buddha feared death

I live in a comfort zone. Every pilgrim first lives in a comfort zone, and then one moves away, because of fear, guilt, confusion and whole baggage of negativity. Enlightenment is the positive acceptance of negativity. However, even I have the strong need to overcome the fear of death, but the motive is not one of immortality. It simply a coverage for another fear. By overcoming the fear of my death, I deal with happy acceptance of the time and reason, but here I hide to myself and rejoice loudly in the fact that I do not have to watch the death of others as an immortal. Because I fear immortality more than my death, and want to prevent watching the disappearance of those I know. Even the thought of their demise makes me shiver like I've been buried in a fresh avalanche.

12.55 a.m. on a random day, October 2008

If you are a circle, you live in a square

Everything I've read for the past couple of years has brought me to back to two of my favourite poems, dramatic monologues: Ulysses by Tennyson and Journey of the Magi by Eliot. However, here is my attempt at verse writing, after a very long time.

Some Lives

I.

Morning is awakened, by the pungent robes

Of rain, dropping dew and dancing clouds.

The empty window frame calls out

To his slit vision of words, thoughts, and pens.

The writer looks beyond the succulent

Red of bright extinct roses, through the beady rain,

A girl sits there with an umbrella.

There she sits, in a transparent and scary

Loneliness. One believes in her emptiness,

Lays a God, but even a lack of purpose.

Black cloth sewn on the cane matches her suit,

Perfect, elegant, and strangely alien to him.

Catch her with a purpose in those empty eyes!

Perhaps a new maid, the mistress of Mr. Timberland,

The mother of the abandoned twins in the dustbin,

Or a passerby lost in her passage. Why?

She is not a rhodora, rose, or cloud, but

A mere woman of a history, past, and hazy present.

Contemplations burnt to the buds,

Packets of Camel cigarettes lie done.

Alarm rang – alert, appointment, meeting, run!

The writer ran down the stairs,

Missing every second one in a forgotten question. Why?

Unprotected he ran into the dance of the clouds,

Into a slushy street, but did not get wet.

There she stood the girl with the umbrella,

With her eyes like water and her breath like the sea,

Protecting him and the rest under it -

Purpose is one of simplicity.

II

Rain clears to a sunny dome,

Fog opens a lattice window, through which

One’s watery eyes can watch.

A maiden rejoices in her reflection,

Her brush blushes her cheeks,

Shapes her eyebrows, and reddens her lips.

Luscious and barren, the day lies open.

She wears the silken dragon robe

And steps out in grace to struggle.

The divine waits feel her sinews

And feed her the bitter wine.

Why is she? Who is she?

She hangs onto the last warps and wefts

Of her robe, cutting her tender, fine fingers.

Her hips and loins hurt in the brutality

Of this struggle and the many to follow.

Speeches and resolutions, systems and papers,

Nothing saves her from this vulnerability.

She could be gay, coloured, transgender, lesbian,

Straight, mother, sister, wife, male or female. Or merely, she is that person,

Staring at a lucid mirror, showing her

Red translucent beauty.

She, the prostitute, mistress, courtesan

Of struggle, is us – you and me.

For all, life, a struggle,

Offers us threads and strings

To hang on to and cut,

But also eventually transcends,

Weaves into a fine dragon robe.

Here, struggle is one of beauty,

One of grandeur and of colours.

But it lies undone on a fragile loom

That bellows every time

The shaft heftily weaves.

Struggle is one of vulnerability.

III

From any struggle sprouts an overgrown potato,

Like the one that lies forgotten in your fridge.

Now, turn your heads swiftly, her feet are too dainty

For this meandering, sandy path.

Is she too young or already too wise?

Gilgamesh plays on her toes,

Pushing her to search for answers…immortality…peace -

But even to wish for peace

Is peaceful, and to look for an answer

Is satisfying.

But she does the mistake as any other,

She makes an ascetic of herself.

Productive, reproductive, political and social

Are abandoned. She is new,

But definitely not herself.

What could it be that she started?

Was washing dishes all she did,

That her past was so distant now.

As ascetic, she had to accept all,

In a pilgrimage, nothing becomes distant,

A residue of her past, she is

But from a struggle, she has bloomed.

She lives tiny and single on her rose bush.

No teacher, no answers, no definite

End or beginning.

Tougher than the worldly struggle,

The path is rugged and uncertain.

Will she reach? Will she let of herself?

Will she let go of every kind of herself?

After every struggle, she waits,

And that is the plain point of it.

Pilgrimage is one of stillness.

IV

A life leads to a beautiful black hole

Of pondering ideologies, thoughts, and a life.

Questions seem to stream out

Of our eyes, ears, and all senses.

Withdrawing she becomes the ultimate,

The end of all, the beginning of the unknown.

Again, who is she?

Like every woman, she lays a mystery,

To be buried in a coffin.

But there her greyness covered in white,

The symphony of cries around her,

Young widow in her death.

Stark cruelty of life, to take all

And just keep taking.

Does not the divine know to give?

He gives the life, the struggle,

The brain to think of purpose, and

the heart to think of valour and Love.

We roll on the crust, and rip the leaves,

Then fall in a pit – Hell.

We take a pilgrimage of Sins,

The sweetest, the best, and most fruitful,

In some vain hope that we shall,

Yet again, be born to live this again.

Rather, in this purity of life and death,

One understands the story,

The pure feminine fable of the May fly.

Living for a day, to copulate,

Not to eat, digest, or excrete,

But simply born to recreate,

And then to die without an answer.

Where is the purpose, struggle?

Pilgrimage, thought or death?

Does not one have to start out

A life and then deal with that death?

Is that young widow’s life full?

Disappearance is one of inevitability.

Some Corny Diary Piece

I am STUBBORN. There have been a 100 times in my life when I’ve started writing wanting the best story to turn out of it. I keep hearing it being read in another’s voice; the glamour, the fluidity and the lucid body of that voice. It feels succulent in my palms, because in that voice I feel and hear the path I shall lead. As a writer I have been born here as a slave – the freest slave the world has ever created. In my stubborn existence, all I have ever wanted is a struggle; a struggle different from my parents. I travel on these buses – yellow, blue, and green. I think till my brain, those convolutions Shantanu always referred to, burns. No wonder every love of my life finds out one interesting thing in me – You think too much! But somehow in this much thought-out existence, I have constantly missed two things. Those two things that just held in their tiny hands a massive key that has opened the door to the most beautiful black hole one could have ever heard of. One, I am struggling now. All this while I have fooled myself to believe is that I have been waiting for my struggle. “I am in a waiting phase.” No Sam, snap out of it, now! It’s a struggling phase. Your struggle is not to run away from your parents, but to turn around and learn to live with them. That is your only way to be yourself. These are the loins, hearts, and sweat you sprang from. Whatever you create, they have the credit too. Give it to them. It is not straining oneself to be different that works, but it is the point of brewing and realizing that we are essentially different. You are their lucid and succulent voice. And what you may create might be for such a voice. But, two, understand it is yet again your voice that has to speak it first. It is fun to release your stagnation and understand that the river will flow, but will stay in a place when you dam it.

Written on 24.09.2008

The Red-Gown Bald Master and His Monkies

The trees were singing to an old rainy tune, and the Zen monks were chanting their prayers. The scene settled and some students started to follow the master, a small round and bald man. He always wore red, in this land of nowhere and nothing. This master was the one who always asked the questions, which celestially bothered their primate origins. But here civilization did not matter, because in civilizations no one is brave enough to ask a question. He plucked two red shoe-flowers and planted it on his ear. “If the body rules all will the monkey take over?” One disciple answers: “Correct your grammar and then find me a monkey.” He does not believe in a civilization on these blue-ridged mountains, but keeps peace with all beings, believes in oneness with the webbed skies and underworld snakes. The master turned around and watched these creatures and just had more to ask! Written on 11.04.2008 Edited on 24.08.2008

Questions:

1. Do skirts have to fly to make a Marlin Monroe? 2. Do lipsticks have to flair to make talkshow artist?

Theo Jansen

click on picture to access Youtube BMW Ad featuring Theo Jansen

He is a person who crafts beyond engineering, movement, and sculpture. The work is innovative and mind-blowing. A friend sent me a BMW advertisement, where Theo Jansen talks about the art of motion and the way he likes to play around with it. He says, "The walls between art and engineering exist only in our minds."

I believe everything exists in what the mind creates. Art seems to prove this over and over again. The movements here created by sheer skill of engineering and art opens a new world in the mind. His creations have their own life and essence. Innovation is the biggest art. Thinking out of the box has the biggest power in leading a holistic life.

Windows

an old speech (and some comments) I had to make in School. I was quite happy to find this. Written on 5.12.2004. Forgive the standard of English in places. I did not want to edit.

Good morning! For today, I was asked to speak about windows. While preparing I looked up a lot of books on the architectures of arches, wooden joints, window frames, and so on. Then, one of my teachers came along and gave me a book of zen quotes. Hereby, I will be referring to symbolic windows; those that our minds possess. Not to worry, they are very similar to our house windows and that easy to understand. But think about closing all these windows and sitting inside. The house will become claustrophobic. Now, understand the mind as house, a home that harbours thoughts, feelings, opinions, contemplations, criticisms, emotions and views. Close these windows! Imagine never letting anyone of these getting a breath of fresh air: the company of expression. We're left with suffocated minds. Heads that hurt, and lives that are entwined. Very early in our life, we learn hard to put bolts on these windows when confronted by certain concepts. Let it be politics, friendship, sex, or even music, dance and paint. Then, we keep strengthening these bolts keeping an eye all the excuses that make this right. We refuse to speak to people darker than us. We refuse to speak to people shorter than us. We refuse to listen to people who speak too slow. We refuse to look at people with short hair. However, one has to realize that we are social beings and we have to keep 'interaction' and 'expression' an alive part of our lives. We have to break down these bolts. It is a personal effort. We need to ventilate our minds. We need to use the windows. A person who is 'open' will be able to receive and therefore give better. (And I actually said: to make sure nothing too terrible happens in this vulnerable position we could fit mosquito nets). Windows are basically frames through which one can look. These windows are special. Though open enabling us to look out, it has a reflective quality attached to it. It looks back into the self. Life is a changing path. Both mistakes and successes have to be taken at stride, with openness. If we are insecure, it is because we have suffocated ourself. We need space to think. We need to open this windows to become secure creating a stability and willingness to learn.

A poet named Donovan Holtz said, "Through a window, I watch, windows are, for watching - Square pieces of life, ever changing." These frames provide two contrary needful aspects: confinement and openness. There are times when we have to take the lead, and there are times when we have to step back and wait. One should be attentive and then they can learn to not get hurt, and not hurt. It is very important to create a free space. It gives one a strong choice. But, one will think more, because they actually 'listen' to more versions of life. Then one becomes open to even criticizing statements, just because we waited and listened. It bends everything to make it constructive, and gives the power in the self to construct the truth and belief of life in a sensible manner. It is in our hands to not take advantage or be taken advantage of.

Thank you.

Ego is a funny creature and I attribute a 'he' to him. He has bright blue eyes that blind with simple tears, and that burn with victorious laughter. My Ego is blue, sleeps in my palm, and has very quick feet. We all own him. We all own a kind of him. When he takes his morning run he hurts my thighs and arms. I try to hold him back, but he flies. His wings are ferocious and hard. They hit me when he needs, wants, yearns. Ego taught me love, because he loves wearing pride as a cloak.

Blaft?

What is that strange noise? It's resonating all over this world. Where is it coming from? Blaft! The sounds of an alternate universe of creativity, dreams, eccentricity, and well...purple creatures:

What is Blaft? Blaft is an amazing new independent publishing house, based in Chennai, that successfully launched itself into the realm of exploratory literature and art, on 16^th May 2008. Don’t miss out on them. They present an array of unique and exclusive publications. If you want something new to read, you must pick up one of their books, all available on www.Amazon.com, www.landmarkonthenet.com, and all major bookstores in India, USA, and Canada. So, who started Blaft? Two extremely versatile, excited, and happy characters: Rashmi Ruth Devadasan lives a life of cinema, theatre, and writing. Her ideal world would be rows of bookshelves and DVDs She has worked with Director Gautam Menon since his first film Minnale, and is an active part of The Perch Collective. Kaveri Lalchand is an apparel manufacturer and exporter, and a fashion designer. She is passionate about theatre, dance, the culinary arts, travel, old buildings, meditation, people and books. What have they published? The Blaft Anthology of Tamil Pulp Fiction selected & translated by Pritham Chakravarthy edited by Rakesh Khanna Cover illustration by Shyam Cover design by Malavika PC Mad scientists! Desperate housewives! Murderous robots! Scandalous starlets! Sordid, drug-fueled love affairs! This anthology features seventeen stories by ten best-selling authors of Tamil crime, romance, science fiction, and detective stories, none of them ever before translated into English, along with reproductions of wacky cover art and question-and-answer sessions with some of the authors. Grab a masala vadai, sit back and enjoy! List of authors: Suba; Rajesh Kumar; Vidya Subramaniam; Indra Soundar Rajan; Ramanichandran; Pattukkottai Prabakar; Tamizhvanan; Pushpa Thangadorai; Brajanand V.K.; Resakee Price: INDIA Rs 395/- US $17.95 India: Order from Landmark Bookstores Outside India: Pre-order from Amazon.com

Zero Degree by Charu Nivedita translated by Pritham K Chakravarthy edited by Rakesh Khanna Cover design and illustration by Malavika PC

With its mad patchwork of phone sex conversations, nightmarish torture scenes, tender love poems, numerology, mythology, and compulsive name-dropping of Latin American intellectuals, Charu Nivedita's novel Zero Degree stands out as a groundbreaking work of South Indian transgressive fiction that unflinchingly probes the deepest psychic wounds of humanity

Price: India Rs 315/ - US $9.99 India: Order from Landmark Bookstores Outside India: Pre-order from Amazon.com

when this key sketch gets real tongue is fork hen is cock when this key sketch gets real my baby eagle's dream comes true drawings by Natesh Chennai-based artist Natesh is perhaps better known for his installation artworks and colorful paintings, which have recently been exhibited in New Delhi. This collection of some seventy ink drawings of surreal combinations of hands, women, fish, tigers, eagles, and rhinoceroses showcases the amazing things Natesh can do with a simple black line.

Price: INDIA Rs 395/- US $17.95 Outside India: Pre-order from Amazon.com

Each book delves into strange, bizarre and brilliant worlds. This is a feast for the every reader’s mind. Blaft plans to keep growing and casting purple eyes on strange stories, dreams, and worlds. In future, they are planning on translations of fiction from various South Asian regions, English fiction, comic books, graphic novels, children's books, non-fiction, textbooks, how-to-manuals, encyclopaedias, and kitchen appliances, Wonder which world they may capture in their forthcoming publications.

Catch the Blafters on www.blaft.com 27 Lingam Complex, Dhandeeswaram Main Road, Velachery, Chennai 600 042. India. T: +91 98843 06144 / 98840 06145 Email: blaft@blaft.com

Still Life With Woodpecker

As a child I thought I would never read love stories, and I would grow up far from mushy romanticism. Years after certain blind assumptions, my luck turned to be brilliant with a handful of carefully selected love stories. The journey started with Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood and Wind-up Bird Chronicle. This week, I read Still Life With Woodpecker (1980) by Tom Robbins. It explores love in very unique and exquisite ways. Robbins writes the story of a princess, Leigh-Cheri, and an outlaw, Bernard Mickey Wrangle. This a revolutionary post-modern fairy tale of dynamites and saving the world. Still Life With Woodpecker talks of some strange relationships of the writer and his Remington SL3, of Woodpecker and his dynamites, of Guiletta and her toot, of Camel Cigarettes and solitude, of Princess and her Prince Charming, of European Royalty and America, and of love and its Moon. The narrative urges the reader to watch the Moon, learn childhood, listen to fairy tales carefully, observe objects, and delve in solitude. The writing is dynamic and runs in express speed. It separates the narrative, writer, typewriter, reader, and characters on different planes, but manages to place them in the same chamber of thought. This is beautiful, eccentric, and something everyone should read. Who is an outlaw? What is the basis of social activism? Who are the Redheads? What is importance of the Moon? The book keeps on asking questions, searching in the depths of life and thought. It bursts like dynamite lit up in a dark little chamber. The pages fly. It struggles to discover, what makes love stay. *Cover design - Leslie W. LePere **Click cover to Buy at Amazon.com

Magi, Him, and us

"A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The was deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter."

T.S. Eliot starts by speaking the words of Lancelot Andrewes, a 17th Century divine, who spoke on the dangers the Magi faced, in his Nativity Sermon in 1622. Eliot, in his middle age, needed a recluse from his hardship, confusion, and drudgery. He converted to Christianity, and confirmed his catholic faith in the Church of England in 1927. 'Journey of the Magi' is a dramatic monologue by a Magus describing his journey to see the Birth of Christ, but the words delve deeper on a spiritual journey that is the need of every human. After the hardship and rumination, Eliot claims Christianity offered him a journey to answers, a spiritual calling, and something that transformed his life.

Journeys that transform lives, callings that direct people on various paths, can never be explained to the larger reality. It is a personal experience. These journeys involve an eventful path of difficulties and conflicts. Eliot known for his obscure imagery details the Magi's hardship, yet again based on Andrewe's sermons. Journey of the Magi is the story of the three kings of Orient, believed in legends to be Balthazar, Melchior, and Caspar.

The lack of logic, and pure spiritual absorption, reeks in the fact that they set out in the dead of winter. The camels, vehicles of the desert, traveled on their soft hoofs through thick snow. The calling was only powerful enough to drag along the three kings, who are believed to have brought frankincense, gold, and myrrh. (According to Mathew 2:1-12 2: 1–12, the magi are not specified as three, but as the first Gentiles to believe in Christ were venerated as saints in the Middle Ages.)

The camel men could not be torn apart from their material desires and homes. They ran back to civilization, to their sexual pleasures, and intoxicating habits.

"The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women"

Even the Magi, still clouded by their desires, regretted going to far from their palaces, especially not knowing if what they were heading towards was a fruitful calling. Practical rationality always tries to defeat instinct, passion, and a drive towards misty goals. Here, Eliot hands out an interpretation of life. The mind will constantly create conflicts of two faces, but sometimes the pathless goal is the right calling; like seeking truth, which is always a pathless land.Abandoned by their camel men and camels, torn away from their comforts, and stuck in the middle of winter, their journey is not understood by anyone. The dramatic monologue is delivered with the undertone that even years after the journey, it cannot be explained in any way that could be understood. Understanding is personal, justification is personal. Spirituality is personal. God is personal.

Eliot's vivid description of their loneliness and physical hardships are a symbol of their psychological turmoil. This turmoil is owned by anyone who asks questions, and searches endlessly, with no path or maps, just some single light guiding her (Star of Bethlehem), not knowing within the question lays the answer, and the significance lies not in the answer, but the process of asking questions.

In the second stanza, Eliot sinks into his comfort zone - symbolism. It is highly metaphorical and requires a deep understanding of biblical imagery. After experiencing the hostility in cities and villages, the magi travel in the dark (no light of understanding). They reach a temperate valley, a symbol of the birth of spring, birth of something new and blossoming, and the coming of God. They pass a water-mill beating the darkness signifying that paganism, idol worship, and magic will be beaten to ground by the New Spirituality. The three trees on the low sky is a symbol of the crucifixion day, when three different men were put on crosses on Calvary; Jesus, the compassionate son of God dying for the sins of humankind, the stubborn thief who even considers Jesus as a man of magic and trickery, and the thief who understands his sins and confesses to be redeemed of it to reach God. The old white horse galloping on the fields is the Holy Spirit who spoke of the gifts of humankind, and the second coming of Christ as in the Book of Revelations.

The Magi, eventually, reach a tavern (an inn/bar) with vine leaves on the lintel, interpreted as the ancient Jewish custom of hanging vine leaves to announce the birth of a child. Guided by the star they assume they have reached the place and enter the inn in triumph, but all they find are intoxicated sinners.

"Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wine-skins"

The six hands are those of the soldiers gambling for Jesus’ seamless cloak and also a mark of Judas’ betrayal. The inn is filled with men drunk in their pleasures and slurring in intoxicated trances. They are the people with empty wine-skins, those bodies with no souls into which no new life can be poured.

The most momentous ingredient of this poem is Eliot’s interpretation of Birth (physical and spiritual) and Death (physical and spiritual). Christ was born in a manger, well among the lower class of the society. Seeing this, the magi are merely ‘satisfied’. All the prophecies lie fulfilled, making the magi those of an alien kind, and truth lies asleep in a hay crib, in a lowly stable. They are dumbstruck by God’s plan. They have only seen the births and death, purely physically manifested, that all of human race has seen and will continue to see. This Birth of Christ creates a Death.

The poem is not a physical account of the magi’s journey. It is indeed written in a confused chronology, of how an aged magus’ memory may aid him. It is the agony and transformation that each magus went through when all their beliefs were put to torturous death. Christ awakened the birth of the Kingdom of God. His teachings broke the vertical hierarchy and made everyone a person of God, a vessel of God. Everyone is equal in the eyes of God.

“This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death?... this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death”

Old ritualistic manners of clutching to one’s household gods were murdered by this Birth. The beliefs that the kings had laid all their life and growth on seemed to be buried and hanged. Witnessing the birth, and the death of their systems, the moment was agonizing. Under the Kingdom of God, when the return to palaces, their kingdoms seemed of an alien race and system. Everything they lay their cards on in their kingdoms seems untrue, unfamiliar, and lacks the understanding of God.

The magus (Eliot) still ardently hopes for another death, large enough to happen in every human’s conscience. This is the spiritual death of prejudices, sins, rituals, ignorance, materialism, discrimination, violence, and resentment that dies deeply rooted in human-made systems. Change is the only goal one must await in a quest.

Sources: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biblical_Magi#cite_note-9 http://itech.fgcu.edu/faculty/wohlpart/alra/eliot.htm#biography http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/w/e/wethree.htm http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/291.html http://mariannedorman.homestead.com/Star.html

pedestrian chronicle

The walk, the click of my heels and the thoughts that melted like old icecream into milk, took me home. We saw into each other's eyes, my shadow and I. The afternoon high was lowering itself to a simmer, still severely toasting foreheads. I drew out a small camera and decided to see the world move, spin and happen. With the feeling of owning the world, a part of it, with every image and thought that transpired in the time being the few minute walk seemed an hour. An eon long journey! Let this sink on you, colours fly. I forced a glass of rose milk on myself to taste some childhood again. I did, some memories rushed back as I swallowed pink. Pink milk! Rose milk! Milk! Neighbours and paati. The blueness took me over and swirled me out on to the road. Everyone seemed so nice and I seemed like the kid, the one who never understood the world and yet had all the answers.

Some men are creepy, women too. Some people are creepy. They have the weirdest things to say and do not care about appropriateness. Yesterday, I met a man, in the bus, who decided to talk about women's stuff (oh! he was apparently refering to breasts). He kept on telling me that I have good "stuff" and that guys would be following me around like ducks. Well, he even offered a talk over coffee and a transparent suggestion on him being my groom. Yuck! Going through this is not new, but to know people like this exist creeps me out. I am talking about those who are open talking about bodies and desires, but those who impose it on others with the hint or rather the highlight of pervertedness.

If this doesn't cause irritation, I don't know what else will. There are some people, even if you're compulsively nice to them, one never wishes to meet. This man met a category and for once I felt happy in stereotyping. The rest of the bus ride, after the man declared he was getting off the bus half-heartedly, I stared out of the window with a blank stare. The blankness stared back. The road grew wider and wider, more people seemed to crop up. A river of thoughts seemed to flow above my head. Money seems to feature a very big part of my life these days. It's sad and I don't know it kind of has this nice flavour of responsibility added to it.

No money has the ability of making you feel abandoned from yourself. Especially, after getting a taste of what that piece of promise note is capable of, one can't think further but for the want of more of it. It flies, and it makes you flies. Nothing to deny. With no money, I wouldn't write, blog, or take photos, or be what all I am about now. The essence itself, if created by the activities I indulge in, will disappear the minute my pockets go empty and lose the hope of getting filled. Such is the morbidity and materialism of life, and much ado about nothing to simply deny things and put on collared white coats. Goodness is far more than just morality, a personal ethics goes futher.

The ruggedness is a good thing to cultivate. One must allow themselves to watch the rugged messiah sleep under the tree with koels flying around him, sometimes in dreams and mostly in reality. Watch the messiah sleep and you will wake up. Wake up the messiah and you will sleep.

This is the problem with people. They forget they can fly and search for the wrong cliffs or just forget to search the last pocket, always the best. We end up settling, obsessively. What a world?

I sign off with just some sporadic images. Some studying has to happen in this world. I get this egoistic pleasure when I top my exams, more than competing with others (though, this emotion exists), I just like telling myself I'm smart. Muaahahahha. I am sad in many ways. I traumatize people. I laugh at people's plight when it doesn't really hurt them. I can incessantly argue about nonsense. I just need good sleep, lots of water, and proper food. I must add that Vasanth Vihar next to college, a small vegetarian hotel, does give a very nice meals for just Rs. 25. I am a compulsive eater. I eat food. And food has no barriers. It is the flavour of enjoyment, only surpassed by words, music, and colours. Bye.

Assimilation of Religion

After shunning the pagan approaches of Indus Valley culture, the subcontinent has followed eras of religious fundamentalism. The same stubbornness caused many romantic revolutions, like the French Revolution. This document is not a biased account of one religion's history, but an assimilation of what thoughts conspired after an afternoon lecture. Vedic Brahminism roots itself as the first institutionalized religion, in the subcontinent. It draws its parallels to Persian culture, focusing on the existence of a Fire God. Zaratustra becomes the linking stone. This Brahminism laid the foundations for the caste systems thus, dividing the society into Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Sudras. Initially, this occupation based definition brought about the problems of hierarchy*. The Kshatriyas could not tolerate the subjugation. The Kings became the people with the divine right to rule. From 600 B.C. to 400 B.C. Jainism and Buddhism, owing their origin to two thinkers of Kshatriyan caste, emerged and brought about a new thinking. Daringly, the Kshatriyas, both at different times and with different methods, brought the concept of ahimsa. The religions spread far and wide. However, Jainism died slowly because of not using a vernacular language and avoiding the missionary approach. Buddhism was spreading fast, becoming the religion of South-East Asia. Hinduism could no longer take this blow and retaliated with its famous strategy – the spinning of mythology. Buddha became an avatar of Vishnu! “Hinduism is like English. It has a tremendorous capability to assimilate.” *post on Kingdom of God awaited.. **to be continued… courtesy: Value Education Prof. (S.S stream)

Optically... illusionary...deceptive.. this life!

This portal is so well researched, organized, and involving that you could sit with it for hours...vision is a sensory perception that deceives, excites, reveals at the same time. Optical Illusions - the tricks of imagery, the mysteries of vision...explanations available. http://www.michaelbach.de/ot/ And you want to keep testing your eyes and mind.. http://www.colorcube.com/illusions/illusion.htm I had fun..

Words

Nice to learn new words.. so if you find me using these words.. sure sure.. crack pjs.. say... "Ah! Sam's learnt a big word." Ok!!! But..wait these are some interesting words. Epigone - An inferior imitator of some distinguished writer or artist or musician. Eponym - a word derived from the name of a person Hegira - a journey or flight. Often referring to the forced journey of Mohammed from Mecca to Medina in 622 A.D. Hyoid - bone at the base of the tongue. It is a U-shaped bone at the base of the tongue that supports the tongue muscles. Solecism - A violation of the rules of grammar or etiquette. The word solecism is derived from the Greek soloikos, meaning "speaking incorrectly". Interestingly, the literal meaning of "soloikos" is "an inhabitant of Soloi", which was a city in ancient Cilicia where a dialect regarded as substandard was spoken. Solipsism - The philosophical theory that the self is all that you know to exist. While no great philosopher has been a solipsist, it can be said that the 17th-century French philosopher and mathematician Rene Descartes ("I think, therefore I am") created the backdrop against which solipsism subsequently developed. Ah... I am a true solipsist! Discoveries are piling in cyberspace, and this space understands more than many minds. But certain specific minds understand me too well. Some other words I already know, but are really worth sharing...words about words... Paronomasia - the use of words that sound similar to other words, but have different meanings. Antanaclasis - a pun in which a word is repeated with a different meaning each time Ambigram - word or words that look the same when turned upside-down And well some interesting fact... The word "magazine" comes from the Arabic word "makhazin," meaning "storehouse." And brilliant portal... The English Alphabet And words are ultimately made up Sniglets Signs off...

Countdown Process Toll

Ya. Crackers were screaming, phones were ringing, people were partying, and I am here. I am here drawing a bald man with huge black spectacles, like Basheer's brother. In some weird sense of randomness, I found so many interesting websites. Firstly, my old favourites deserve some mention. http://www.gutenberg.com/ is a nice comprehensive portal. It has some of the most interesting books, which you can legally download. http://www.irregardless.net/punster/puns.html this is something I really by chance tumbled upon.. super interesting. and fun. well pun.. huh phun... huh.. blah..bluh..blooh. http://www.alternativelawforum.com/ well, ok it's not some random website or an old favourite. Pretty much out of curiousity, as to what some of my friends were actually upto in ALF, I explored a bit. Well organized website...lots to learn too! http://www.damninteresting.com/ ...stumbled upon this. Really cool! I know very cliche review of something, but really...the articles there are small, about crazy new things, and really nicely written. http://www.crimelibrary.com/ Shaun passed this on...Oh God! Completely well researched..scary and written brilliantly. The world. The life! www.

Vocabulaire

If there is something you have to learn to become a writer, that is language. One can never stop learning a language, because vocabulary keeps growing. Sitting with a dictionary for endless hours is not a real waste of time for writers. Even by routine, discovery, or exploration the writer has to keep learning new words. If you take a book of some writer, and keep finding certain words repeating, you'll catch on to it in the next book too. Some writers are lucky to pass it off as their "style". Some good readers find out that it's the writers "limited vocabulary". So, building vocabulary is all part of life, in any language or genre. It's fun to discover.

Decibel

Swouiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. That's the downfall sound. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee....that's me running up a hill. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh...that's me flying. I just figured out how to do funky stuff with coconut leaves all by myself. (wiping off proud tears) You're not a kid after all. Bye kid.

want to wantingly wanted to wantings

I want to scream loud. I want to run up a hill slope. I want to cut my hair short. I want to learn some new dance. I want to learn to sword fight. I want to jump into a cold river. I want to fill my room with newspaper and sticky notes. I want to run across grasslands. I want a talking horse. I want some want-to-wantingly-wanted-to-wantings now.