eyes, I reach for the soot between your fingers.
And then I look up at you. You smile and I wonder what you're thinking. You look overawed. As if you're watching something you've never seen before.
You kiss me. Gently, you brush your lips against mine and grimace as they come away sticky with lip gloss. We laugh and you tug at my hair making me ash all over the floor, but we dont notice.
The ravioli rears its head and we lean away. You pick up your beer, the bottle catches the tired sunlight and reflects stars over the white walls and dark brown wooden doors. You take a deep drag and lean back into the light, and I see myself in the huge glass windows, looking at you.
I look overawed. As if Im watching something Ive never seen before.
I wrote this on the 13th of September, 2006. I remembered it suddenly, a few days ago and felt the need to re-post it.
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Gripes.
Of all the things placed on this Earth to annoy me, (and damn are there a lot) the following have really got my goat recently.
1. People who walk on a jogging track as if they are the only people using it. I mean for God's sake, try and comprehend the fact that there may be people who walk faster than you, or God forbid run, and if you meander across the path lost in conflicting day dreams of being thin and eating Gulab Jamuns, you are being seriously inconsiderate to the person trying to overtake you. And if they subsequently step on the backs of your shoes, accidentally on purpose, you have absolutely no right to get upset. Just bow your head in meek apology and stay out of their way in the future, or the Dragon may be compelled to eat you. Okay?
2. Facebook. Oh dear God, how I hate Facebook. I wish I could substantiate this hate with a high and mighty boycott, but the truth is Facebook has now become essential, in terms of basic social etiquette, and not being on Facebook is tantamount to not having a cellphone number or an email account. It has its uses its true, but it also encourages menatlly unstable Dragons to obsess about the deeper meaning behind an ex-boyfriends latest profile picture change. Even worse to my mind is how people have now started talking in status messages and picture captions. Its bizarre. No actually, its evil. EVIL.
3. Telemarketers. Or whatever those people who call you and try to sell you stuff are called. And the text messages advertising some god forsaken lump of undeveloped real estate at the edge of world. I HATE them. Luckily the Dragon has a thin veneer of civilisation covering her primitive, violent, merciless self and has managed to not rip the aforementioned nincompoops limb from limb. So far.
4. Children. I am aware that Dragonfly and MinCat will probably tell me I'm being unreasonable, but children are just annoying. Though to be fair, its not entirely their fault, their parents have a lot to answer for. I have never been able to understand why a parent would bring an infant to, oh off the top of my head lets say, a play. I mean really??? What exactly did you expect? That your six month would appreciate a spoof on the bards greatest works and NOT cry during the entire performance? Or movies. Or restaurants that don't have table mats you can draw on. Or any public place where people may wish to enjoy themselves even slightly. The Dragon is not completely without a heart however, so if they annoy me excessively I will eat the children. The parents however are simply too revolting. Yech.
5. MTNL. I don't believe this needs an explanation actually.
1. People who walk on a jogging track as if they are the only people using it. I mean for God's sake, try and comprehend the fact that there may be people who walk faster than you, or God forbid run, and if you meander across the path lost in conflicting day dreams of being thin and eating Gulab Jamuns, you are being seriously inconsiderate to the person trying to overtake you. And if they subsequently step on the backs of your shoes, accidentally on purpose, you have absolutely no right to get upset. Just bow your head in meek apology and stay out of their way in the future, or the Dragon may be compelled to eat you. Okay?
2. Facebook. Oh dear God, how I hate Facebook. I wish I could substantiate this hate with a high and mighty boycott, but the truth is Facebook has now become essential, in terms of basic social etiquette, and not being on Facebook is tantamount to not having a cellphone number or an email account. It has its uses its true, but it also encourages menatlly unstable Dragons to obsess about the deeper meaning behind an ex-boyfriends latest profile picture change. Even worse to my mind is how people have now started talking in status messages and picture captions. Its bizarre. No actually, its evil. EVIL.
3. Telemarketers. Or whatever those people who call you and try to sell you stuff are called. And the text messages advertising some god forsaken lump of undeveloped real estate at the edge of world. I HATE them. Luckily the Dragon has a thin veneer of civilisation covering her primitive, violent, merciless self and has managed to not rip the aforementioned nincompoops limb from limb. So far.
4. Children. I am aware that Dragonfly and MinCat will probably tell me I'm being unreasonable, but children are just annoying. Though to be fair, its not entirely their fault, their parents have a lot to answer for. I have never been able to understand why a parent would bring an infant to, oh off the top of my head lets say, a play. I mean really??? What exactly did you expect? That your six month would appreciate a spoof on the bards greatest works and NOT cry during the entire performance? Or movies. Or restaurants that don't have table mats you can draw on. Or any public place where people may wish to enjoy themselves even slightly. The Dragon is not completely without a heart however, so if they annoy me excessively I will eat the children. The parents however are simply too revolting. Yech.
5. MTNL. I don't believe this needs an explanation actually.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Venus + Mars = Vers? Manus? Marnus? Venars?
So I love tags, I really do. Especially when I'm suffering from writers block, as I am at the moment and I thought this one, from Mincat, who got it from the Bride, was a particularly good one. However, I was rather thrown by the complexity of their disclaimers, it wouldn't have occured to me to include one. They do make excellent points however, so instead of writing my own, I am directing you to their lovely pages.
Thusly, the following are my Manly Traits:
1. I LOVE Football, passionately. Being Indian, I am compelled to watch Cricket avidly, but my heart belongs to Football.
2. I am a devoted gamer. And I'm not bad either. Also in this vein, Star Wars fanaticism, as well as avid interest in most Sci-Fi and Fantasy.
3. I own three pairs of shoes. No really, just three. I have an anti-shoe fetish.
4. I am a power shopper. I simply can't browse (the only exception being bookshops, where I could spend eternity. Heaven for me would be an enormous bookshop with comfy chairs and a coffee shop), and I hate malls. Clothes shopping is an absolute nightmare, and I avoid it as much as possible. As a result, many of my clothes are more than ten years old, and I'm happy to say I can still wear some of them.
5. I do tend to be protective and chivalrous, though I can't stand simpering, damsel in distress type women. This is probably also a manly trait though. However I have just realised that I don't particularly like being on the recieving end of chivalry, I find it insulting if men think I can't carry my own bags or open doors without their help.
6. I am not terribly particular about clothing. I often wear things that have holes in them, or are crushed, and am not terribly fussed about what I am wearing. I also have low maintainance hair and make-up habits, so I'm perfectly happy walking in the rain.
7. I LOVE food. And am very capable of eating vast quantities of it, unapologetically.
My Womanly Traits:
1. I am obsessed with my weight. A great deal of my happiness depends on how much I weigh, which is deeply sad.
2. I love to bake.
3. It takes me forever to get ready. I dont know why it is so, but I simply can't rush the process.
4. I love to talk, about feelings. I'm not one for mush or sentimentality, but I'm not one to feel something and not share it either.
5. I LOVE Sex and the City. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on this.
(I can't seem to think of anymore girly traits, though I'm sure they exist. Feel free to make suggestions!)
Also, Happy Budday Mincat. TheDragon loves you madly and hopes you have the best year ever.
Thusly, the following are my Manly Traits:
1. I LOVE Football, passionately. Being Indian, I am compelled to watch Cricket avidly, but my heart belongs to Football.
2. I am a devoted gamer. And I'm not bad either. Also in this vein, Star Wars fanaticism, as well as avid interest in most Sci-Fi and Fantasy.
3. I own three pairs of shoes. No really, just three. I have an anti-shoe fetish.
4. I am a power shopper. I simply can't browse (the only exception being bookshops, where I could spend eternity. Heaven for me would be an enormous bookshop with comfy chairs and a coffee shop), and I hate malls. Clothes shopping is an absolute nightmare, and I avoid it as much as possible. As a result, many of my clothes are more than ten years old, and I'm happy to say I can still wear some of them.
5. I do tend to be protective and chivalrous, though I can't stand simpering, damsel in distress type women. This is probably also a manly trait though. However I have just realised that I don't particularly like being on the recieving end of chivalry, I find it insulting if men think I can't carry my own bags or open doors without their help.
6. I am not terribly particular about clothing. I often wear things that have holes in them, or are crushed, and am not terribly fussed about what I am wearing. I also have low maintainance hair and make-up habits, so I'm perfectly happy walking in the rain.
7. I LOVE food. And am very capable of eating vast quantities of it, unapologetically.
My Womanly Traits:
1. I am obsessed with my weight. A great deal of my happiness depends on how much I weigh, which is deeply sad.
2. I love to bake.
3. It takes me forever to get ready. I dont know why it is so, but I simply can't rush the process.
4. I love to talk, about feelings. I'm not one for mush or sentimentality, but I'm not one to feel something and not share it either.
5. I LOVE Sex and the City. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on this.
(I can't seem to think of anymore girly traits, though I'm sure they exist. Feel free to make suggestions!)
Also, Happy Budday Mincat. TheDragon loves you madly and hopes you have the best year ever.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
(Untitled)
The key to forgetting,
Someone said,
Was to start small
Like your keys, your library books
To stop making associations
Like the way you smell
That song you loved
Your favorite term of endearment
Lie (to myself)
I will see you again, Its not really over
We would have been great together
(And to you) I hate you
Throw away the random things
That we made together
That business card, the red dragon tissues
The newspaper we read on Sunday
Then to get to the point of forgetting
To stop seeing you everywhere
To spend a few idle moments,
Without caressing you with my thoughts
My cardboard boxes are packed
I await the empty space
That comes with forgetting
The way you loved me
*With apologies to Thoughtspotting
Someone said,
Was to start small
Like your keys, your library books
To stop making associations
Like the way you smell
That song you loved
Your favorite term of endearment
Lie (to myself)
I will see you again, Its not really over
We would have been great together
(And to you) I hate you
Throw away the random things
That we made together
That business card, the red dragon tissues
The newspaper we read on Sunday
Then to get to the point of forgetting
To stop seeing you everywhere
To spend a few idle moments,
Without caressing you with my thoughts
My cardboard boxes are packed
I await the empty space
That comes with forgetting
The way you loved me
*With apologies to Thoughtspotting
Saturday, 19 June 2010
*some text missing*
I've been thinking of what to say to you, that will make sense for us. I want to tell you that I miss you, and that I really want to see you again, but the professional help I'm finally getting tells me that this is just a delusion. Apparently all this turmoil and pain inside me isn't real, its just my part in a play, the script for which was embedded in my sub-conscious when I was a child. A play in which you must break my heart and I must let you, just like I've let it happen a hundred times before, when the only thing that changed was the person playing your part. Except this time I mustn't.
I want to tell you how much I loved touching you, how much I loved falling asleep with you curled up around me and waking up knowing you would still be holding me. The way you'd kiss my fingers. I so want to call you, to ask you how the move went, how you like the new city, what the shop looks like and how much he's messed it up. To tease you about how badly your country is playing in the World Cup. I want to tell you that though I say its too late, I'm really hoping it isn't, that you still want to fight for us. That I hate that we can't talk to each other anymore. That though they say what I feel for you isn't real, that its just a result of my childhood trauma and self destructive nature, I am screaming for you on the inside.
But I can't say anything to you, not until I'm no longer broken. So even though I pick up my phone a hundred times a day to reply to your message, I won't.
You were right though, we would have been great.
I want to tell you how much I loved touching you, how much I loved falling asleep with you curled up around me and waking up knowing you would still be holding me. The way you'd kiss my fingers. I so want to call you, to ask you how the move went, how you like the new city, what the shop looks like and how much he's messed it up. To tease you about how badly your country is playing in the World Cup. I want to tell you that though I say its too late, I'm really hoping it isn't, that you still want to fight for us. That I hate that we can't talk to each other anymore. That though they say what I feel for you isn't real, that its just a result of my childhood trauma and self destructive nature, I am screaming for you on the inside.
But I can't say anything to you, not until I'm no longer broken. So even though I pick up my phone a hundred times a day to reply to your message, I won't.
You were right though, we would have been great.
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