8 O' Clock

Housman wrote most of his poems almost a century ago. He was a late booming scholar and a poet. Even publisher didn’t publish his poems early in his career. In his own expense he wrote and published some good poems. He became renowned poet after few years. Just like his popularity, it took me years to convine myself that his poem ‘8 O’ Clock’ was worth a mention. It is not an average poem as it may look at first.   

I read this poem first in one of the English class in RR college in Nepal. It took me few years to like it. Only a thirsty man knows the value of water. I had to experience the time to finally understand it. Experience offers a total difference, give rise to absolute wisdom to human beings. Experience changes a carpenter to Christ, a prodigal prince to Buddha, a lazy wife-abused guy to Socrates and an average Joe to ‘Sidhhartha’. And verily, all these experiences are measured in real time. Real time in the sense that: there is no before and after, past or future. The understanding of truth cannot be derived from imagination and its by products, it is the absolute study of reality. Anything created by mind is suspicious and its not absolute real.

Time is a very tricky subject and everything in this world is governed by time. Out of this world, of fantasy or spirituality, of dreams, of heaven, of God… whatever people may call, they want to describe their imagination/conviction/belief/aspiration/salvation as ‘beyond time and space’. I have tried to grasp that concept for a decade now, and yet, I have no good reason to believe such thing. I can’t simply comprehend it. People using phrases such as ‘beyond time and space’ are either stupid or fraud or phony like Indian guru who uses terms like ‘Nirbikalpa Samadhi’ or ‘mindless mind’ or ‘seventh sense’.

Without time, and without its concepts, nothing exists. Time is ultimate reality. Time is unstoppable and inevitable. ‘Before’ and ‘after’ are insignificant worlds when used with ‘time’. A bird know when its morning, a poet writes when birds start chirping, a lover knows the value of a pitch dark night, a poor soul knows when to cry for God. Only essential truth about time is: time means different things to different people and everything except time itself, give  significance to time, counts the clock, and stories it with magnificence and glory.

A man strapped and noosed, standing on the platform, welcomes a morning, hears the bird chirps listens to the bell ring in the clock tower by the church, and curse his luck, wished he was not born, perhaps makes his last stand with God, because it is not the same morning for him as for the many wandering in the market that day. One, Two, Three… Tick… Tick… Tick…he counts. For him, every second tightens the rope around his neck; every tick… tick …counts his last breath. It is 8 O’ Clock, his execution hour. Clock struck 8 O’ Clock. It is inevitable. It is the destiny.

Have we not noticed that when we are waiting for someone, a minute seems like a century? In pain and agony, second seems like an era? Just in contrast, if we have pleasure we don’t notice decades go by whistling. It is our experience that defines time, not the other way around. However, it seems to us that sometimes time comes unexpected, it strikes bell prematurely. But if we are ripe enough, we can pluck the fruit of sweetness of time and enjoy the bliss. Then ‘8 0’ Clock’ would means a completely different. Acceptance of destiny makes us ripe and wise and healthy and it negates all possible adversities of the coming days.

September 11, 2012

US, Home and Sabari

When I was kid, we had a chapter in our course book 'Ghar Chhodne Raat'. The little guy is leaving home for school or something to a different city. He is trying to sleep but he can't. Then the monologue begins. He talks and argues with himself.  That is having butterfly in the stomach, uneasy experience of anxiety and restless syndromes. During my final days in Nepal, all family members became sad and I became sad. Is it not strange that in our culture we cry when people leave home to go somewhere either for school or in marriage or just for visiting. I had never left home. I did my schooling and attended college from home. I had never been out and I hated going to relatives to spend the holidays. Women were not even allowed in airport to say Good bye on my departure day because they would make a dramatic crying scene. Even men cry when they say good bye. 'Good bye'ing is sad and melancholic. Leaving home is too.

Asian culture is very distinct in people loving their homes, relatives, even animals too deeply sometime. I remember of my room and my bed, of my old book shelf and outdated books therein. I miss it. My room was also a sitting room. Guest would come  and see all the medals hanging on the wall and ask my parents 'hey is your babu in Army?" What good those medals do when in need? Poverty is the biggest disease of all. That is my sermon, I declare. The smell of poverty is horrible. In fact, our culture is strange. We like to portray ourselves as poor, sorry people. We save money, and live a life of insufficiency. We buy land and houses but we eat and dress poor. And we quote Devkota " Garib bhanchhau tara sukhako ma jhai dhani...". In contrary, happiness is very essential for a good life.

To Devkota and all his quoters , I tell you my sermon: poverty and happiness does not blend that well, I assure you. Living with 'sukha' in poverty is not  easy but not impossible either. I was grown up in the old school philosophy  of saving for children and calling yourself poor which would be continued through generations. That is probably why I can survive in extremity with their ideology deep somewhere in my subconscious, rather than I live by my own philosophy. I live in bed bug infected cheap apartment,  still sleep on the floor, I drive 88 Buick Century and I don't have  excessive clothes although I can afford most of all the decent  luxury there is. My upbringing has made me flexible and grateful. For people in Nepal, they probably picture me living in 100th suite of then' world trade center.

I have a different home. It feels like home here now. My heart is here not because of the luxury but because of homely circumstances of ease, to enjoy freedom from commune burdens, freedom to express myself, to overcome new challenges, to run away from terrorist and gangsters in Nepal. It has a profound meaning to say that I am going home. I don't really know of I am leaving home or going home. And the night before the leaving, I ask myself, self-evaluate my decisions, look back at hard days and say- 'well, that was not so bad'. Surely God help those who help themselves. At least there are no more surprises in my GOD's department. But I will have many surprises when I go back. Needless to say, many are waiting not for me but for gifts of  I-macs , IPhones, cameras which I do not own myself. There will be people who will make commenting on my "fatness" and receding hair, often asking if I have a foreign wife yet? Why I didn't bring my white wife with me', It is really funny. Perhaps not because when I came I was probably the first one to leave home for US in that town and now each family in the neighborhood has at least a son in US, UK, Australia and Europe. I am not so fond of neighbors who intrude my privacy and nosy friends who want to know how much I make, over there. I really miss my grandmother who teaches me indifference. She is old, and tired and only her wish is to die peacefully. But even she, once in a while wants to see me married with a white girl. She is lovely, like a newborn, truly innocent.

I think of a woman who used to come to our home, almost every day. They call her 'Sabari' after Ramayan. Sabari was an uneducated, low-caste women who tasted the fruit before she feed to Lord Ram, a symbol for love and devotion. All the lower caste people were not allowed and my family did not even let them touch our house but because of her devotion and spirituality, I guess she was  authorized and could come up to our 'Baranda'. I could not possibly invite her inside or even touch her. A poor soul... I loved her and had pity on her. She was poor. We gave her food and money sometime. She would come and ask for me, and ask how I am doing. I believe her humility, love, devotion and caring was not just from her conscious self itself but perhaps from the abject poverty and rejection she was living in. Although I felt worse that I could not go against the prevailing rule, culture and system of the society to hug and invite her inside, I prayed that this stupid, arrogance, superiority of one men over another, class and caste system, poverty, and shame and of guilt of being born in low caste should disappear from the face of the world. I prayed every day that although I had no say, no power, no authority to enforce or even speak against such sins of human, sooner or later, time will change everything and all injustice and stupidity as such will go away from my home and country. I feel sad. There is poverty and there are blind beliefs, superstitions, dark heritages, funny rituals and brainwashed people. When mixed together, it makes a worst of poison to destroy humanity. I hope Sabari is still alive and visits our home often.

Home! I am coming.

America's Summary to Grandma

Apart from this annoying Paralympics, Obama's 'HOPE' oratory and stupid Harry's Lag Vegas trip, few things are going exciting in my world now. I have hope of myself and I am going home. It has  been a good run. It gave me good fight and I survived. USA gave me psychological, cultural, religious, philosophical struggles of life. One thing I can confirm to those in Nepal and all other third world countries: there are no 'MONEY GROWING TREES"  in USA, no not one, not at all. It is very depressing country. It has lost its color and it is like women in nice bikini;. just showy, of promises of opportunities, blings, lights, very surface coated, mediocre; inside there is nothing exciting. It is home of depression, crime and broken hopes. My grandma will ask me to summarize US and of my 7-8 years of stay.

Here it goes Granny:

Culture is awkward. People like Bush became President for 8 years. The highest of stupid and incapable fool. Black people think white men owe them something so they dress typical, speak their own Ebonics or something, like to stay on food stamps and other assistance forever and ever and now and then, rob convenience store and kill a Nepali guy working in there. White guys think they are really superior, God's chosen race and although in books blacks are freed, in whites people heart Black are still stupid niggers, who are fools, no good monkeys, just fit to be lynched once in a while.

Now in few years, white people will be wiped out because of their birth rate and Indian people will cover this land. Not the fake Indians, the real mustachioed Indians from Hindustan. They are everywhere. Was it Asoka who went to Nepal and said," There are more temples in Nepal than houses and more Gods than people"? I have a new statement "In US, there are more Indians than whites, and  they reproduce like rabbits and there will be better mustaches than America's idol Wild Bill."

Talking about tradition and history. Nepalese like to be proud be the nation of Mt Everest, Prithivi Narayan who united the nation, Gautam, the Buddha who taught about peace, and of Gurkhas who showed world about their courage and bravery. Americans have no good history. Yet they are one proud country. A country ruled by slave owner, who wanted freedom from British and colonies, yet want to keep some 'niggas' in the house. They killed fierce kind of Indians and brought funny ones. They idolize, not just  idolize, they worship people like Wild Bill and Jesse James, Wyatt Brother. They preserve their statues, and grave and like temple and churches announce that it is their heritage which should be turned into tourist sites like OK CORAL. And they have, trust me. To clarify grandma, the people I mentioned were ugly cowboys who raped, murdered, stole horses, robbed banks,  and later became town sheriff or marshal etc.

Education: system is good. But except few smart people up there somewhere, they are dumb as donkeys. That's why Indians are running America's IT and Chinese are making their robots, all Philippines are Nursing the country, and Jews owns all of America. Students will grow old and die but their student loans will never be paid. Peoples' average education is high school diploma.

Health Care: You get sick one time, the cost afterwards will give a heart attack. All the wealth in you and your relatives can't even pay a quarter of that bill. It is ridiculous. It is just pathetically sorry.

Religion and Churches: As expected, it has not been the house of God, it is house of all the perverts, extremists, fundamentalists, brainwashed, rapers'. White churches rape and sodomize kids. Black churches rape and sodomize neighbor's wife. Usually the pastor, leader, headman are the ones doing it. They sometimes can marry 20 and keep them as wife sisters. They smile fake and when you question them, their humility goes astray. Yet they go to all the nations to convert. Converting comes with sodomizing and raping the foreigners. How wonderful?

Security, Police : Many of them still think they are decendents of Wild Bill. Place for racism to act. White cops will beat the life out of black if opportunity prevails. Crime is everywhere. There are overcrowded prisons. And you know what the prisoners have something called 'Conjugal Visit' which I will not explain to you because of shame. Sometimes, I see at my works some girls are so desperate to offer themselves as conjugal mate, they look on internet to see the prison criminal database. That brings me to SEX and culture.

Sex and Culture: Sex is easy like buying candy at store. No sexual morality at all. If they want it, they will have it, in whichever way they like. People get pregnant at 10. Country is full of insets, sexual perversion. There are more sexual perverts and child molesters than anywhere in the world. Marriage for them is like a doll play. They marry when they like and they divorce when they like. 80% who marry divorce and 85% of them who remarry get divorce again. The step sons and step daughters sometimes do not know how many steps their parents are into by now. They even have something called "sex industry", I don't want to explain that to you.

I have more topics to go on but I don't want to sound like the jackal of  'jackal and grape story.' The most interesting and amusing thing in midst of all this, contrary to what you would think, America still attracts me. It offers something that no one anywhere offers. That's the secret. It offers freedom and hope which are like, I said earlier Women's bikini, and a curtain of uncertainty, suspense, a holy secret but when it opens there is not much to be grin about.   

  

A Poem Worth Remembering

Early years in USA, I used to write too many emails to cousins, friends and families. Soon sentences got shorter, family and relatives got bitter because they thought I was giving them some attitude.

But my amusement days were gone; things lost the natural factors of surprise and enthusiasm. Today I had a major wrap up cleaning ceremony through my old stuffs. While cleaning up, I saw few emails and letters that I wrote to one of my cousin....Excerpts goes like this:

A bottle of Pepsi cost $1.5 here, people say ‘hi’, ‘hello’, and ‘thank you’ without reasons, and they call hand holding 'gay'....

It was June 2005, Waverly, Iowa. It was after rain and I was outside the dorm watching birds and squirrel settle back afterwards, in their homes. I had left home few weeks back too, trying to settle in US. It was a new beginning. To philosophize, I would say, every second is a beginning of a new thing. Everything, old or new is a beginning of some kind. Present is past's future. That summarizes everything. Everything is afresh. Everything is new and energy. We get lost in the sense of time. Our senses play tricks. These tricks are pretty powerful and almost impossible to be conscious about at most times.

May 2005, my cousin Sudarsan Dai and I were sitting by the balcony and enjoying our super.

"Now you really won't be here at the end of this summer huh?' he said.

"It looks like it" I said. 

He was partly happy, partly disappointed. He was worried about his 2nd and 3rd year, English and Nepali Paper. 

'I wish you well, success and good health and write to me, write like we talk every day here and every night. Keep writing. Keep reading. And send me when you write something, we will publish your books" he said.

I was scared, nervous and extremely excited to have finally got my Visa after the Embassy people gave me hard time. I can still feel the heartbeat of those days. A sense of begging, and of struggle and of dreams. I remember the day that I walk from the Embassy to my home, barefoot, mid-summer; there was traffic strike that day. We walked and talked until home. We were tired and pitied our cursed destiny to be born in a poor country which ran by the grace of Americans and Indians. When home, I remember the high pitch yelling of two little neighbor kids, a brother and a sister. The brother was little but mischievous, and the sister would beat him to weeping. And their mother would scold them both. But when those kids saw us in our balcony, from their balcony, they would be embarrassed and hide quickly. 

Our tenant Pradip and Shambu, both from Chaudhari caste, would be intimidated when we call them fisherman or jackal killer or Chaudhari's sons. It was just stereotypical jokes we made for fun, nothing racial. My cousin always told Shambu that one day, when he becomes the prime minister, he would appoint Shambhu his driver, a high paid one. And Shambhu mostly shrugged off but he could not totally negate the possibility of Sudarshan dai being Prime Minister one day, so Shambhu would be careful talking to him. 

Shambhu and Padip, I heard are in Arab somewhere. I do not know how those quarreling kids grew up, probably in college, still fighting. Same night, my cousin and I were talking at night, listening to some FM. Some literature program...

Natikaji had died same day. The DJ of the FM said “I tried to contact Fatteman to comment on Natikaji's death but he already slept." In Nepali his exact words were ‘Natikajiko barema sodhna maile Fatteman lai phone gareko thiye, uha sutisaknu bhayechha...” The DJ had bad presentation style and choice of words... amateur, unprofessional, kind of funny.

My Cousin said- 'Oh Pity! Fatteman thought his best friend died so he drank some wine and slept in melancholy.' 

I kept laughing for a while. I remember the exact words although we were almost asleep ourselves. Many years have passed but the memory is fresh. The summer memory in Nepal... I have lost significant years, but I am new and fresh and something inside me has never become old, never got tired, and never became sad. Yeah 7-8 years is a long time, I reckon. I missed a lot of things; lost time, lost appetite to be righteous, and no surprise-- lost hair growing interest, thanks to balding head. I quit some dreams, I made some unnecessary friends and I broke relationship with some best of friends. I have lost most of my identity but my essence is same, fresh, anew, innocent, eager, awaiting, moving, accepting, flowing in the time's direction, yet just living in the present worldly, mostly depressingly, in unnecessary struggles, unfavorable and unpleasant exchanges, in deep contradiction to my own beliefs and against my own soul’s true voice, in silence, and sometimes in indifference towards the ‘Dream Prospects’ I had of USA and of my life itself. 

A poem I send him in 2005, when UNICODE didn’t exist and I had to type it all English font. I could not publish a book but heard from same cousin today that my father got his book publish and released. Well, I think he got motivation from me, though he will probably deny it. He used to ready my diaries poems and stories, that I mostly hide under my bed at home and he enjoyed it. I was shy.

An old poem here now in fresh reckoning…. I wrote it, my cousin printed his email and translated in Nepali. I saw it today and thought- Oh okay, I knew that feeling. It will always be the same. I will never forget.

http://www.facebook.com/notes/bharat-mani/a-poem-worth-remembering/10151397863278782

8/25/2012

Irving Texas

Sleeplessness, Movies and Stories

I am sleepless that is why I am writing. I enjoy it. As simple as that. No grand design, no dreams, no agenda. This is what I do, and I do when I like. It is addictive. It is not serious for now but in future, may be when I really want, and when it really matters and has value, I have plenty of manuscripts. Novels, stories, poems, essays… When something will be written, it will be serious, it will be the day. For now, it is just ‘works in progress. It is my own writing’s self-potency check, just an unprofessional one. It is like English 101 scratch, something different that it has is- its rough like a never ploughed land, no editions, no readers, no propagandas, no peer reviews, no paraphrasings, no stupid rules, no political correctness, no fear of priests, no obligation to fulfill parent’s dreams, no intention to hurt fundamentalists, no hidden ambitions. It is just me. I am it. I am writing myself.

The Olympic is over. I don’t care for it anyway. There are some funny games. Few games are ridiculous. And believe it or not, in years to come, we will find out that most of the athlete there were involved were on steroid, or got some hip injection or some other drugs. Nevertheless Olympics is a sporting event alright. Greek can have some odd sense in having fun sometime but they became the foremost scientist to create such an entertaining event. They did this to please their God Zeus. Later many countries joined and now it is an international event. Peoples’ emotion run high. And America is now proud that it stands on top of the medal table, also winning women gold in soccer. Only for national pride and medal tally, but not anything else would be Americans that interested in soccer otherwise.

The hailstorm ruined my Sunday soccer fun. Watched a lot of movies this weekend although I was busy reading some stuff. I have loved some of the movies and sometime even a movie can influence person’s life. Not that it has done mine, but I enjoyed watching movies. In 90s I watched each and every Hindi movie that was made. Soon I started getting annoyed. Those days are gone, and I don’t have that much patience and time anymore. English movies are usually short and to the point. It is direct. Back in 90s I remember Hindi movies were very cautious in showing skin, or kisses on screen. People would burn the cinema hall if they see any ‘heroine’ lip-locking any ‘hero’. It was a big deal. People idolize these idiots inasmuch as that they would copy their hairstyle, clothes, speeches etc. They even made statue, they worship the celebrities. General public touch their dirty feet, still now.

Sex was taboo in movies. If they had to show two lovers kiss, they would come close and some sunflower would appear in front of the camera and cover the kissing couple up. Film director could not show skin or sex or anything for that matter. In each and every movie, there would be a ‘RAPE SCENE’ where a villain would rape a protagonist’s beloved sister. The audience would get glimpse of some chest, thighs, and funny screams of the actresses. People enjoyed and craved for it. For many Indian public, Mithun was the best actor ever. Mostly Indian but sometimes a Madhesi Nepali would rent some old time Mithun movies and feels content, when in the movie; he takes revenge of his sister’s rape and kills all the antagonists. Indian court never gave justices in these movies. This was story in each and every movies made at that time, believe it or not. Slight changes but those were the themes. But now Indian cinemas have changed. They show everything; sometime they are worse than Hollywood movies. I bet many Nepalese have seen the poster of ‘Raat ki Rani’, ‘Pyasi Jawani’ in some dark street, ‘bad hoods’ and some open cities in Bhaktapur and Kathmandu. I really wondered what they were.  It was probably the most skin showing movies of that time, I am not sure. It definitely looked tempting and curious for teen agers and old perverts who would pay lots of money to watch someone get raped in a movie. It was underground business as far as I remember.

With the emergence of disco restaurants, cabin bars etc. sex came out of its taboo status. I have no idea how Nepalese film are nowadays. They had terrible actors, bad acting, worse directors, child raping producers, and no good stories. I have no idea as I have stopped seeing any Nepalese and Indian movies at all. Sometimes one or two movies were made that made some impression on me. Sometime a novel is converted to a movie by a literature loving guy. I watch it. I want to see those movies more often. My reading is often eased by the movies, from visual and audial displays on screen. On the other hand, the imagination when reading a book is so addictive and ecstatic that sometime a movie based on a novel can completely destroy it. I have become lazy and sometime I listen to audio books so that I don’t have to read, mostly when I am tired. Although I appreciate the technology and efficiency, listening audio book is not as amazing intelligently experience-wise. Reading, revising, stopping, and reading again the lines and paragraphs of the books, the actual prints where you turn over the page and remember of another character in another book is not as smooth in audio books. Again audio book readers don’t read as fast in places as I read and don’t skip anything as I do if I am scanning. I do not much enjoy the audio books. I like movies sometime based on novel but then again all movies based on novel are not that good. Just for the sake of it, I watched ‘Old Man and The Sea’ and ‘Animal Farm’ recently to freshen up memories. They are not as good when you read and develop a connection. I am more a reader than a listener of a reader.

Sudarshan dai was a good listener. I often read, explained, and criticized many of my course book stories and poems, and his and sometime an odd, difficult book like ‘Thus Spake Zarathrusta’. My friend Nirmal was a good listener but he could think about stories differently too. I told him about many stories I read. Well, not everyone is Aesop but I loved the old school course book where we studied about Aesop’s fables and thought myself of being one day. The intelligence and mediocre stories, yet very popular and daily moral stories of ‘Thousand and One Nights’ or ‘Arabian Nights’ are still fresh in my mind. My favorite was ‘Fox and The Sour Grape’. Who does not know the story? Human psychology is just fox-like.

Irving Texas

8/12/2012  

Swinging With Krishna's Jhula

Been busy lately. Much on list... Few days ago wanted to write about ‘songs of songs’ but then Krishnaastami followed. Krishna has left in all Indian subcontinents in awe. He is often compared with Christ and other. A true statement rather would be all other saints, greats, gods, prophets and gurus are compared with him. He is a criterion himself.  I think the existence of such superhuman is almost impossible and it seems to me it is more a myth and story than history like everything else. Krishna, often called Lord Krishna is  a poet, warrior, king, prophet, incarnation of God, chariot driver, cowboy, lover, a ‘big brother’, husband of 1600 wives, a Yadav, big politician, diplomat, musician, tactician, evil slayer,…. And many more…you name it, he has got it.

How likely is it possible to have a man like that? He is everywhere and anywhere. He has done everything possible. He is the greatest all-rounder man has ever read about. Although he was a cow-herder 500 years ago in Brindaba, he was the knower of all truths, he declared Bhagwat Gita to human kind. Reading Gita unprejudcily makes one really wonder about truths of life. Comparatively, it is like reading thousands of ‘Sermon on the mount.’ He has the juice of everything; it is like drinking cocktail of all the sweet nectars of the world. Mostly people look into messenger than message …that what happened slowly with Krishna and such. His messages have not been followed, it is hard to follow, but it contains the deep truth our heart knows. We all know the message but he delivers, rather manifest in Gita so beautifully. I believe when, where and how the sermon was delivered is important.

People are much attracted by miracle and such. Sometime, even a craziest of Hindu does not know much about Krishna. All they know is he was a miracle performing, ‘Radha lover’ who also killed an evil guy named Kansa. All they know is he is considered one of the incarnations and he delivered Gita in the battlefield. My childhood days, I spent reading Gita and Mahabharata numerous numbers of times. My first reading is always light, actually scan. My second and third reading is usually, heavy, critical, comparative, and error searching. If more than that I read, I am immensely impressed. This books is one of my favorites. I loved this guy too. He was the best debater, anchor, diplomat, a mentor and healer. I felt ecstasy of being in Brindaban or Gokul with him and how sweet is it to swing in his memory like every Jhula Utsav my mother took me to, I enjoyed watching people swinging cradle. ‘Bhakti’ is what they call it. My mother took me few times to Ghattekula and Battisputali, where they would have just swung a baby Krishna cradle. Baby Krishna was/is probably the most loved baby in India, and his mischievous, troublesome childhood is also even praised as the greatest inspiration and moments.

I always wished I was lucky as Arjuna who heard him speak the greatest sermon of all, in middle of battlefield. I wish there was someone in such great internal struggles, where God would himself say- DO THIS and DON’T DO THIS. A friend who acts like a servant, who drives your chariot and gives the meaning to life, a friend who indeed in a friend in need, a well-wisher who not only wishes but does action, who does not only bash his sermon on the mouth but performs his duty, who is there in talk and in walk, a prophet who knows past, present and future, a miracle performer who asks to perform duty till death in favor of Dharma and not wait for reward, even of heaven, who teaches Karma for Dharma, who not only yell a line or two from Bible or Koran but actually shows it, who “becomes” it, a student who has studied about God and spirituality and not only claims he is saved because he is saved in a strange manner, either by confessing that he loved his neighbor’s wife or by proclaiming someone to be God, or by having multiple wives, a helper who would help when you are down and shows the real meaning of heaven. Really I am very wishful that someone like that existed in real life not in Brindaban or Galilee or Gokul, or in Mathura, or in Arunachal but in real. One can read Gita zillions of times still forgets the main theme of it. I would love to lead a life where there was a mentor, an advisor and not a scripture paraphrasing, hymn roting, self-proclaimed priests and religious people. I despise them heartily.

08-12-2012

Irving, Texas

Miss World, Stupidity And The Camel Toes

The growing Facebook post and request to vote and like this Nepali contestant for Miss World is annoying me for a week or so now. I keep deleting the posts, requests, and sometimes even friends that I barely know or post stuff like this. They keep adding me and sending me these requests. I had just stopped getting Farmville requests to become farmer. God! Help! I sometimes simply don’t want to hurt people’s feeling by deleting them as friends, because tech savvy world is our days of Facebook, Skype, and many other social networking sites and what not, it can be, sometime, only way to keep in touch. I keep them low, they keep growing. I keep sorting them and deleting the unknown, sneaky friends but they keep growing. Sometimes I don’t even see some decent, important and serious posts or update of some real friends because they are so many and Facebook shows so much nowadays, but again I have to pull my hair out when I see same repetitive “Let’s Make this Girl Miss Nepal” page. Full of it.

I hate ignorance and I am allergic to stupidity. This whole business of Miss World, Miss Universe, Miss teen, Miss Mom, and Miss Teen USA is very degrading and oppressive toward women. To approve, to look forward to, to organize, to watch, is stupidity, non-sense and demeaning. It is the greatest sin against women that men have ever done. Walk on stage semi naked girls, night gowns, in bras and panties, to enjoy them showing their cleavage and video graphing the ‘camel toes’ is outright, offensive perversion of men. It is evil, sinister, foolish, wicked, and immoral and it is disturbing notion to feed to our human decency. To select a handful of stupid, skinny, immature, unread and inexperienced fools from all over the world, out of 6 billion population and making them walk in a horrible way, talking about their size of breast and buttocks, asking ready-made questions and cheering up and crowning (as if they were queens of fifteenth century) them Miss world is beyond the realm of any ridiculous satire to our intelligence.

In most animals and primates, male are the ones that perform the wooing activity, they have to impress the female for courtship, friendship, partnership and authority over female. Human is perhaps a rare animal in which female is subject to make a male happy, woo and amuse him, dance for him, be naked and sing for him. This didn’t happen just like that. If we surrender our reasons to major religious books like Bible, Gita, and Koran, we can find how God’s plan has been rectified, amended and grooved and has been just a shadow into our conscious self and we have been programmed to think, just like these Facebook Miss Nepal supporters. Even women have accepted their position. Mind you here, all the religious books, all the philosophical position were taken and commanded by men. Yes, Men alone. Nowhere were women involved except to please sexually, or to reproduce or to cook or to take care of man. This is what I call century’s long, brainwashed, biased understanding and programming of men and women. This is immoral and stupid. This is demeaning and should be given equal condemnation as slavery, child marriage, perversion, racial segregation and so on. We should abolish this miss world, miss universe organization just like slavery, child marriage or polygamy to make a better, more decent and perversion free society.

I was always against these shows. When my fellow classmates enjoyed the cleavage and camel toes, I wrote letter to Khagendra Saugraula to support his decision to demonstrate against such beauty pageant outside the Birendra Convention center. Khagendra Saugraula was my hero at that time because he hated those shows too. Many things I didn’t agree. He was a pro Maoist. I have met him personally. Once he came to our school in a literature meeting. I had read his books before. I had particularly read and was impressed by his memory about his childhood teacher which was published in ‘Madhupark’, I don’t remember when perhaps around 1997? He was a chain smoker; he used to be a pro-Maoist, a sympathizer of poor and had hate for rich aristocrat people. I don’t know if he has changed his position after Maoist turned from a good start with public support and sympathy to disastrous, political, bribery full administration and filthy moral possessing, deadly gang owning, teacher and professor killing, women hurting terroristic finish. Nonetheless, the point here is I had a chance to talk with him when he came to our school Baranda to smoke and encouraged me about my skills in poem writing. About three hours or so, he talked about socialism, monarchy, Miss Nepal and such peasants but forgot to talk about literature. Also we had to go warm up his tea couple of times. He was so passionate vibrant, clear, loud, and authoritative, full of energy for an old skinny man that he was. He was writing against Monarch when he could have been arrested and prosecuted. Perhaps he was arrested, I can’t remember now. I admired him for his courage and bravery to stand in front of the hostile crowd, where they would organize such reagents and demonstrate, give speeches. The entire stupid crowd took him for granted. They called him ‘old fool, whose sexual energy has died’… ‘He can’t respect beauty, what kind of poet is he?…and other such idiotic statements. He did it for many years, every year. But the evil is so growing, nowadays these people organizes such pageants underground without any advertisement and public knowledge. That’s the irony.

Dr. DP Bhandari was a columnist in Kantipur- Saptahik that was published every Friday. He sounded like a real pervert. But, he was a real talent in using his multi-language vocabulary. He started writing in his old age, so I could see he had lot to say about youth, sexuality and women. Although his writing was a monotonous and indirect brag about his sexual encounters with women, in person he was humble and shy. I used to go listen to his lecture, and student would want him to say something pervert, indicate something about sex or provoke him in the class, all the time. He was an alright writer, that I have to say but I hated him for his perversion, and his support for such pageants. At one point he bashed Khagendra calling him a ‘nagging old man, who knows nothing about sexuality’ while Khagendra replied back in his weekly column referring to him as ‘an old, prevent, and jail deserving pedophile’.  Their battle continued for months and months through different columns and letters to newspaper and I enjoyed both sides of the debate. 

When influential people like those, take a position, it is effective to move a mass. For right reason or wrong, Girija was able to control crowd with his controversial statements. He abolished the Monarchy by betrayal though but moved the mass with his classic ‘Grand Design’ speeches. But shame to those idiots who take a position, just because it is bandwagon, wanted by the crowd, and fulfill their sexually perverted fantasies by shaking of nipples and of transparent camel toes of these so called beauties. Hail to those who stand against such notion, in good conscience, to oppose the oppression on women, for them awaits a reward of human decency. I offer crown of stupidity, and medal of mediocre idiocy to those who post and ask me to like or vote some bitches in Facebook.  They do NOT, never ever, not in thousand lives, in any ways represent Nepal or any other country. They are not any ambassador of peace nor they advocate any particular culture, nor represent any beautifulness of Nepal. They have become just a showpiece of market. I assert his position: they are no one, they are just high profile prostitute whom world knows, who show their body, even the most private one to gain some fake crown and stupid titles and sell their dignity to some rich men’s perversion and idiotic poor men’s fantasies and perhaps to my brainwashed Nepalese Facebook friends who have now determined to vote their asses off to make this British born Nepalese girl their representation. Shame to those who post airbrushed, photoshoped pictures of their buttocks, oiled body, and operated lips; they know not what they do. Be aware, have some human decency. Women beauty, sexuality, glamour, freedom, expression, talent, determination, life’s goal or other things which they claim to promote in this representation in not attained by flashing camel toes.

Irving

7/22/2012  

Styles, Habits of Navokov and Hemingway

Earnest Hemingway had a house in Florida. In his fishing trips he wrote many stories. Hi picture of a boxing bearded man with safari shirts and iconic beard makes me imagine his' Old Man'. Many famous writers had odd habits when writing. Capote always wrote in supine position with pencil in one and wine in other hand. Hemingway wrote in morning about 500 words each day, according to himself, he used to get 1 page of masterpiece in 99 pages of shit. Some writers wrote naked, some wrote immediately after waking up from dreams.

V. Nabokov used 3*5 index cards. 'Lolita' was such a controversial novel and I read a Nepali  translation of it in teenage. First I thought it was ridiculously imaginative, profane, evil and cheap like those cheap erotica novels sold on Bagbazar Street openly. I soon changed my position after reading the English version. I saw the prose style, melancholic, artful presentation, and very sympathy demanding Humbert. I thought the inclusion of such a incest story, profanity and trying to  make it appear to be artful literature is simply pathetic and demeaning. But I didn't for once realize the writer was not Humbert himself. He was not endorsing any position and he was not an addict. He focused more on details and style rather than plot development or the content itself. One of the reasons why Lolita's narration looked like clattering tools of unrhymed poem verses was the fact that he wrote numerous notes, plots, dialogues, details of characters in index cards and he used them wherever he wanted. Not very organized for my liking but, nonetheless, excellent. A great point of view again do describe a sincere but sexually addicted, incesting stepfather who was obsessed with a twelve year old Haze, who he nicknamed Lolita for her nymphomaniac nature.

Hemingway liked drinking but he said he never wrote while drunk. Navakov would be catching butterflies while writing. He wrote Lolita when he was in a Entomology trip in west US. He never typed, or even edited. All his edition, translation, writings, driving was done by his wife and his son. He was, in the beginning, very reluctant to publish Lolita. He once tried to burn all the manuscript, but Vera, his wife/ex-wife, saved it. He was also famous for plotting himself in the story but not as a major character who influence the story much just like he appears in Lolita out of nowhere, but may be that is a slight guilt, a hideous attempt to cover that he was not the Humbert himself who was sick in mind. I am not sure. He disliked Freud's psychoanalysis. He didn't believe in such things. His love and translation of Russian and English literature from and to one another is another remarkable talent of his.

In Hemingway's writings, I always found a dark, melancholic, depressive tone. Even before I knew about his personal life, I guessed that he had been a suicide planner all his life. I hate depression and I hate suicide planners. I am a Tagore admirer. I do not want dark, cold, lonely, fearful nights. I like to have Tagore's world.

'Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high 
Where knowledge is free...

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way 
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee 
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom...

Now coming back to Hemingway, as people are celebrating his birthday, I am  always amazed by wonderful expression of sadness in his stories and his connection to suicides. I remember one such story. I can't remember the title ...could be Old Man or Suicide. I just remember the plot. A bar attendant is curious about a old man, who comes in his bar regularly and sits in a dark, cold corner and drinks. He never talks much and he has no friends. When inquired with another customer, he finds out, that old man's daughter has committed suicide few days ago, and that old man tried killing himself unsuccessfully few days ago; and perhaps planning a next one.  After the bar is closed, the old man leaves. The bar-attendant also heads for home. When the attendant was  in the bar, everyone saw him smiling, happy, and in lighted part of the building whereas the old man was drinking in the dark corner. But as soon as bar attendant leaves, a darkness creeps in the street, silent road but distant howling foxes, stars in the sky but not enough to lighten him. He looks at his life, remember his home and realized he has nothing exciting to look forward to. He also has darkness waiting for him at home. Depressing, cold, silent, tired night... Excellent plot, and very clear picture of what the real 'Old Man' was going to do, very soon. 'Papa' Hemingway, the hunter, the story teller who was his own hero, Santiago, the Old Man who imitate himself in his books, short and sweet was his style, a parody unto himself, once wrote a six word story which he call his best work of all.

"Baby shoes, for sale, never used.

July 21, 2012

Irving

BP, Ego and Enemies

Human body is very flexible, not just physically but psychologically too. Only few years ago, I ran for 4-5 miles easily, every day without any discomfort of any kind. But when I quit doing it, it is even hard for me to run for 5 yards for minutes without suffering, what looks like an asthma attack. Body has gone dull, very passive, lot of fat and laziness has accumulated. Two days of fun soccer and whole body is sore. Our body can be trained and we can somersault in the air, and we quit doing it, we get heart attack when we bend to pick up something from floor.  As kids, we used to see note books in stationery shop that has “Health is wealth” on the cover. Fitness means prevention of most of lazy man’s diseases like obesity, varicose vain, embolism and so on. Motivation is needed to get back in shape, somewhat.

Last time I was writing about a fat black prostitute girl in Kenya, Beatrice. I just had to finish it for my own note and memory. It is very hurtful to be betrayed by someone who you trust the most. When the rich young guy, on whose chest Beatrice cries, falls asleep ignoring all her life-story, she gets absolutely furious. Human nature is such. Love is such a thing our heart desires, and on scarcity of love, or a denial of compassion or because of non-acceptance of the surrender of love to the beloved, the mind goes mad. Ego is hurt. Anger is the only verdict. When people are angry, they go blind in all senses. A chaos, conflict, a turmoil is created and only way out from these, (concluded by human mind in such situation) is revenge. Ego is a very dangerous thing. It is better when kept in closest. But when ego comes out of closet because of bible reading or by a philosophical investigation, or mystic examination of self, or just by everyday happenings like wife’s gossiping, it can destroy the world.

All the political, tribal, ethnic wars in the human history, all the internal conflicts, all hatred between people are because of ego. People are evolved in such a way. Although Darwin’s famous discoveries like Natural Selection, Survival of the Fittest, Struggle for Existence have overwhelming presence, evidences and examples, in the core of my heart, I really do believe that it should not be our way of life. We should not create world around us based in such foundations. Although, I know in my heart, it is impossible to make ‘Superhuman’ that Nietzsche has famously described in all his writings, especially his famous book “Thus Spake Zarathustra”, I can’t see how a guy or some group claiming to have God’s revelation can dictate the whole of God’s divine plan in funny books. Ego is there, believe it or not, in all levels in all humans in all stages of life. Ego is evident. Beatrice had a hurt feeling because someone played with her trust. She decided to take revenge.

Now suddenly my mind jumps to another great story by B.P. Koirala. Almost all Nepalese read this story in school or college: Satru (Enemy). I love BP’s writing. I think I can write books about his stories. When I found out in school that BP Koirala is not just a politician but he writes too, I was surprised. I hated politicians and I thought that all he wrote probably was his stupid ideologies or anti monarchial philosophy or some Mao or Karl influenced junk. When I started reading his books, I could not believe his fluidity, genuine dialogues, everyday characters, unimaginative story setting, simple yet significance of life’s particular events, and omission of political ideologies of all kind in his writings. His story Sannani (Little Girl) is one of my all- time favorite stories. I have read the story about 100 times and the last paragraph of it; I have probably read and 1000 times. He could have not written it better and he then established the telepathy with me, although he died much earlier, even before my birth. I could not agree more, I would not have expressed it differently. I was so involved in it. For many people it is like another simple story and people have compared my love of that story to expression like “for Arsenal fanatic, Robert Pires was (some day) the ‘winger of the century’”.  ‘Narendra Dai’ has parts of Sannani repeated in it, if I remember it right, even the dialogues. I believe it is a true story. Most of his stories were based on real people; on most occasion his own life events. ‘Hitler and Jews’ is another book, not as popular as the tittle may suggest but brilliant in my eyes. In short, he is one of the writers for whom I didn’t start with great deal of opinion but totally changed my position. His story Satru (enemy) is a classic one. If I say: almost all Nepalese consider it to be one of the bests, it won’t be an overrated statement.

Mukhiya Baje, a gentleman, a chief judge and a pious man is satisfied with his life, and content in thinking that all he has done is good to people, serve the justice system, help poor, defended weak, adopted orphans etc. He is proud within, that he has no enemies at all. He never did any wrong to anyone. One day when returning to his home in the evening, a stick drops out of nowhere and breaks in front of him. He starts to wonder- “Is that targeted at me? Is someone trying to hurt me? Does the stick just fall by itself?” He always thought he had no enemies. So he starts reevaluating the incident. It is dark, he cannot see anyone. He starts to think who could be his enemy. He always fought for the right side on right cause, helped the needy, and had compassion for women and children. What could have he done wrong to infuriate someone that they would attack him to hurt him? He thought he was AJAT SATRU. He starts remembering his life like a movie; let us call it ‘flash backing’. He remembers many incidents which I don’t remember here accurately but vaguely and I will use my own version here, which will serve my purpose of explaining.

He was a judge in a case where someone tried to scam an innocent guy, so he judged against the former. That guy, Harke, I will call him here could be his enemy. His ego must have hurt. He called Turke ‘stupid’ at panchayat meeting, may be many years ago, probably in childhood, who could have been seeking revenge. His wife could be plotting against him to kill him and elope with her lover. Birkhe could be trying to hurt him because Mukhiya may have called his wife ‘beautiful’ in general conversation but Birkhe thought that it was in lust. Furke must have hated Mukhiya’s idea of building a temple close to his house because women would come early and ring the bell in the temple to worship, which would disturb Lurke’s sex life. Surke must have been angered that Mukhiya’s son is following his daughter in village. Churke must be seeking revenge because Mukhiya’a father had sexually abused Churkre’s brother when he was young.

“Why would not my adopted son try to kill me?” thinks Mukhiya, “he is not my real blood.” He might be seeking to get all my property after my death or claim insurance etc.” Mukhiya got bitter in heart. He concluded- no one can be aloof, devoid of enemies. Any action on any things will create enemies. This is a general lesson: Humanity 101. We live in a world where even people like Jesus are crucified. Even God has enemies. Enemies are just created because of ego, mostly for nothing, irrelevant, small issues. Just a stick is dropped from nowhere we can realize how many enemies we have created. We cannot avoid it.  Another famous and my personal favorite story, ‘Enemy’ by Anton Chekov is a brilliant one. We do not require a big border issue to have enemies or brutal murder of family member to seek revenge.  No mass murder, no terrorism, no money conflict, no wife dishonor is needed. We are stupid enough and its just destiny that enemy are created here and there, right and left, at work, at park , at coffee shop, in a religious meeting, even during a  lunch break.

I look at my life and see enemies everywhere. I have made them without even trying. I have accepted challenges from enemies without even knowing what the challenge is about. I have been stupid. I have been indifferent and silent and it has not helped. I have created more and more. I don’t know if someone from my childhood is still angry at me because I pushed them in a line, or caused someone to bruise their knee or argue with someone on who was the best singer of all or accidently a spit bubble from my mouth landed on someone’s bald head during a conversation or I eve-teased some girls by my Galli? Who knows how many enemies I have made?

Stories and Morals

As a kid, my favorite subject in school was ‘Moral Science.’ A story followed by some commandments…it was literally making sense to ask what is the moral of the story? Teachers would read it to us and tell us to analyze and write a ‘short summary-type moral code/s’ from the story. I was impressed with the subject so much I started looking for morals in every stories I read. Making comments, analyzing, bringing out morals and examining character’s moral standard became my hobby.

This morning as I woke up fairly early, and Kundan has been complaining about the noises I make, and the songs I sing in the shower, I tried not doing that but quietly check on my story list that I have postponed reading because of time constraint. This was my moral substitute. The ‘Moral science stories’ were simple, everyday life like this one. Anyway, Wanjiru, in the story ‘Few Minutes of Glory’ is neither Biblically moral nor worldly Good. Read this months ago, recommended by my professor friend, Dr. Seleey.


Her name is Wanjiru, but she like her Christian name Beatrice, it sounded more pure and beautiful. But she was not pure. As the civil war broke and the invaders were slowly moving out of Kenya, Kenyans were still figuring out how to rebuild the country. She was a Mary Magdalene, to be fair to her. Some suited booted Jesus came in her life, told her to give freedom, full cup of life, money, wedding and salvation. She believed. She gave herself for the first time in a hotel room in his comfortable arm, she cried. She ran away with him from a poor home, and probably her family were happy. But when she woke up next morning Jesus has left the building, nowhere to be found.


She then, moved from city to city, from bars to bars, from Tiunku, to Nagairiga, Rironi, wobbling around to find love, gifts of flowers, beer, a more closer and long lasting look than just a turning of head of those wealthy customers, when the bar attender call her name ‘Beatrice’ . People would turn around to see the bearer of the beautiful name and were disappointed immediately. Nobody flirted with her, nobody wanted to get into her, and nobody wanted to spend the few minutes of glory with her. She was the customers’ last resort if all other girls were booked and taken, or if some poor customer was too drunk, he would have no choice to come to her. A prostitute who was disappointed with customers, disgusted with fake smiles of other girls in the bar, their ugly wigs and uplifted chest areas, provoking clothes, their powdery skins, and more wigs wigs wigs ….blond, brunette, china women…. She could not understand why customer would die for Nyaguthhi, who was bored, impatient, disrespectful and insulting to customers.  I personally think Beatrice didn’t know about ‘Dirty Talking’, but that is not the moral of the story here.


Back to the story; Beatrice tried, she was original, smooth, black skin, big healthy body, and lots of love to give. In fact lots of hunger for love of someone who would truly appreciate her original self. But nobody ever noticed her. But one day a guy came, and thereafter started being a regular customer of the bar, who was handsome, young, often mocked in the bars by other wealthy people, nevertheless would come and spend the nights Beatrice. He thought he was ‘good’ in conversation with other men in the bar and ‘good’ with her. Seeing and pitying him little, she became accustomed to him, his stories of success. She would listen to his exaggerated success stories, his boasting of wealth and manhood and what not. She confided in him. She thought for a while that this is the man who she can tell her story, and one night resting on his chest she started telling her ‘Life Story’, and how she ended up there. As she was honest, not exaggerating, not boasting, not trying to impress, she was upright telling him her survival stories, her poor family, her sick mother, her longing from home, her desire of love, her faith in God, her desire to have a home someday… yes without make up, without bargains, she was telling him her story. She was open, shamelessly naked, and crying on his chest, only to look up to his face after finishing that he was sound asleep already, no idea when. She thought he was so deeply saddened, and sympathetic that he wasn't even interrupting her to ask questions, because in pure listening, unintelligent listening, there are no questions asked.
  

Well the story does not end there, but my time is running out here. Pay day is waiting and I am really excited and looking forward to see ‘goat lambs jumping sideways’ at work today. 

Dreamland and Sad Faces

Tomorrow is the payday. Every payday I see people so excited, the gloominess of their faces turns white, whiter than their skin, they walk around happy, collect money and order a big delivery from a expensive restaurant nearby. Just for a day or two they dance and sing from their heart, and it reminds me of a newborn goat lamb which jumps sideways in excitement, with its  long ears so thrilled in the air. Alas! it is short lived, next Monday the same co-workers will be asking me 'gas money'. I can't help to feel bad, it is innate in me. Seriously, does compassion has any limit and irresponsibility has any boundaries? What kind of society, government, culture and family standards we boast by living here in America. I put myself in one side of the scale, and them Native (not Indians)Americans in other. I am always in survival mode. In all my actions, my behaviors, my conversations, I present my honestly, and expect more often than not, unconsciously  or in vain sometime, that  something better will happen, I have done my best with my available tools, my knowledge;  with my labor, I have tried to reap the fruit produced. Their mode is survival mode too, but of  different kind. They don't know any better. They have not seen both banks of the river. Has anyone ever noticed why vending machine technology would be extraneous in Nepal, India and any such countries? Here, people have a dollar in pocket, they immediately run to a vending machine and buy a candy. If a quarter is saved, they go ask their coworker if they have another  so they can  get a mountain dew from it.

Because in Rome, we do as the Romans do, and I am afraid that I am so becoming like them. I call my routine  '5-2' these days. Five days work, 2 days off, wait for Friday, feel like dying on Monday, count till payday only to spend all of it on hundred of ridiculous bills, fighting in court, paying for water than I didn't drink, giving in my hard earned money for criminals in constipated jails to have them conjugal visits,  fighting frauds with credit card companies, scared of daylight robbery, absolutely dumb fold,  numb and  unconscious that years and years have passed by with no progress, but with more bald spots and more gray hairs.

Every off days I have tons of things to do, including, what I mentioned, unnecessary arguments with credit cards, car dealers, banks, insurance companies, replying to emails of cell phones and laptops demanding best friends and cousins in Nepal, playing FIFA on a slow internet,  reevaluating the greates books, reading Bible and such to find the unfindables;  and worst of all talking with stupid nurses when at work covering for someone else.  Ahh life! what have I become?

When I came to USA, I had energy. I had dreams, although it was so forced on my mind by parents and the society. My thoughts and aspirations, aim of life was just to BECOME better than few privileged cousins, or in somewhat self respected quote, I can say- to avoid them  and to stop them to consider me as a competitor, I was/am/will be never interested. Coming to America was an escape from thugs, stupid competitions,  Maoist terrorist, Nepal's bribery-full, uncontrolled political system, hopeless and incurable poverty . I sure expected US to be a land of opportunity, a hope for the dreamers. 

To flashback and remember and to be bluntly honest to myself, I have to admit: in 2005 in Waverly, Iowa Walmart, we went to buy phone cards to call home to tell them that we have arrived at the land of hope, in pursuit of happiness and freedom. I was so excited, for a new journey had begun; and I was like a new- born goat lamb jumping around sideways with its ears thrilled up in the air. But my heart got a freezing wave of cold air when I looked at the faces of customers crowded in the Walmart super center. It was my first and I can insist now, a true impression of American- fat, unwelcoming, hating, if not hating on face, skeptical about foreigners, sad in the face, tired as if they have ploughed  acres of farms all day, briefly smiling on eye contact but so fake as crocodile tears, even the brightest of lights in hundred suns in Times Square could not lighten up the gloominess, laziness, tiredness so expressed  in their conversation,  their melancholic sighs in the counter, their boredom of fake smiles, their indifferences towards naked women on the cover pages of  of  the sex magazines, their unplayfulness towards the demand of candies and dolls of their own children, and their dead-like body language; I question for a while if I was in a Zombie land, or was I dreaming from a tiring long flight? Their sorry faces nowhere directly or indirectly indicated any signs of happiness, peace, freedom, love, compassion, humility, respectively, curiosity in stranger,  love for life or quest about it,  but sung a dark heartbreaking song like a sorrowful owl howling at distant, in a wintery night. 

Never did I know, that one day I will be like them, dead in the spirit, tired in the body, unconscious of time, unaware of the real goal of life, lost in unknown and unattainable dreams of happiness and peace. I was shocked that day to find my much anticipated 'America' that sad and tired, and unaware of the rest of the world. Now I console myself these days that I have to seriously revisit my decision to stay and be firm about whether or not to extend my survival mode here, for God help those who help themselves. I am more than equal to the challenges but my life is not just about being better than some of my prodigal, privileged, yet mediocre cousins . I hope I am not wasting all my youth here in vain.

Irving Texas

July 12th 2012

Nature, Mysticism and Sermons

In the wake of a free car-wash (rain of course; nothing comes free here in America. No, not even water or air), I thought about the beauty of nature. The way we look outwardly into the nature and project something inwardly through thoughts, beauty, and poetry is very mysterious. When rain falls here, I barely smell any earth. Everywhere is concrete, cement, rocks and wood. No fresh air after the rain, no sound of plopping of drops of water on a ditch filled road, no corn leafs making music to it, no tin roof approving of it. It rains here and the land dries within five minutes. Which poet would ever write a poem about a rain in Dallas Metroplex? Just a thought …a silly rhetoric really… would Guirdeff or Hartman or Nanak or Kabir ever compose anything of substance in a ‘Dallas rain’?

All the greatest of poets are usually born and raised by the rivers, jungles, lakes, and mountains. I can think of Guirdjeff, whose books I have recently revisited. In his fondest of memories, he references a festival where best of musicians, singers; poets of the generation used to gather and compete to compose something tremendous, often organized and observed by a very large community,  in a valley surrounded by high mountains. The winner (he would be rewarded a fat goat by the way) would be the one who can compose, sing or play some instrument which can vibrate and produce echoes in the mountains. Now mind you! Not every sound in that mountain echoes. It is something very mysterious. On one occasion he witnessed as he followed his father to the festival, one flute player who plays with such passion and creates such a beautiful cord, the mountains started to echo, vibrate and sing after him. People were awestruck. The nature knows the music. Poetry, art, dancing etc. are some other things which are universal in communication and deeply connected to nature. Only poets like Tagore can write poetry to touch the soul, only great musicians like Hartman can compose for ‘enlightenment Dance’, only Kabir can sing to your heart, only Guirdeff can dance to the likes of nature. These people can touch the soul and stir mysticism in there. They can communicate even to the nature, tress and clouds, rivers and lakes, although for an ordinary man these things are inert. Those people were not ordinary men.  In fact, Guirdeff titles his book, meeting with remarkable men.

To feel mysticism and the innermost consciousness, people need to be with the nature. The human history has proved it. All mystics in the east or west have talked about it and authenticated. All poets, singers, artists were, in some stage of their lives felt something experiencing this nature, in their core, which shook them and made them extraordinary, although, the events were just ordinary in themselves. Nobody has to go meditate in the jungle for years; no one has to play beautiful music to feel the silence of the innermost soul. Not to sound like a phony Indian guru, I hate to use these words, but I confess the mindless mind and thoughtless thought can be achieved, not by being celibate all life or singling praise Hare Ram Hare Krishna, or roting the Sermon on the Mount. Honestly, just to mention, I sometimes wonder what would have happened to Bible if Sermon on the Mount was not included. 

Back to the topic: even uneducated, unsophisticated, uncultured, unimaginative, unpredictable, unhappy, afraid, unreligious soul can lay in the bed, at night wrapped up in a blanket, after an eventful tiring but nevertheless an ordinary day, hear the rain pouring in the maize plant leaves, see the lightning, feel wind whistling by window cracks and just witness it without thoughts and projections, absorb it without judgments of any kind, be it, live it. It is an extraordinary experience. People can experience it but most of us all only can poorly explain it, just like my futile attempt here. Blessed are those who flows in this music, and be the song; for them the God dances in heaven. Blessed are those who judge not but absorb the thundering of the sky; for them the God plays his drum. Blessed are those who experience the God in such rain; for them God himself manifest in the nature. Blessed are those poor souls, who in spite of the expected rough days of tomorrows, smile in the dark, not to please his neighbors, not even to their partners,  but because they live there totally for a moment and unconsciously conscious of the present, fully acknowledging without thinking, or even trying, the Heaven for eternity. Blessed are those who quit roting Gita and Bible for a while and disappears in the thoughtless thought of this rain, for them Nepalese, who understand it, a Dharmaraj song playing in the radio is like Jesus speaking on the mount at that moment.

Jham Jham Jham Jham

Pani Paryo Asarko Raat

Paari Bata Bajna Lage

 Makaika Paat