Cascade

There is a persistent search for the ethereal. As one of the Bond movies suggest, "The world is not enough." Well, for all anyone knows, it probably isn't. Do you know how easy it is to think, when the mind is ephemerally ridden from thoughts of the flesh, copulation, if I may put it articulately, or fucking, if I allow myself to sound crass. 

The tension in the strings that hold the mind together seems to ease off a little. It feels like those pot-highs when you end up over-analyzing things in your surroundings, with all that excess analysis actually making a lot of sense in some outworldly manner. Jolts of epiphanies hit you like waves crashing on the shores, and sometimes, it all gets too much to handle. But sometimes, that's exactly what's required to clear the pipes of creativity, just to keep creation flowing.

Sometimes, all its needs is a sound, or a syllable, or the glimpse of a part of something that can lead to a song, a book, a painting or the next revolution in technology. What we see is only the tip of the iceberg in most cases, the flashy bits, so to say. Later, when the dust settles, we like to see a biopic on the struggles that lead to the Magnum Opus. But rarely are the toils noticed beforehand. 

You know what's stranger? It's when your dad asks what it is you want from the state of Kerala, to where he is headed for the next week. You do want him to get you something from the place. But you also know in all entirety that he shall never in this lifetime, be able to get you what you truly want from there. And so, you keep to yourself about what you want from the place in question and say "What would I want from Kerala?"

That last bit happened to be a tad too random, I believe. Randomness aside, creativity is actually random. So is the order of numbers and alphabets. That may be taking things too far. But our obsession with order is a farce. Ever seen all these queues that line up at ticket booths? Specially with the person behind you always trying to get ahead of you by standing as possibly adjacent to you as he/she possibly can, mystically believing that you'd let him/her ahead?

The funniest part is the chaos that steps in when a new window opens up for tickets. This mad frenzy unleashes itself in the mind of every member of the queue, making them leap towards the newly opened window. All order is lost, replaced by this urge to push and trample every human in one's path. As a matter of fact, the whole idea of getting men to conduct themselves in an orderly manner is anything more than a joke. Our armies, who seemingly succeed at doing so, do so only to channel the testosterone fueled, sex-craved animals upon a beast facing the same challenges as our men. Strange. It works though, doesn't it? Brilliantly so. You see, there's always an angle to organisation. An ulterior motive, if one may. 

That aside, there rarely is spontaneity in organisation, unless you talk about nanoparticles, of course, that arrange themselves in fancy patterns, that some really intelligent, but usually jobless person observes, and wins a Nobel Prize in the process. There's nothing organised about the jobless person being in the correct time, place and state of mind to observe the particles organising themselves into their organisation.  Complete randomness! It could happen to someone who toiled away for decades without any success. It would happen to the first chap who walks through the lab-doors in the morning after an amazing cup of coffee, for all anyone knows. 

What just struck me is that you need not create anything special if you set out to create something special in the first place. As in you could get the best pair of eyes, the best nose, the best looking head of hair, best mouth, teeth, boobs, arse and all the other parts, put them together still not arrive at anything beautiful looking. You'll actually end up making a female companion to the monster Dr. Frankenstein made. Frankenstein is not the name of a monster, for those illiterates who haven't read the book. Goodness alone knows who came up with the name Franklinstein. Sounds like the zombie of  Benjamin Franklin. Phew!

A little on 'shit' here. Yeah, that's necessary. That reminds me of two things. One is "Shit hitting the fan". The second being "Stepping on shit". Needless to say, either situations are highly unpleasant to find yourselves in. 

For situation #1, even momentary visualization of shit hitting the fan should suffice in destroying the appetites of the most voracious eaters around the table. And given the situation, you can't exactly do much, you know? Running ain't necessarily be very helpful. The best one can do is hope that you are spared the soiling. Or at least, you could hope for not being the last one to be hit by shit. Else, after everyone is done with their share, there's this one piece that comes hurtling your way and....

The last one is usually the worst hit. 

That brings us to situation #2.... Stepping on shit. 

This one happens to those who read the book 'The Alchemist', and started thinking of themselves as the protagonist, who is told to go around a beautiful castle with a spoon of oil in his hand. The protagonist goes about marveling at the castle's beauty, and drops all the oil in the spoon while walking. I'm sure the chap wouldn't have noticed had a piece of shit been dropped in his path. I know I wouldn't have. And besides, who names "Melchizedek" as the protagonist of a book? As a matter of fact, who names  "Melchizedek" the protagonist of ANYTHING? How do you pronounce the hero's name?  Melchizedek?? What? You're going to tell me to break the word up to make the pronunciation easier?

I am sure that Paulo Coelho wanted to play a prank on all those who sent him to a nut-house, who he was sure of, would read his book. He must have thought to himself...

"Those chaps who thought I was mad, when they get to know that I have become a published author, will flock to read my book. And I'll drive them mad by diving them a hero whose name they cannot pronounce, however hard they try! That shall be my REVENGE!!!"

Yeah, I just lost it 5 minutes ago. So much for stepping on shit. Besides, everyone knows who it is that stepped on the poop. And they will all give those "I know you stepped on shit" look. And all you can do is get out of the situation meekly. Or else, if you're good at bluffing, you could just point fingers at the next person. That should convince everyone. 

The lion, the kid and the woman

It's a bit of a disappointment when you realize that nothing really matters in the long run. Despite that "India wants to know on the news hour tonight", about what actually happened to Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, we all know deep down inside that despite us knowing what ACTUALLY happened, no part of the real history is going to change. By the way, we don't even need to know that deep down. Just in case anyone thinks that the disclosure of a few files is going to change over half a century of history, the person needs to, well do nothing. Not like he/she can do anything about his hapless thoughts anyway, But political conspiracies aside, there is so much we don't know, that if brought to light, we shall all be subjected to sever existential angst. Besides, all the shouting that usually takes place is an attempt to divert the public mind from much more pressing issues.

Yes, since not much actually matters, when one looks at the larger picture, apart from the disappointing bit, it is actually a relief. Basically, you can do anything you please, and mostly get away with it. Unless you get involved in some sort of a big crime of sorts, or that sort of a thing. Even after which one usually gets away at the end of everything. You see, exercise, eat healthy, meditate, and die anyway. That's a bit pessimistic, if you look at it, but anyway. 

I was walking down the road. It was all decorated everywhere, given the festive time of Ganesh Chaturthi. There was this kid walking, running, hopping around, doing her own thing behind her parents. The entrance to one of the buildings on the street was decorated with a lion's statue; the ones made from Plaster of Paris. This kid in front of me went berserk upon seeing this dumb looking lion. She went and touched this so called lion, and got so psyched to feel the animal figurine, almost as though it would jump out and start playing with her. And here I was, wondering if the kid was on acid. What, I mean WHAT could be exciting about a bum looking PoP lion statue that gets a little kid so happy? Honestly, at that moment, I wanted a real lion to jump out at the kid, only to see the kid shit in her pants, and probably get killed by the lion. But  was nearby, and if the lion was hungry, my own dear life would have been in trouble. So I kept that thought aside; of the real lion popping out from the statue, and kept walking, part amused by the kid's antics, and part guilty of wanting to watch the kid shit in her pants. Brilliant!

I walked on a little, and just realized that not too long ago, the kid-me would have gotten pretty psyched himself to see a lion statue. That would have been about two decades ago, but yeah, at 3, a lion statue would have looked exciting. Specially since at the time, my dad would have had to tell me that the creature I was looking at, is supposed to be a lion. This is when I could barely spell mu own name, let alone know the spelling of 'Lion'. But thus little girl looked more like she was 6. Damn, the girl must have really been a bum! The smile on her parents' faces were priceless though. 

"Awww... how cute! That's our kid, you know? And we are so proud of her!"

I never understood why parents are so bloody proud of their kids. Specially when they are more like 10 years old. For goodness sake, they can barely go to the loo by themselves. Except for those precocious little overachieving pricks who end up finishing their college degrees by the time they are 15, there is nothing remarkable about kids. The smaller ones are purely a pain in the arse. And yet, "I am so proud of you, my child!"

Every time my mom has said that, I've always said to myself, and to her(on a few occasions), "Damn right, you're proud of me, woman! I'm the most awesomest thing the planet has seen till date."

Huh, what? I was talking about the little bum girl, yes. 

I don't know what it is about parents, the way they feel for their children. The man and woman have sex without a condom; sometimes with one, the female gets pregnant. Relatives, few of them, never seen before, snoop around, asking for the "Good news", basically enquiring whether the couple have had sex yet. Just in case the two in question haven't gotten married, and the condom tears by mistake, or the guy is bum enough to not use one, the whole world castigates the chap and the female, needless to say that the girl faces severe persecution; let alone the humiliation, that is actually completely unnecessary. Why does the world have to bother about two random people trying to have a good time, specially when their doings have no bearings on the society at large? Not like no one else is sticking their boner into someone else. 

I almost forgot. I was talking about why parents are proud of their kids. So the kid is part of the sex, for usual people with sane minds, unless no one told them what happens after copulation, besides the sudden urge to fall asleep, specially when the woman stays wide awake till a lot later(about which you find out much later. Oops!)

The kid comes out. The parents feel like they have created something that will take on the world, make them proud, and all of that. One second. Let me get this right. Just to that the kid makes the parents proud, the parents become proud of the kids beforehand? Technically speaking, that is a logical fallacy. But meh, who cares if we can get away with what we usually do, just because our parents are delusional. 

I was sitting in the rickshaw the other day, when this woman walked by; really voluptuous female. Not that the woman was walking at speeds faster than the rickshaw's. The rickshaw was waiting for another passenger for some reason. Back to the voluptuous woman, I saw her walking by, and she suddenly turned around, got into the rickshaw, and sat next to me. Yeah. My awesomeness has that effect om people. By the way, a big disappointment. The face was inconsistent with the body. Goodness! Why does this happen? Before she turned around, besides I noticing the woman, I also saw the rickshaw driver noticing her. I wondered to myself as to what would happen if some collective conscious unleashed upon the woman, the imaginations of all the men in the woman's immediate vicinity. That aside, I wondered what the woman's fantasies would look like, were she allowed to have things he own way. Weird shit the mind can conjure up. Damn! 

Suddenly nothing

Phew! Finally, there's no noise, no rush, no train to catch, no queue to stand in. Maybe the TV in the other room could bless existence with its silence too. But nevertheless. 

It's a bit startling to see how convenient it is to leave the process of thinking behind, and mindlessly work away towards an unclear promise-land. It is the path of least resistance, and the mind will spare no effort to take it. You can fill it with all the gibberish on the planet; and mind you , a lot of gibberish is waiting to lodge itself into the limited confines of the mind. That said, the mind, by itself can be unlimited. Broad, wide, and all encompassing, with an innate intelligence of itself that the 'I' seems to conveniently ignore. 

I happen to mindlessly stare away at things, completely losing track of what people say, do, don't say, or don't do. It all feels like an endlessly confused daze, that sometimes leaves my people, and myself wonder if there's anyone home. No need for weed anymore. Think of things, lose track of them, plan what you'd write for the night, and let go of the thoughts because they reveal too much. Then think of all that's scandalous, and sometimes exciting, sometimes tear-inducing, of things you cherish, things you want to forget, of things that won't leave you, of those that send a shudder down your spine, of the woman you like, or the women you like. 

Of the pedal you want to floor that shall set your pulse racing, or the one next to it that shall bring your world to a halt, of the jerky rides that make you cringe, or the close hits and the far misses. 

All the songs seem to linger for a lot longer in the mind's space; except for the Honey Singh ones, of course. And sometimes, the line "Bomb Lagdi Mainu" just keeps playing till the time you want to pull the plug on your very being. 

Maybe we are all searching for a muse. Something that can let our imaginations loose, that allows us to  gather all the thoughts that graze the head, and turn them into something beautiful; each one of us hankering for that which seems elusive, that which makes us oblivious to our self. Again, maybe.

This is while you set out everyday, to take on the world, in an attempt to make great of something good. If you're optimistic enough, you'll even admit the inner desire to rule the word, to put your stamp on all that you want for yourself, and strangely enough, it is all the things that Mastercard can't help you with. 

Ever so rarely, you realize that your parents are growing old a lot faster than you thought they would. I seldom let mortality come into my rear-view mirror; neither mine, nor that of the folks indispensable to me. Yes, one needs to be aware about one's ephemeral existence; May Flies we all are, relentlessly flying towards all that shall as burn us down to ashes. Mom shows me her old photos, and I can barely restrain myself from saying "Damn, mom! You've grown old..."

I remember that I'm on the same train as she is, as we all are, despite this all alluding sensation of momentary immortality. 

What is it about thoughts that bring them to our head? Do thoughts take birth in chemical reactions? Because on a purely scientific basis, nothing can explain the inception of a thought, if one may. Or is it that thoughts are just there, waiting for the thinker to accept it? There's a line I read which goes this way...

"I am the way which seeks the traveler."

 Thoughts follow suit too? "I'm the thought that seeks the thinker." Sounds too officious, doesn't it?

 Almost sounds like everything is preset to a certain manner.