I the Writer: Digest 1

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state of utopia when a 'good' book is read or stumbled upon, by coincidence. The knowledge bestowing

When you have the time to play Mob Wars on Facebook, why can't you spare some time, say a half hour

Don't let virtuality engulf your lives. Read, accumulate knowledge and share it with us. Is there a

a book that has changed the way you perceive about life? Tell us about the book that's close to your heart.

priesthood was a lucrative profession; performing marriages, house warming ceremonies, death rituals,man of God. And he is expected to be simple. But he has a family, and he has every right to wish for their comfort. Celibacy is not relevant today- not to everyone. People hope to do well and live their dream.

Castles in the Sand

He had given it a lot of thought over the last few weeks. He had not come to this decision in haste, even though everything about the decision reeked of haste. He had not discussed with anyone, for he knew that no had the capacity to understand. He knew that he sought freedom, complete freedom, and he knew how to achieve it.

He still did not remember what it was that drove him to this extreme; it was not as if something was wrong in his life. He had a good job; why even today, what he considered being his last day his boss came up to him and commended him for the wonderful job he was doing. What is surprising is that giventhat he knew that he would not be working a few days now, he did not decrease the intensity that wentinto this work. Generally, people tend to slack-off of work in the days leading to their termination.There was none of this.

He knew that there were going to be some things that he could not get rid of, such as his name on the roster of his school, on his college and the fact that he worked in his company for a certain period. These records would live on past him, long after he had gone. He had made his peace with that. Those were things in the past, and one cannot be mad at the past. It was the present and more importantly, future he was thinking about the future.

He had taken care of almost everything. He had cleared all outstanding bills, including his telephone bills. Again, why would one do such a thing? There have been cases when people, before leaving stack up a gargantuan bill on their telephone bills and then proceed to leave not having cleared them.

He entered his room, a small one room that he occupied in a paying guest option for a minimal sum. His needs were limited; all he needed was a roof over his head, a place to lay his head at the end of the night, a place where he could complete his daily ablutions in peace and a computer table, his one connection to the outside world.

For a person who did not have too many friends in real life, he had a huge set of acquaintances off the internet. When he logged on to his various chat interfaces, he was met with most of those on his friends list pinging him. They always something to say, and something to ask. Add to the chat interfaces the fad of social networking websites and you could construct his persona.

Social networking websites were the first to go. Thankfully, these days they came with an option wherein one could delete everything about their profile and remove any associate data that concerned the profile. Just the press of one button and voila, he did not exist on the website.

Having done with the social networking websites, he then moved onto his general presence on the internet. He removed his blog, one of his main medium for discussion on topics so varied; one could run into pages listing them. This was a bit trickier than the social website. He had the time and patience for it. It was not as if he had to be at some place. For once, time was his greatest ally.

He first deleted the blog and its contents, which thankfully did not take too long. The part that took most of the time was going to the various pages that he had posted comments on and removing them. It did take a long time and by the time he had ensured that he did not leave any trace of himself on the internet, it was well past midnight.He took out a piece of paper and began to write. He wanted to see to whom he could hand over his possessions; he wanted to leave a small note. He just could not think of anyone that he could leave his things. He smiled thinking to himself that after so many years, he still did not have anyone to whom he could leave his things.

He put a few things in a bag, a toothbrush, paste, fresh underwear, a towel, and a few books and gingerly snuck out of his room. He realized that there would still be his college and school records and there was nothing that he could do about them.

However, they did not matter, for they were all in the past, long past. As of today, he did not exist and people would not be able to find him as much as they tried. He had erased his identity from the world. He wanted freedom and this was how he was going to get it. Erase whatever was it that defined him and start afresh, a clean slate. It was a complete loss, but for some reason, it did not seem so. As he stepped on to the night, he felt that it was a start of a gain, finally.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. - Sylvia Plath

The time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.

- Mark Twain

EDITORIAL

Ranjani Ravi aka rampantheart

by

-s s fwww.flickr.com/groups/theprintedblog or email them to [email protected]

Karthik Swaminathan

God - a nice topic of debate. What is it to be an infinite conundrum, an eternal mystery... What is the relevance of God today? Are we being selfish? Man is born to sin. So, we have to be selfish, right? Or is it just another smart-ass argument?Little Srijith was crying- inconsolably. He had received a hiding from his mother for tasting the laddoos before they could be offered for the pooja. Hearing his sobs, his grandmother hobbled up to him and offered him another piece of laddoo. He gave it a glance, took it and flung it out...

Srijith's grandmother would feed him stories of God's kindness. While his mother- a disciplinarian and a devout lady- would often warn him against God's hot displeasure. But she also taught him to have faith in the same God. Srijith was no Socrates. But, hearing so many things about this 'God' confused him to no end. Even the other day, when he had fallen off a mango tree while trying to pick fruit, his mother admonished him saying, "God punishes naughty children! I hope you learnt your lesson." His grandmother was different. She took him to a nearby temple and both of them prayed for his wounds to heal quickly, which they did.

Srijith's father was a man of Science and was rarely seen at home. A theoretical physicist, Mr. Bose was often busy with his research papers. But whenver he had time, he would spend it with his little son. Mr. Bose never touched upon the topic 'God'. He was an Atheist. Srijith would wonder why his father never spoke of this 'God', but never asked him. He would enjoy his father's company- precious little moments, they would be.

Fast forward, forty years. Srijith was a Professor in Theology. He could vividly recall all those memories of his childhood. His parents and his doting grandmother. He never forgot what each of them instilled in him. All that had ignited a desire in him- a desire to know about 'God'. And he took every opportunity that he chanced upon.

"God's Love" was the first book (let) he received, at his school's fete. He was attracted by the parables of Christ. Amar Chitra Katha was there as well... He read those pictured books and was drawn in to another world. He happened to read the tales of Narada- who often had some trick up his sleeve- and laughed loud. He read how Guru Arjan was tortured- and cried. He also read how Ramakrishna Paramahamsa practised the major religions and realized they lead to the same goal.

'Jal', 'Paani', 'Water'... Didn't they look, feel and taste the same? Our Professor was lost in thought.

He was still confounded by what his mother and grandmother would say. He could not comprehend how God, an embodiment of love and kindness, could also be God that beheld fear. He was being Agnostic in his rumination... He thought of all the news he had read- animals being sacrificed, and humans as well! Was this 'God' blood-thirsty too? Had his mother forgotten to tell him that? Or was this restricted to the Mayans and Aztecs of yore- which had suddenly surfaced in some parts of today. And what about these 'God-men', supposedly blessed by the Divine...

During one of his lectures, a student had come up with a statement, "God is man's manifestation. Man needed someone to put the blame on, and lo! There was God..." Srijith wondered what his mother or grandmother would say to that!

In a tension-filled world, Srijith reflected, people go to any extent to find solace. One such place is God. Be it a Christian view of following the Right path, a Satanic view of following the Left path, a Wiccan view of the oneness with Nature... Anything! 'Tolerance' was no longer a watchword. Srijith saw that more often than not, the tension people faced was a consequence of their own actions coupled with the environment they were in. Renouncing was definitely not the answer. 'Materialism' was the new watchword.

One has to change with times. Srijith observed how most of the Hindu priests were doing well- priesthood was a lucrative profession; performing marriages, house warming ceremonies, death rituals, etc. He wondered further- Is it wrong to be 'materialistic'? After all, you want to lead a comfortable life with your family. Anyone would wish for all the comforts life has to offer... In fact, don't elders wish for the same and bless you? A priest is a man of God. And he is expected to be simple. But he has a family, and he has every right to wish for their comfort. Celibacy is not relevant today- not to everyone. People hope to do well and live their dream.

Hope is a good thing; may be, not the best of things. But all good things never die.

I THE WRITER

May 2009

anything at all. But staying off books? You must be kidding! Every bibliophile floats in the divineWhat started as a mere hobby is now an obsession. I would stay off the internet, yes. I can live without

people's attention. While the virtual world itself is anything but boring, it isn't complete compared to the erstwhile pursuit. Over the years, most booklovers I know have stopped reading. The reason? Elementary

my dear Watson! The reasons offered are entertaining indeed! A good friend with whom I usually discuss books told me he didn't have the time to read anymore. I asked him if he was busy inventing a time machine.

for something that's going to edify your thought process?

The best ones will be published! Happy Reading!

committed to instigating, encouraging and empowering imminent writers. Welcome to the first edition of 'I, the Writer', India's first literary digital magazine for aspiring writers! I the Writer is

(Editor)

Revolutionary ideas. Nurtured.

http://ithewriter.com

fINALITY UTOPIAN ILLUSIONS

THE ENIGmA THAT IS GOD

PLAYING WITH WORDS, ONE UTOPIAN STATE AT A TIME

activity is fast diminishing, thanks to the internet which has been playing a significant role in diverting

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The WorlD unDer The sun This column attempts to restate the obvious. Its theme is wonder, in all things great and small. Its underlying emotion is joy, the heartbeat of joy echoing through existence. The author writes, to complete herself.

This is my first piece for this column, and it is more in the nature of an invocation than anything else

‘Madangalil aval Margazhi’ sings the poet, comparing his lady love to the Tamil month of Margazhi. Margazhi is the time of the year around Christmas and New Year. The last weeks of December, that autumn-and-spring package that we have, pleasantly cool and mildly effacing. With gentle north easterly winds making up quiet chill of the mornings, and soulful music echoing from the temples around the city, well, that is December. The calm before the storm, the hint of dawn.

The New Year is a new turn, with the days gradually lengthening. The last of the chill wears out, and on the day of the harvest festival, the Sun is officially out! And from this moment start the rise, the anticipation, and the wait for the Grand Indian Summer.

Summer bursts into our part of the world, not in a blinding glare, but in slow, torturing, tantalizing degrees. The days start just a little earlier each day, like He is back after the winter break and wants to put in his best efforts to improve productivity for the year ahead. The evenings too, end, not with dusk masking the sky like a veil drawn in shy haste, but as a long, lingering affair delineating every single colour and emotion that could possibly be teased out of the skyline of the horizon.

As March dawns, it is not the light alone which discriminates the change in the season. Walking out of the cool interiors of our structures becomes a match, a tussle between the heat and our extent of endurance. The blinding light and heat, all-encompassing in all totality, isn’t that how the great powers of the universe are described? Awe inspiring. And, of course, very, very hot. The water bottles and ice boxes come out. Air conditioners on a full time run.

It is almost like the need for water and all things sweet and pulpy and juicy is answered bountifully, though. Personally, I find the watermelon the most beautiful of all fruits; though beauty may be a crass choice to describe the luscious red of its interior and abstract green of its skin. The beauty is more about the function than the form though; there is something incredibly satisfying when the Great Thirst is quenched by a few of the red succulent pieces, with black diamonds scattered on the surface as the only ornament.

In March, the mangoes would not have ripened. But who can resist the pleasure of the raw mango, green and yellow and tangy and sharp and stinging? The black spotted exterior, the hot, pungent smell that rises from its skin? The mango is a sensory delight in all its forms; the tiny, untranslatable vadu-maanga, the big, savoury raw mango, and of course, the ripe, yellow-orange, cloyingly sweet Mango.

There are perhaps no childhood memories more dominating than those related to mangoes. It is like one’s childhood is intrinsically tied up to the heat of the summer, Arun ice-cream, the beach, and mangoes. As kids, we would fight for the possession of the part of the mango with the seed (‘kottai’) though there isn’t much flesh or juice associated with it. I suppose it was for the sheer pleasure of being able to play with the mango seed, the challenge of squeezing out juice from where there is none and the prestige of possessing the kottai.

As the heat progresses, when it seems this one is going to be the hottest summer in years, when one cannot take one more day of the heat seeping through the roof and walls, the creaking fan, the hot winds blowing in at the close of the day, and the sun going down magnificently in a blaze of scarlet and crimson, it happens. The first thunderstorms.

The whole earth, baked brown and cracking. The sun slowly going out, masked by black, cool demons. One drop from the black masses above is all that it takes to revive her, for her to change from a drooping, wilted flower to a fresh, fragrant, expectant one. All this drama in the first week of April, when the exams would be just around the corner. Geometry riders and rainstorms. Lightning. Thunder. Rain. Raincoats. Umbrellas. Puddles. And notepaper-boats.

After a brief respite, one that exists only to heighten the contrast, the merciless flogging starts again. On some days when the heat becomes too much, all you feel like doing is close all the windows, draw all the drapes, and laze with a book and a tall glass of juice. These are, of course, the summer holidays. The evenings, when it becomes marginally cooler, is when you raid the apartment, playing hide-and-seek and tag and cricket to let the pent-up energy out.

Summer is officially, ice-cream time. One of the saddest parts about growing up is how available things like ice cream become to you. I say that’s sad, because I remember waiting with a countdown for the first ‘official’ day of summer (April 1st in my family) when it was permissible for me to eat ice-cream. The anticipation was something that I enjoyed more than the ice-cream, in retrospect. Summer was also the time for family get-togethers and long trips.

So much fun out of the heat!

Towards the end of May, when the holidays come to a staggering end and we feel like getting back to school for the next year, the first hint of monsoon comes in. Mausam is not an angry flash of a thunderstorm; she builds over the sea, scheming and planning, and when she bursts in Bombay and Mangalore and Trivandrum, the spray hits us. Happiness, respite, peace. And thus does our summer come to an end, terrible and nostalgic.

I am going to miss the Indian summer next year; I won’t be here to notice each feature of its regularity, every aspect of its changing faÿade. One of the little things I am bundling up to tuck into my mind, to open at will and recreate the magic!

- Suchitra Ramachandran

I sat down with my palette of colors and my canvas for the first time without an inspiration to paint. I had to paint. That is one of the shortfalls of choosing art as a profession. You get bound to deadlines. Inspiration unfortunately cannot be confined to the small walls of deadlines, not even by the hefty paychecks. Well at least money cant buy everything! I sat there with the brush in my hand wondering how to proceed.

I heard the door knob turning and I glanced at the wall clock. It was 6:00 in the evening; it must be her, back from work. She walked in, looked up to see me in my work position and gave me a beaming smile.

“Good evening darling. How was your day? She asked planting a wet kiss on my cheek.“Very well, dear. Thanks and how was yours?” I asked picking out blue and my canvas had a beautiful stroke of blue.“Not very great, I had a tough time with a customer today. It was not the most pleasant day. But hey work is work and who ever said it’s easy!” she said getting ready to freshen herself up.The sight of her and listening to her had made my otherwise boring evening a little exciting. I can’t explain how. I see her everyday but everyday seems like a new day. The happiness on looking at her and listening to her never seemed to abate. It was queer amalgamation of excitement and peace.I changed my brushes and used orange and white alternatively.

“Did you get the mail today?” she asked me.

“Yes, I did, over there near the table” I replied while continuing my strokes on the canvas.I heard her tearing open the mail one by one and tossing the unwanted ones in to the trash.

“I can't believe this! Another month they have over charged us. This is getting ridiculous. I just went over there are explained to them that we are not subscribed to the new plan. Gosh! I am calling them and giving them a piece of my mind. Is that going to bother you working? Should I take it upstairs?” she looked at me. The room echoed with the anger in her voice.

“NO, go ahead “I said, as her change in emotions were definitely helping me.My canvas needed some red.

“Please make sure this doesn’t happen again sir. Otherwise I will be forced to stop your services “She looked at me exasperated.

“I am going to fix up a dinner. How about pasta for tonight?” she said smiling at me again. It took me a moment to understand the change in emotions. She was just firing away at our telephone provider a second ago and now she is back to her exuberant self. That is what made her special. She could compartmentalize things, something I could never do. I guess we will always admire people who can do things that we can't!

I smiled and said “Anything would do”

I continued with my canvas as she finished cooking and brought the food to me.“Well, I don’t want you to stop painting. So let me feed you the pasta. Whenever you are ready let me

know”

I had almost done and felt a dash of green . “Nah, I am done. How is this?” I turned over my amalgamated creation to her.

“Oh my god! That is so beautiful“She pulled me towards her and gently kissed me.I took the brush again when she asked me “But I thought you were done with it. What else is left?”I added a dash of lavender, turned to her and said “The master stroke”

she sat right next to me.

" A writer is someone who can make a riddle out of an answer. " - Karl Kraus

" I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions. "

- James Michener

I THE WRITER

By Nivethitha KumarSUmmER GALORE!!

THE mASTER STROKE

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by Mathangi Mawley

A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language,trying to get human feelings right.

- John K. Hutchens

There is a tunnel that has no exits. The exit, it has, but cannot be seen. The tunnel has no light, no windows- to let its travelers have a peep. What lies beyond is not for the eyes of the traveler. And when one indeed sees what is beyond, can never travel again. Yet, every traveler tries to guess- the sight beyond the tunnel, dark. Most keep guessing, while a few claim to know. A few others just don’t bother, and a handful- well, they might actually know! The tunnel has a definite structure- a kind of maze. It has its sources and a destination. The travelers travel together- sometimes alone- but most of the times, together.

The tunnel has in hold, many surprises for its travelers. And each traveler, takes in these surprises in different ways. The tunnel keeps a track of all its travelers; judges them by the way they take its surprises. A traveler must never displease the tunnel. For the tunnel, always expects its travelers to like its surprises. This tunnel also has a strange sense of humour. Sometimes, the tunnel starts playing games with its travelers. The travelers must play along. For if they don’t, they won’t be able to move on! They get trapped. The could neither turn back, nor move ahead. Wicked, though it may sound, it is, but a part of the path that the traveler has to take, through the tunnel. The tunnel, knows.

How long is this tunnel? That is subjective. How big is the tunnel? No one knows. For the travelers never have known that they are in a tunnel. The darkness inside the tunnels has prevented the travelers from knowing the truth about their path. Some of these travelers have tried to light the lamps. But these lamps failed to help them know the truth. Instead showed them lies which took them ahead- towards their exit. While many other travelers, have ceased to find the truth. They prefer to take in the surprises, not to displease the tunnels- and move ahead on their journey- safely. Safely? Their ignorance is the source of their safety. And this ignorance is their bliss. Is this what the tunnel wants? Its travelers cease to try and find the truth? No. It wants the travelers to try. For only then, it could show them lies!

Through the darkness and through the lies, as the traveler journeys along, the tunnel unleashes its final surprise! The dark humour of the tunnel never ceases to test its travelers. A few travelers, who’d traveled enough, know all about this surprise. The tunnel is not “entertained”. Yet, a few others are completely taken aback! And the tunnel, celebrates! For, the tunnel is particularly proud of this surprise. Some of the travelers try to fool the tunnel. The tunnel humours them. It lets them believe that it is being fooled. And throws in this surprise, so suddenly, that they never get the chance to even realize that they were the ones that were fooled! The mysterious, yet the most precious surprises of all- exit. This surprise, puts and end to the games of the tunnel. It helps the traveler, realize the truth, see the light. And this surprise, answers the travelers. Strange is this tunnel- the dark, cruel; yet great, merciful, is this tunnel, called- Time!

If I'm trying to sleep, the ideas won't stop. If I'm trying to write, there appears a barren nothingness. - Carrie Latet

by Harish Narayanan

All he had to do was close his eyes. But they refused to obey him. However hard he tried to close them, they seemed to be directed to one spot. It was hard to fantasize and comprehend what lay in front of him.

Here in the small bed, wrapped in a small cloth lay a part of his own. A piece of his body and soul. Someone who would be his inheritance. A shining beacon of rightfulness, grace and radiating with divinity glowing within and outwards. The baby was sleeping. He was even afraid to hold him in his hands just having a stupid notion of "what if he slipped out of my hands".

It was ironical that in spite of having reached the age of 29, he had never held a kid in his hands. It was surprising to see someone almost 1/10th of the size of him and still feel almost hundred times love than for himself. But vying for his love was the lady sleeping peacefully in the bed next to him. She was beautiful. Even in the half-moon light, her face had the serene beauty that could make the moon disappear behind the clouds.

The baby passed gas and he found himself laughing with his hands cupping his mouth. The baby then lay still. Motionless. Not a twitch. He grew afraid. He went near the baby and wondered if he should touch and awake him if he was sleeping or maybe summon the doctors. The baby twitched minutes later, what seemed like an eternity to him. And that was when it struck him.

What was it that had tied him to the child that was born a couple of hours ago? Love? Ego? Blood? At this moment he was prepared to lay his life for a kid, who had not even seen or known him, let alone remember that he was responsible for him.

Blood was indeed thicker than water. He thought about the thousands of parents who cried over their ward's dead bodies after wars. People who had lost their only hope of survival. Such people should have felt cremated alive.

He wondered about the thousands of people in poverty. He had not met many, but whatever little he saw of, made him ponder about the purpose of life. So what was life? Power? Struggle? Joy? Sex? Fame? Perhaps not. Life was more of a summation of small obscure good deeds that would bring smile to the ones devoid of it. What was he doing here? What was his purpose of arrival on earth? He did not belong here.

It seemed like a giant puzzle's last piece had found and put itself in place. He walked out. Silently. Far away from her. Far away from the baby.

Far away....in search of himself.

-------------------------------------------------She struggled to open her eyes. She had seen the baby just after it was born and then she passed out. She had no recollection of how long she was asleep. Must have been couple of hours. She was surprised to not find him. He was the most devoted husband any girl could have asked for and she was glad that he felt the same way about her. Reassuring herself that he must have been just near, she went near the baby.

The baby's feet were pink. She kissed its small toe. The baby twitched. But it did not cry. Maybe like some divine power, they seem to know and understand each other and so he chose to ignore making an issue out of her gentle kiss. She looked at his face. It had the same features of his dad although his ears were shaped out like her. He would grow out to be a wonderful young man.

Then she realized that he was not anywhere around. She left the baby sleep peacefully and walked with the little energy she could summon. She did not want to ask anyone about his whereabouts and panic them.She was a strong woman and she could handle grief. But after almost an hours search throughout the palatial residence, there was no sign of him. He seemed to be everywhere and yet he was nowhere.

What wrong had she done? Was she not a good wife? A good lover? A loyal partner? She had done everything to the best of her abilities. And yet she was rewarded THIS. What would her son think about her once he grows up? Wouldn't he loathe her? What would her subjects say? That the king relinquished his throne due to his bad wife? It was certainly not a name she was prepared to live with.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Just as it was about to drop from her cheeks down to the kid's face, she caught it with her hands. Perhaps, she still had a mission to live for in life.-------------------------------------------------

Years later, the king who deserted his wife, Siddhartha Gautama transformed into Lord Gautama Buddha.

She, Queen Yasodhara, turned into a nun years later and died 2 years before him.

But then, how many of us ever wondered or bothered about her?

I THE WRITER

by

Drained by vain hopes,Prisoners of our own dreams,Losing light, forgetting God,Rushing between cold stars.

Racing in a circle ofConcerns, worries, misgivings.Playing a game ofPretence, deception, hypocrisy.

Broken wings, shattered hopes.No more dreams, no more love.ÿCaptured by illusion, fainting in this Universe.Don't you see we are losing each other?

But we were blessed onceAnd we have loved then.Do you think we have a chance stillTo be more than just strangers again?

Lena Toporikova

THE TUNNEL

KNOWN AND UNKOWN

NO mORE DREAmS

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by Karthik Ramaswamy

Life can't ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer's lover until death - fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.

Everything he saw was a blur. It took a great effort for him to breathe, but breathe he did. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to act like he was dead, but couldn’t help it. Amazingly, he felt no pain. He didn’t feel anything at all. He could have thought he was dead, but his heart was still beating.

All of it happened so fast. Just minutes earlier, he was safe with his wife and children. He had had a tired day, and wanted to rest. His back had been aching with all the hard work he had been putting to feed his family. It was indeed a vicious cycle. But he knew he had no other way. He often felt jealous of those who lived in huge houses guarded by large gates. They got all the food they wanted, and most of them didn’t seem to work at all. He had seen many of them just lazing around the whole day, and yet could eat to their heart’s content. Life was unfair, he thought. Yet, it did seem to him that he had a greater sense of freedom than all those lazybones and scallywags.

Usually his wife accompanied him, but she was pregnant once more, and he couldn’t let her work risking her life. His children had wanted some chicken from the butler shop across the road, and being a loving father, he couldn’t just refuse. He always crossed the road carefully, especially since it was a highway. But from nowhere, a car had appeared and mowed him down, before he could realise what was happening.

He opened his eyes once more. He saw that people had gathered around him. But no one did any sort of effort to help him. They were conversing in a language he couldn’t comprehend completely, but he could understand some of it. He closed his eyes once more. He knew he would be dead soon.

An old lady approached the gathering of people standing in the middle of the road. She asked a young man, who was one among them, what had happened.“A car ran over a dog that was crossing the road.”“Oh dear! Someone please call the blue cross!” she cried. But it was already too late.

Every creator painfully experiences the chasm between his inner vision and its ultimate expression.

that we have much more to say than appears on the paper. - Isaac Bashevis Singer

I THE WRITER

where we would talk about other things like Metaphysics and Cosmology. Not much of an improvement there, I know, but I started loving these lectures with a passionate animosity. When you don’t have a choice in things that are out of your control, all you do is wait for a miracle. And that was what I was expecting. A miracle. A faint hope that my father would leave me alone and start talking about cinema and entertainment, just like other kids’ dads did. But I was wrong. I should have known better. That day never came.

If I had known at that time about the word “hedonist” I would have proclaimed myself to be one. But I was only 18 then. An overgrown kid with no interest in anything yet everything. I was just a normal, yet-another school going kid with a liking for other sane pleasures. I would sometimes run away from him on the pretext of studying. What I did to make myself occupied is nobody’s business.

Every weekend to me, would mean hellish counsel. Though I liked my father more than anything else in the entire cosmos, his otherwise insistence that I become his successor was something hard to endure. No sane being would speak about Prakriti and Brahmam first thing in the morning. But we did. His was at all times, a monologue. I always had an irresistible urge to ask him to talk about anything at all but would never do that. After all he was my sole relative. My mother had deserted us long back.

So, I pitied my dad who took philosophizing as a full time profession. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. What I had for him was a mÿlange of inexpressible feelings. I almost revered my father. Things would have been great if we were on speaking terms. Not philosophizing terms.

“The moment you start restraining your character to what you think you are, you start leading an illusory life. You fall into the trap of the conspirator, Maya or Illusion”, my father spoke the words again slowly, as if I were in a trance. The day’s question was “Is Life an illusion?” When I didn’t bother to answer the question, he started speaking, adjusting his half moon spectacles. I had to listen to many enlightening points that sadly didn’t have much of an effect on me. I sat there still, wondering why the balcony was always the meeting place. Perpetual stream of thoughts

about the new film that was to be aired the day after and thoughts on the Facebook Mobwars application

engulfed me. I was thinking how many people would join Mobwars under me when he said “I just happened to take a look at your Orkut profile.” His usual lopsided grin lingered.I was shocked at first but composed myself. Why would my father of all the persons on earth have an Orkut account? Words failed me and I didn’t volunteer any information. I kept staring at the bougainvillea that coveted my attention.

“You have an interesting “about-me” section. Care to explain why you think you are what you think you are?”“I never knew you were on Orkut. Why didn’t you tell me before? This is a surprise, dad” I fumbled with the limited words I had access to. Had I known that my father had an Orkut account, things would have been much simpler. I would never have craved a digital life. I at least wanted my virtual life to be fun!

“Never mind. Just tell me this. Your profile says you’re an atheist and a lot many things that I never knew you were. Can you please explain?”One thing I truly detested in my father was this. He never digressed from his topics nor allowed others to mince with words. This was going to be tough, that much was certain. “I came up with that after a self-introspection session” was all I could manage to say. I wanted to please him but didn’t know if I could.“Oh. And you found out the truth. Hmm. Tell me more. This is interesting.” He was clearly amused. His eyes were dancing. I wanted to run away to a place where there would be no language. Language had taken advantage of my sweetness and left me bereft of all happiness.“I have always been an atheist, dad. I don’t know how to explain things. You are a living example of God! Why would I believe a God that would not help me and guide me? You and you alone shall have the effect in me. I won’t trust this unknown entity called God. After all that has happened, how can I trust Him? If He were real, he wouldn’t have made us suffer.”What I didn’t expect at that instant was a sigh of pride in his voice that caused his usually cool temperament to falter.“You are wrong. The younger generation today has misconstrued the concept of God.” He stood up, his stance reminding me of a lion about to get rampant. That was the only time I ever saw him get agitated.“All the words I have uttered so far, have had no significance after all” He smiled sadly. I played with my fingers not wanting to face him. But I knew for sure that this god would understand me.

“The moment you start restraining your character to what you think you are, you start leading an illusory life”, my father went on, stopping at regular intervals to look at my not-so-eager-to-hear-philosophy-first-thing-in-the-morning face. He either smiled or simply nodded, in deference to my childlike actions. But he would go on, nevertheless, reiterating what he said. I hated all this, especially the way he would start everything again, from the start, if I hadn’t paid attention. He would bounce back like a ball, if I, his prospective student did nothing to acknowledge what he said. My father to me was my greatest ally and adversary. I actually envied his calm nature. The fact that I could never become he hurt me at times.From time to time, his lectures on religion and philosophy would bore me to death. He must have known my propensity to other issues in life. He accepted me the way I was. We had tea breaks in between

by

An aspiring writer, compulsive thinker, a bibliophile, a Social media enthusiast and a philosophy aficionado!

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The chasm is never completely bridged. We all have the conviction, perhaps illusory,

Designer at Heart, Soul, Brain, Eyes, Hands, infact my whole body!

A Social Media enthusiast and an Avid Blogger!

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Cheth | DESIGNER | http://chethstudios.blogspot.com

- Edna Ferber

on The highWay!!

mASTER Of THE GAmE

5

“The Queen on our side is the Guru or Mentor who helps you realize yourself and the one abetting Maya

Whoever told Chess was boring! I loved the personifications. How bad can that be?“I have a couple of doubts, dad. Like how can a Guru be the Queen? He/she is human after all. Aren’t

If at all everything is predetermined, who controls the game? If God were the controller, what’s His role here? ”“Hmm. As regards the first question, you need to understand that a role of a mentor/Guru is indispensable for a man to reach the Samadhi state. How can you call such a significant person that helps in your transformation as a mere human/pawn? Is he/she not above all? As I had told you before, you people are under the misconception that we don’t have the right to decide our lives. That, in my opinion is sheer nonsense. We don’t have control over the results. Read the Bhagavad Gita. I don’t have to tell you that God controls the game. He does so from a distance. He is out there, somewhere, following whatever steps we make, to have Maya or Illusion in control. But He doesn’t showcase his presence. It wouldn’t be fun if He were part of the game. Our side would always win and that would become monotonous. Consider the case in which He hides, watching it all with a smile on his face. He wants us all to lead an adventurous life. No, God isn’t controlling us totally. Ipso facto,

we are the players. It is we who decide about our fate, in either case!” He smiled and I was awestruck.“We have talked too much today. Think about what I have told you. We’ll talk about this later.”“But dad, I want to talk about everything now. Please. Not next week.” I stammered and he smiled mysteriously.“Dad, we shall consider this as a tea break. Please” My heart palpitated.His ear-ear grin made me gain hope. “And what is the next session about? Personification of coins in a carrom board perhaps?”We laughed.

dark eyes “I tell you again, never ever restrain yourself to what you think you are. This entire life is for you to find out who you are. It’s easy to get influenced by books and the media and proclaim yourself as what is being shoved into your heads. Life is like a game of chess. You and I can’t

potential, yes, that we can destroy our adversary, the opposite King. But we choose not to do it. The King here is Maya which we force ourselves to believe, is the ultimate truth. But just think it over. The fact that the pawns exist is not an illusion. But at times, its very potential is decided by others’ play that it seems like an illusion. So, we, humans, are illusory real entities. The life we lead is an illusion and yet is real. The pawn will be defeated any time by the allies of the adversary. It’s in our hands to stick to our side of the board and not becoming a scapegoat to the adversary’s plots.”“Who’s the King on our side?” I was intrigued. I liked this theory very much and wanted to know more.

This was also the first time I loved interacting with my father.This made my father grin. “You are beginning to understand. Now, what do you think it is?”I scratched my chin. I almost jumped when I said “Truth or Knowledge”

“Enlightenment, Sidharth. You call it Samadhi in theoretical terms” He went on but the lines of perplexity on my face triggered him. “Samadhi is a divine state where the Jeevathma(Soul) mingles with the Paramathma(God).” He smiled again, looking proud when I nodded vigorously. “Or in scientific terms we call it the merging of biomagnetic force with the universal magnetic force.”I was amazed. How did my father know this much? I despised myself for having not listened to his enlightening words before.“Fabulous! Who are the queens and other dignitaries?”

“Ha ha! You are getting carried away. This is not a bed time story. But you have insisted and I might as well bore you. But I am only going to tell you who the Queens are. You come up with the rest.” He smiled crookedly, expecting me to join him. When he saw that I was not in the least interested in jokes at that instant, he furrowed his brows and started speaking as if he were giving an impromptu speech.

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“That’s okay. It’s the age. You are not to blame.” He continued, appraising me with his penetrating

or Illusion is Prakriti, the Black Queen, the one who creates Maya.”

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