Sunday, April 16, 2006


I have always been fascinated by the simplest, yet the most vital of phenomena: breath. How, and why do we breathe?

One might simply laugh at my questions, and suggest that I should read an authoritative digest on human physiology, and if I am still not satisfied, that I should meet up with an expert physician who could undoubtedly answer my questions to my satisfaction. Undoubtedly. But indeed, I am quite aware of the physiological answers to those questions, although I am not satisfied with them; they are only partial answers.

What makes us breathe? What is it in us, which kicks off with our first cry as soon as we are born, and thrusts our lungs into constant bipolar motion that constitutes inhalation and exhalation? What is it that sustains this motion for as long as it should? Every action needs a source of power. What is the source that empowers our breath? Why does it do so?

Teacher says, “Remove consciousness, and the body is as good as dead.” Without any doubt, our consciousness, our awareness, is the major symptom of our being alive. It is also our consciousness that enlivens our senses and enables us to perceive our universe. It is our breath that feeds our consciousness.

We speak of a great many things like mind, heart, intellect and emotions. We speak of people who are highly intelligent, creative, deceptive, conceited, good, evil, beautiful, ugly, honorable, notorious, sensitive, smart, stupid, skilled, learned, heartless, greedy, and so forth. The classification is almost endless. And yet, the life principle – the breath - is the same in all of us.

Cogito ergo sum: I think, therefore I am. Undoubtedly, the universe is as, and because, we perceive it. It is our awareness that makes it real. It is our intellect that enables us to identify and recognize various names and forms. What we perceive around us is filtered through our consciousness, our awareness. It is then questioned by our reason, dissected by our logic, classified and organized by our intelligence. This involves an intricate network of electro-chemical reactions in a few million neurons that float on a bed of proteins. What powers this process? Breath. What powers the breath?

Sitting quietly on the sand, looking at the immense expanse of the ocean as it breathes in and out, I am further fascinated by the relationship of breath to several other polar models. Positive and negative, good and evil, birth and death, love and apathy, acceptance and rejection, up and down, high and low, crest and trough, rise and fall... male and female... and to keep it brief, shall I say inhalation and exhalation!

Therefore, beneath all this, with or without our explicit knowledge, is the very same life principle: breath. Stop the breath, and there shall be no consciousness, no awareness, no intelligence, no perception, and no emotions. Poles are a creation of the intellect. Merge the poles - inhalation and exhalation - and there shall be no other poles. Stop the breath, and there shall be no universe. Stop the breath, and there shall be nothing.

Think if you will: How, and why do we breathe?

Monday, April 10, 2006

What Do You Want?

You love me. That is why you chose me. I cannot shrug it off as a fortuitous selection. I have reasons to believe otherwise. Reasons that you have helped me rediscover within myself. You love me, and that is why you sent me here with your message.

It was no accident that you commanded her to enliven my heart with your breath. It was no accident that you asked her to sow potent seeds of your image into my very being, to grow and mature with me. It was no accident that you commanded her to be with me, to support me, and to help me convey.

You set me a goal: to share your vision. You also bestowed on me some tools to help me convey: clarity of sight, and articulation. In doing so, you set the path that I must take. After that, you directed her to show me the signs toward the path, and to help me walk in that direction. She has been guiding me like an elder sister should guide her brother. It has been my honor and pleasure to obey.

But now, I stand before you to report my failure. The failure is all mine, and not hers. I report honestly, with fair hopes that you will not condemn her, because she has done what she is best known for. And she has helped me as much as she could, within the constraints you laid out for her.

I have woken up to the fact that the vision you ask me to propagate is not transmittable. I have tried and failed, because the audience does not seem ready for it. The audience wants tales, but not Truth; they want myth, but not facts; they want comfort, but not reality. They want her, not you!

The use of vain symbolism and mythical mumbo-jumbo does not achieve the expected transmission; it simply captivates and mystifies the audience. Undiplomatic expression has also repeatedly failed in helping to realize the desired objectives. I see no other way of doing so.
They seem to love diplomacy, but I can give it not. They seem to enjoy lies, but your message is not a lie. All I can do is present hard facts, which they are not ready to digest.

I have looked up to you several times for help in this regard, but you have always appeared indifferent. It appears that my success or failure does not really matter to you. Time and time again, you appeared too unconcerned. It seemed that you were either too far away, or too busy, to listen to my cries of agony.

But every time I came face-face with the greatest leveler, you suddenly empowered her to bail me out. Nobody else could have ever carried out rescue operations on that scale. She casually walked in, grabbed my little finger, and led me away from the fatal fall, right under the nose of my undertaker. And when I thanked her, she only said that it was your wish.

No, it was no accident that you did not let me die. There was a powerful purpose behind it. You want me to succeed, because you do not let me rest. Every time I resign, you appear, and you overwhelm me with a new wave of inspiration. You compel me to go out and share. Once again, with a new hope that I might succeed, I am only too happy to obey. But there is something amiss.

I report that it does not hurt when they mock at me, or misunderstand me, or criticize me. It does not hurt even when they call me crazy.

But it does hurt when they misunderstand you. It hurts, because I love you.

I am confused. You set me a goal, an impossible one. Then you sent her (who has a conflicting goal) to help me.

And suddenly, almost everybody is in love with her. They are enticed by her, and try to court her. They want to marry her. She tells me funny anecdotes about them every day. We laugh about them.

It seems that she has succeeded in achieving her goal. I have certainly failed. And yet, you continue to inspire me through her. She comforts me on your behalf. She says that I must continue.

I need to ask you: What do you really want of me?

Thursday, April 06, 2006


I am going through a very humorous experience:

Two people are relentlessly after my blood. One of them is an ardent devotee of Bollywood movies, while the other is a diehard fan of cricket. Although I generally don’t waste my energy on hatred, there are a few things that do irritate me, and unfortunately for me, cricket and Bollywood happen to be two among them. All hell seems to have broken loose.

Xy: What do you mean cricket irritates you?
Me: Uhmm, I mean...
Pq: You don’t like to watch Bollywood movies?
Me: Uhmm, not much.
Pq: Why not?
Me: Well, most of them don’t appeal to me.
Pq: What the @#$%^! How can you say such a thing?
Me: Uhmm, well...
Xy: You don’t watch cricket matches?
Me: No.
Xy: Never?
Me: No.
Pq: What do you mean they don’t appeal to you?

I am sure that the worst of criminals get a much better treatment in a court of law. And the above transcript was just a sample. They start every time they see me, and they go on and on...

I believe that if this were not a secular republic, these two fanatics would have ripped me apart, sucked all my blood, taken one each of my kidneys, broken my ribs, thrown my heart to the dogs, and left my remains hanging at the crossroads as an example for others.

But hey, this is my opinion. To hell with Bollywood and cricket! Do what you can, sweethearts. I shall not live by your standards. Nor do I owe you any explanation.

I am tagging all my friends - Tell us the most humoros experience you have had.


Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Healing Time

Time, they say, heals all wounds. I strongly disagree. Time is indeed a factor involved in the healing process, but it is not the cure in itself.

It’s only been a while now
that I was run over by a train.
Give me a little more time
to collect my bits up again.

It’s only been a while now,
and I’m still fighting the pain.
Give me a little more time
to gather my soul up again.

It’s only been a while now,
and I’m sure that I’ll sing again.
Just let me find my voice, and
the rhythm will return in time.

It’s only been a while now;
I’ve forgotten how to smile now.
So give me a little more time,
and maybe a little more time.

It’s only been a while now (It’s only been a while)
that I was run over by a train (I’m still fighting the pain)
I’ve forgotten how to smile now (Forgotten how to smile)

But I’m sure that I’ll sing again (The rhythm will return)
So give me a little more time (Just a little more time)
And maybe a little more time (Yeah, a little more time)

I had written the above lines a few months ago, and had immediately started wondering why I had written them. When I read it back today, it made more sense.

Cheers everyone! :)