From my window. A man in a white baniyan and pajamas is standing with an empty can in front of him on the road. He’s walking around liesurely adjusting his shirt, feeling his belly, under the golden orange street light. Two orange lights and one white light in a triangle march forwards against the backdrop of complete darkness. A young girl is holding the hands of two adolescent men, walking amidst them swinging her hands, pushing the night to postpone the boredom of sleep. The man gathered his cans, hung them on his cycle delicately balancing their weights and moved on. End of night. He didn’t know he was part of the over rated certainty of a few words transmitted across a long distance with a few clicks forming images in another’s eyes. He will never know. Would he be amused if he did?
Sunday, September 9, 2012
They were a bunch of idiots called so by them. They didn’t as much know who they were, what they wanted to be or where they were going. They just lived from one day to the other with no aim or ambition. They were looked down upon by them who were a judgmental lot and made comments on what they were and what they should be. They didn’t understand. They could just never relate to them. They lived on and often questioned them, ending up being called mad by them. They too thought they were mad some times. Then, they became them or they remained labelled mad or they tried to increase their lot so the madness could shift balance towards them.
There is a story I want to tell. Please hear it. It fills me with excitement every time I am reminded of the thought of telling it. The irony is that it isn’t yet born. It’s not even a foetus. It is just there. And I know it. I can feel it. Can you, as I say this, feel it? Are my words expressive enough to make you feel the existence of that which is still unborn, does it make you believe that it will happen? Can you hope for it? Do you think it is there?
When A started believing and is convinced of the partial truths being mistaken for universal truths in the name of various discourses crafted by them mortals to amuse themselves while optimizing their performance on surface earth, A wonders if there’s any basis to direct her actions. A finds endless regression trying to find a basis. So, when A shifts the focus to her truth to guide her, she sees none. A fails to think of herself with any amount of significance. A could as well be non-existent for all she knows. A doesn’t see herself as an active agent poking around the ‘existence’ around her. She asks, Who am ‘I’ anyway? But she seems to have no choice but to breathe unless she wants to move to the other extreme of erasing her existence which is too demanding of her energy. Hence, her existence starts and ends in gaps of delta x in space and delta t in time. And her only guide during these infinitesimal space-time gaps can be her emotions and instincts which provide a convenient ever-adjusting compass however momentary they may be. And momentary they are. A is upset no soon.
So why do writers pretend that they do not exist in their writings? As if it just all came to be out of the blue. Restricting our entry to the knowledge of their relation to what they write, how they came to know of it or constructed it. Oh wait, methodology? That doesn't seem to speak much but to make it sound all the more like it was all there. Hanging somewhere while they just happened to discover it and present it to us so we could pass it on and be enlightened.