On beauty

Nabokov, the author of Lolita, on being asked about how American he was, had replied, “I’m as American as April in Arizona.” I read it in an article in the Economist and thought that it was beautiful. But like many things beautiful, the writer of the article stated and I agree with him, it meant nothing.

From my recent trip along the Konkan coast, I brought some coasters that featured picturesque vistas: sunsets, sunrises, beaches, sand, shells. Decidedly appealing. But what did they mean? Did they appeal because they were photographs—moments when time was caught static and developed on print. Isn’t that merely a manner of speaking, with little underlying substance?

And why did I like what Nabokov had said?

Human understanding, as Phaedrus saw, can be divided into classical and romantic understanding. Function and form is how I have come to understand it. Classical understanding deals with the underlying basis, the meaning of things, while the romantic mode is concerned with appearance. What things mean versus how things appear. Art can be said to belong to the domain of the romantic. You can’t write an algorithm to produce a good painting. Art is a product of intuition, imagination, inspiration. Science is primarily classical: it looks for reason and logic. In the romantic mode, the distinction between “good” and “bad,” “ugly” and “beautiful,” is made mainly on the basis of esthetics and outward form. In the classical mode, such divisions run deeper. They cut to the bone, expose the underlying form, in search of a compact structure. To the proverbial artist, the scientist is boring. And the scientist generally has no time for the artist.

There appears to be a wedge driven straight between the romantic and classical edifices. However, there has to be something that lends meaning to them in conjunction—that sheds light on their separateness in a manner that builds a bridge between. That is very fundamental—the crux. This is what Phaedrus set out to discover.

*******

The reason I enjoyed myself so much on the trip was because I was myself throughout. Every day, people enter rooms—not merely physically enclosed spaces but sealed containers in their heads too—and start talking and behaving in a certain way. It’s like something’s in the air: the whole milieu changes. The you starts to watch out and has his hands full watching out. It’s exhausting, not to mention debilitating.

Travelling alone, or with a close friend, is like getting back into your own skin. To use the words of J K Rowling (although in an entirely different context), the inessentials are stripped off. You can wander aimlessly; you don’t have to show purpose; you don’t have to care. You become a tent by the beach, not a fully furnished house. No keeping track of bills, no closing doors and windows before going to sleep, no checking of taps and switches. Just listen to the waves and lie in the sound.

Groundhog Life

Repetition—the implement to turn the hands of time. The old man’s utterances and actions prosper in iteration. In a distinctly personal manner, he orchestrates quotidian happenings. Putting the electronic shaver to his skin, first thing in the morning. Driving to the tender coconut vendor after lunch. Paying him the exact change. Folding the newspaper in exactly the same way. Watching the Great Indian Laughter Challenge every evening. Opening the doors for perfectly expected mirth at the appointed hour.

Everything in order and everyone as expected. The maid who is always faced with the same enquiry: did she buy bread and milk? did she mop the bedroom floor? The gatekeeper who is always asked if the car had been given a wash. The bhaajiwala who is queried about the freshness of vegetables.

Immersion in simple, continual needs.

Empty, urgent, itchy needs. The machinery attending to needs chugging along like clockwork. A clockwork orang. To whom is known all the hues contained in the portrait of life. No sudden realizations, no discoveries; only a quiet manner of putting brush to canvas.

Engrossment in tasks that do not pose dilemmas. Preoccupation with positively conditioned reactions. Life as the inversion of childhood. Life as the answer to the perfunctory ‘How do you do?’

Shame

For a few fleeting moments, the colors of shame mellowed, fading to merge with the color of his skin. And he pondered.

Shame is not debilitating
The feeling it induces inside is.
Each buffet endured, pushing life closer to tipping point.
Shame, an entirely personal possession on a distinctly public occasion
Armfat hanging slack in a row of taut arms,
And the accompanying sidelong glances
Bits of an entirely personal belonging distributed among a thousand minds
Opinions collected as a token of involvement
Challans dispensed for remembrance, and a precautionary measure too
The overt character of shame
Shame is ignominy, embedding a public construct

Free verse buoyed by his thoughts, flew unmindful of gravity. It was his mind that was the most stubborn leech. It was what went on in his head that made him squirm and want to rip it out. It made him want to sleep; be a cat, a dog; be blind and deaf; to inflict physical pain that could mock at what was immeasurable mental anguish. Deep in moments of shame, it dawned on him that nightmares are known for their tenacity. That they accompany you to doors of despair; leave you to suffer; then escort you on more miserable journeys.

On these journeys, his fixation was pulled away from all the beauty in this world and he couldn’t but be preoccupied with a single crippling feeling and he felt worth his most embarrassing deficiency and his mindspace was littered with humiliations—it was after he had been through all this that he had begun to view his destination: nakedness.

Snapping out of his deconstruction, he managed to smile and resolved to enjoy the sedateness while it lasted. Until the next wave hit him and the thin fabric that was his skin turned see-through.

self-doubt

If I can get the fact that I haven’t posted anything on this page for a long time out of the way, maybe I can ignore the difficulty I’m facing right now, in writing after a protracted hiatus.

During this hibernation, gushing emotions have been checked, their course altered, their energy redirected, distributed among everyday doings. The huge village fire around which the entire community gathered has given way to small earthen lamps that light selfish households. Now, evenings aren’t spent together anymore; shared drives and a common fate have been supplanted by favourite sitcoms and cheap promos—lures accompanying newly acquired wealth.

There is a certain unmistakable despair in the dispersal of a platoon. Especially when that platoon is you and the soldiers pushing for victory thus far, who have now ceased to fight for a cause worth living for, are aspects of your self: conviction, confidence, esteem, faith. And particularly so when it is a war of choice. The exhortations have lost their capacity, replaced with mutterings of “I do not want to fight anymore.” The commander is at a loss for words that can turn rising tides. Before he conjures a summons though, gathering their forces around his diminishing authority, are swarms of self-doubt—buzzing and alive.

Self-doubt is seldom given due importance, partly because a commander isn’t supposed to entertain it or he doesn’t believe strongly enough to perceive a diminution in his creed. Self-doubt is indubitable, inevitable, and, if not limited by a strong embankment, inexorable.

I’m the wobbly commander. Sometimes, he, who has been tongue-tied, finds a loudspeaker to shout into. After the initial amplitude demanding attention, my platoon hears the anguish. Stabs, stings, aches, throbs.

I feel it in moments I revel in professional success or among social friends, A set of eyes, a pair of ears, a nose for banter, hands to drive home points, and a body draped in acceptable clothing—all seemingly indicating participation. With mind in knots, gallivanting, galloping to distant lands, sketching, tending to imagination.

Yet, I have to make a living as much as I have to live. Finding meaning in existence is a digression from an understanding of the cost of living and the means required to pay for it. Decades and years are apt spans to judge lives; for the meaning of existence, every hour is a yardstick long enough.

chinatown

A couple of months ago, I did something really stupid, or so I was told. I voiced my reservations not through a carefully worded mail, nor via polite requests or practical suggestions that smacked of an implicit acceptance of the status quo, but by speaking my mind. With incisive humor. On the company intranet.

And very soon, judging from the reaction, of which there was a flood, I came across roughly 3 kinds of employees: (1) absolute suckers/dumb duds/enemies of reason and logic/those who don’t know they are being taken for a ride; (2) those who want change but are afraid to speak up; and (3) those who belong to the happily-aloof-as-long-as-I-have-my-paycheck category.

Of the first category, two quit almost immediately after singing paeans of praise for their employer. Several members of the second type conveyed their support, but only through online chats or in person. The third species probably didn’t know that something was on until they overheard office gossip and then were mostly like “Dude, that was really stupid!”

The last year and a half have been a learning experience. Not because of the career progression that I’ve made but because of how closely I’ve observed the “corporate culture.” And I’ve realized, totally internalized, the fact that the only shade that will always be in vogue is grey.

I do not know why exactly Stanley Kubrick was a misanthrope but I can vouch on my epitaph that had he worked in the services industry, he would’ve surely had a very valid reason.

In this age when everything sells, why isn’t integrity being put up on shop windows? How do I explain to all these people that it is not I who needs a reality check. It is them. It is they who put their sugarcoated words on company newsletters; it is they who learn the company’s “mission statement” by rote; it is they who, in full knowledge of their actions, compromise on their work and on the manner in which they let themselves work.

And here I spend my time trying to scrub off the filth that sticks to my skin every day.

It is now that I fully understand Jerry Macguire. That there’s a big difference between what we think and what we say or do. And were we to be unafraid to do the right thing, or try to, we would be driven to despair. And fired.

I’m not taking the moral high ground here. I’m ranting because of a very selfish reason. I cannot imagine how I can survive selling myself like this. I can only see very lonely hours. I may speak to you, crack a few smart jokes and impress you, but I will find it difficult to bring myself to respect you.

In the twilight of life, should you choose to look back, remember these words: Politicians, ugly buildings, and whores all get respectable if they last long enough. And this is exactly how some of you will have earned respect too.

P.S.: The quote in italics is from Chinatown (1974).

poetry

Freedom arrived
With heavy wings
Where I wanted to soar
Only flitted low
And did not bite the dust

Joy in self-acceptance
Left a trail of unpaid debts
Swarms plagued nights, turned slayers of mirth
Doused sunshine and blurred days

Love arrived
Accompanying clauses and conditions
Fine print and punitive damages
Where I wanted to live
Could only breathe
A little easy, just a little

Consumed by wants
Convince, cajole, coax
Choices make up identity; let me make mine
And live them
Listen to me! Trust me! Believe, please!

Revelation in self-deception
Glory, acclaim—pleased as punch
A naked solitary man, before mirror
Skin peeling off: ugly, ugly, ugly!

Now: Reconnoitring lands for satisfying truth
Saddled, though, with an unabridged version
Leaf pages, jot points, make notes

anagramloverfriendshipimaginationhope: haikus

Anagram

slipshod letters of
incomprehensible life,
arranged: fragmented

Lover

a touch for a look
while spent by lover’s brook
cymbals—best when paired

Friendship

hiss, burnt lips: common
shared junk, dutch fares: together
moving images

Imagination

on sick bed, wasted
in dreams distant, yet vivid
runs free, wind in hair

Hope

night crescent broken,
small pieces cached for weeks
like treasured toy