Brooding

the tyrant

Most boys and even men don’t have a great relationship with their fathers. Or perhaps they do. I’d never know. I would just keep guessing. And mostly while I am guessing, it is good for me to suppose that no, they don’t. No man likes his father. Why not? Because most men either compete with their father or try to go in as different a direction as it is humanly possible. Fathers must not be liked. They are not here to be liked or loved. They are rather tyrants who have been put on Earth to put obstacles on our paths. Or wait… I might be wrong. Fathers are to be respected, loved, and revered. What would I know anyway…

The thing is I would give anything to find out. I would give all to find out how does it feel to argue with the father… to love him… to hate him… to respect and venerate him. But all I see when I look towards the father’s tyranny, or towards his love for that matter, is an emptiness. An emptiness inhabited by the hot winds of desert. I won’t ever know what it is to be loved, cared for, protected by, or even oppressed by the father. But I can find out how it feels to bathe in the blood of those who took that away.

-MR

Standard
Brooding, Capsules of Wisdom

INSANITY

What is sadness? Why is it there? What is happiness? Why do you smile? What is love? All these questions plague some of us. I was about to say they disturb all of us, but then I realize that most people are too busy to hear anything coming out of their own core. Hence, those handful of us who can’t be too busy because the sounds from within are too loud to ignore are laden with such questions.

I come across a number of people who are privileged, and yet sad, because they want to be more privileged. People who have traveled and/or travel frequently, but are sad anyway, because they don’t travel enough or they haven’t traveled to a place of their choice. I meet people who own expensive cars, but aren’t happy because they don’t have even costlier ones. And then I see other people, and ironically sometimes the same people, displaying all their achievements on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter et al. Almost always with a smile.

Then, on the other hand there is me. A person who isn’t as privileged, wealthy, or as well traveled as nearly my entire Instagram or Facebook feed. And I had asked myself these questions always. Sometimes even feeling sorry for myself for being a “failure” when compared to my acquaintances. I have a deep “crisis” of some sort. A very potent problem. The problem is I don’t want anything. I don’t want to achieve anything, do anything, get close to anyone, eat anything special, or own specific things. It is very difficult to lead such a life. Well, some might say I have achieved the much sought after state of desirelessness, so extensively promoted by the spiritual industry. But I wouldn’t know. I am not happy. I am not sad either. I am somewhere in between. Always. Well, mostly. Recently something happened that gave me a bit of perspective on all this.

Three days back I was sad. Genuinely sad. I hadn’t even realized that or consciously thought about the cause of sadness. Because listening to others complaining about their lack of achievements, I just assume subconsciously that I must be sad for the same reasons. I am a loser even in comparison to the great losers who cry all the time about their lack of international trips, wealth, a new car etc. So if I am sad, I must be sad because I don’t have any of these things either. I tend to forget that I am worse: I even lack the desire to achieve. Well, I digress, let me come back. There is a family of stray dogs living in the street where I live. My friend Myriam feeds them, but when she can’t I try to. One of these days the youngest of the dogs who had generally been playful was constantly drooling and trying to scratch her muzzle. I gave her some water, she put her nose in and quickly withdrew. I gave her some cookies, but she walked away. She showed symptoms of abnormality. This was nothing new. We are used to our neighbors poisoning the stray dogs. So many dogs that we have fed and taken some care of have ended up dead on our doorstep, surrounded by the pool of blood they vomited. I don’t know about you, but for me it isn’t easy to watch the creatures I cared for extinguished before my eyes. So, this dog went away and the day continued for me as if normal. If she was poisoned, there was no point taking her to a hospital because the poisoning would be repeated once she is back on the street. I don’t have the means to adopt another dog and let her live in my humble apartment. So, I went about my business, drawing on my learning of stoicism and hoping for a quick death for the dog if that was to happen. And life went on normally. Nonetheless, there was this sadness. A sadness I didn’t want to acknowledge. Because perhaps even my subconscious mind now tells me “Nobody cares”, or “People are sad for greater things than a stray dog” and more. So I went about my day with this splinter stabbing my heart constantly and invisibly. I didn’t want to come back home, but didn’t know why. Whenever I went out with my own dog, all the strays came to play with him, but not the one who was unwell. And I secretly hoped that she were dead. Two days passed in abject melancholy without my realizing where was it coming from. Then yesterday, finally when I was convinced she was dead after not having seen her for two days, while returning after having walked my dog I arrived to see her sitting on my doorstep in a condition much worse than before. I brought her some dog food, which she tried to eat but then didn’t. It was then that I held her mouth by force and put my other hand inside. There was something very hard in her throat. I pulled it out. The dog screamed, but I didn’t stop. Finally when I withdrew my hand there was a huge bone in it. The bone was stuck in her throat. The dog instantly became normal. First she drank a lot of water then ate everything I had given her and finally walked away.

I don’t know why am I ecstatic since yesterday. I am very happy without a reason. And I haven’t bought anything, or traveled to any place. I haven’t achieved anything. I am as big a loser as I have always been. And yet, this crazy euphoria, this insurmountable happiness is there. I must be insane.

~MR

Standard
Brooding

Distant diaries part 03

Evening, 12th January 1993:

His body is being lifted. They say his face is unrecognisable. They say that this is indeed him. I am left aside. They say that I shouldn’t see the face. I try to peep in. Is it him? A foot with a diagonal cut. He is being taken away.

Evening, 12th January 1993:

My mother puts a scarf around my neck. I am to incinerate him. My mother asks me “whom should I ask to take care of you?”. I have no answer. I have to go, so, I have to go. Then they suddenly say I have not to go. I don’t go.

Evening, unknown day, January 1993:

They say nobody around the entire village feels like eating. They say he was a great person. They say there will be justice. They say I am unprotected now. They say that he should have done this, that he should have done that. They hypothesise too much. They make me angry. I don’t count. Nobody cares what I think.

Morning, unknown day, February 1993:

I wake up on another fatherless morning. However, it seems I am not important. It is far more important what he was for others.

Night, unknown day, 2017:

He is forgotten by everyone. Everyone but me. I remember him. My chest bleeds. My back bleeds. My eyes bleed. I bleed. I put down the belt wet in blood. The song is loud. Death has married me.

-Rishiraj

Standard
Brooding, Capsules of Wisdom

FREEDOM AND ITS PRICE

Remember one thing: freedom is not easy. Freedom will cost you a lot. Nearly everything. And hence, most of us lose it. Because not everyone is ready to pay such a high price.

Most of the friends and relatives we have are not free. They lack freedom because they have chosen other things over it. And people who lack freedom share something very special with zombies: they are willing to die to make others like they are. The people who do not have freedom can’t tolerate others having it. It hurts to see others free. Because your soul from a very deep place within it craves freedom. You don’t have it. Therefore, the other shouldn’t either.

In third world countries like India people who get married through an arranged matrimony (or through a spontaneous one, popularly known as love marriage in India) want others to get married far more fervently than those who aren’t married themselves. You will always see the ones who are married trying constantly to find matches for the ones who aren’t. And all this time that they look for someone for you to get married to, they think that they are actually doing you a favor. Perhaps, they are. Because in a country like India after a certain age if you are not married you are marginalized in a million ways. You become an uncomfortable element of the society that it does not want to show. So, most of your friends that were once close to you will start avoiding you. Here, I am mainly talking about males who do not get married as they are the ones I can more easily relate to. So, being an unmarried man after a certain age is not an easy affair in India. Your friends who are now parents will not feel easy in your presence. They will all the time treat you with caution as if you were a different species. They will be scared to let their children near you because how can someone who doesn’t have his own understand what children are and how they should be treated. Hence, in case you wish to have the simple freedom of not getting married, one huge price you will have to pay will be letting most of your friends, relatives, and peers walk away. The lesser prices to pay would be the uncomfortable questions that people ranging from your plumber, to your carpenter, to, if you are a teacher like me, your students will ask you almost each day. You will have to learn to come up with apt replies that not only satisfy the questioner, but also do not hurt their feelings (yes! Their feelings about YOUR marriage). The other option is of course to throw away your freedom. And subsequently help the society snatch it from others under the guise of helping them. That ways you will be loved and respected. The choice is yours: on one side you have everything, on the other side you have freedom. What would you choose? Well, it really depends on who you are…
– Rishiraj

 

Standard
Brooding

THE PRICE OF TRUTH

These days it is too much in fashion to show off that one values truth. Every now and then we keep coming across people who will demonstrate how much they value truth, and the people who speak it. Everyone wants or seems to want or sometimes thinks that he or she wants honesty in others. However, if you take this demonstration of the hunger for truth and honesty, then you are gravely mistaken.

I invite you to see what honesty and truth can do to the practitioner. First of all people who demand honesty cannot digest it. One hundred out of a hundred times they can’t respect honesty. That honest opinion or statement they just demanded from you makes them shake like the biggest earthquake ever.

The second thing that will happen is you will be left alone slowly and eventually. People will begin avoiding you. There might be admirers, passive fans, around you. But these fans will lack substance. They will admire you from a distance, because truth, despite it all, does make people feel awe. They want to be like you, but know they can’t be. The price is too high. And hence, they develop admiration but keep it superficial for practical purposes. They will keep telling you how it is great to not sacrifice your truth for retaining friends, mates, or peers. However, they will never walk that path themselves.

That said, the ones who are cursed with honesty and truth have no choice. They can practice lying and being dishonest too. But at some point of time they will end up being themselves. Many people who know me well, and closely, will tell you that I am a very blunt man, a very direct one, and I rarely sugarcoat anything. It is kind of true. The reason is I cannot do otherwise. This is how I am. If I try to change I develop insane behavior, because I am not at peace with myself. Therefore, I just stay the way I am with only slight effort at changing.

All this suddenly occurred to me the last night before falling asleep when my thoughts wandered off to unknown territory and I thought if some day I have an accident or get badly injured in some way, who among my acquaintances could my mother who suffers severe arthritis and is unable to walk fluidly on her own could call for help. The answer is no one. Today there is no one whose phone number I could give to my mother and say “See mamma, if something happens to me, call this person. She/he will certainly answer and show up.” And the fact is it was not like this always. I have achieved this through truth and honesty.

-Rishiraj

Standard
Brooding

Distant Diaries Part 02

Evening, unknown day, late nineties:
We just bought sweet bun from the bakery by the corner. Now we are running home. Trying to catch up with vehicles passing by. Thinking about Robert Patrick from Terminator II.

Afternoon, unknown day, late nineties:

My friend, R, has come to my place once again, with Science Reporter magazine. We are reading poison sleuths. Death by capsaicin.

Evening, unknown day, late nineties:
I am lying facedown in hay. Dressed in Karate Gi. Waiting for the class eagerly. It is Saturday. The day of Kumite. Someone will get broken.

Night, June, 1999:
Had my first breakup. Lying outside. The entire house is empty except for my mom, and Peter, my dog. It is about to rain. Despite sadness, it is all ecstatic.

-Rishiraj

Standard
Brooding

GAY OR NOT GAY? THAT IS THE QUESTION…

Today I intend to talk about a topic I had been thinking about and meditating over for a long time. It is a subject that not only concerns me personally, but complicates lives of many.

Today we are here to talk about heterosexual men. Heterosexual people are people who are attracted (sexually speaking) to the members of the opposite sex. Perhaps, a layman’s term “straight” is easier to understand.

Homosexuality (the opposite to heterosexuality, where people are attracted to the members  of the same sex) has been all along the world history a matter of debate. Specifically so, if it occurs among men. Different societies in different epochs of history have reacted in different ways towards homosexuality, sometimes accepting, sometimes rejecting, sometimes punishing, sometimes celebrating. However, before the advent of Abrahamic religions, homosexuality was not discriminated against as widely (ancient Greece, ancient Persia, ancient India, ancient Anatolia all historically accepted homosexuality in one way or another). This phenomenon is a bit strange because the Abrahamic books like the Old Testament contain a lot of texts that attest to the widespread acceptance of homosexuality in the Judeo-Arabic culture. Hence, I do not really understand how and why things suddenly went wrong.

Well, anyway, my aim is not to prove how natural or how historically accepted homosexuality is/was, but it is to discuss something that the relatively recent discrimination of homosexuals has caused to harm the heterosexual people, well… to harm the heterosexual men.

One thing is certain wherever the followers of Abrahamic religions went they carried with themselves their ideas against homosexuality. Christians more so than Jews or Muslims. Sounds crazy? Well, a keen look at the history will show you the truth.

Well, so these European “gay haters” invaded large chunks of the planet post the Industrial revolution. And they imposed their ideas everywhere. Including the discrimination against homosexuality and the homosexuals. Now, as the homosexual populace realized that they were under scrutiny and possibly in danger, they went underground. They hid themselves. What happened next? The persecutors began looking for subtle signs to identify the homosexuals. Let’s not forget that the wrath of the European homophobes fell largely on men. Female homosexuality is less visible, has been less discriminated against (the reason being men were always able to force themselves on women irrespective of these women’s orientation). So, let’s come back to our subject of the “subtle signs” that the homophobes looked for in order to identify the homosexuals. These signs could be the way of speaking, the body language, the appearance, the sense of dressing etc. And the more “well groomed” a man was, the more was the possibility of him being considered gay. The reason was that the majority of men were shabby, smelly, with unkempt hair and beard, badly dressed, with dirty nails etc. So these men developed a subconscious or conscious idea that the men who were not like them in their habits and appearance cannot be of their orientation. These homophobes did not need to maintain their appearance or style to get sex from women because women generally were not in a position to say no. On the other hand, gay men had to “work” upon themselves to get the attention of other gay or bisexual men. Hence, in the psyche of these western invaders the well groomed man became synonymous to the homosexual man.

Without boring you with more historical information and analysis I will fast forward the timeline to the nineteen nineties. Now the world has changed a lot, the western world at least. They have inseminated their ex colonies with their infectious ideas but they are now cured, well… somewhat… or so it seems. The homosexual men have started to show up. They are now treated with some respect if not equal. But still the majority still is heterosexual. And the majority still enjoys more acceptance. Now the gay are not massacred or executed or tortured in most parts of Europe, but they still cause some shame to their parents, colleagues, friends, and relatives. And still the majority tries to identify them using the same “subtle-signs” method that was used in the middle ages. And if not gay, a man does not want to “look gay”. He does not want to cause shame to people around him. He does not want to jeopardise his prospects of mating with a female. So, what does he do? He takes lessons from the genetic memory. He begins to live and dress like his medieval ancestor. He chooses to live a life that is shabby, smelly, without style, and without a sense of dressing. Moreover, the western women of our generation have also begun liking such men as their genetic memory perhaps tells them that these men are virile and hetero with whom they have a possibility of mating.

I chose to talk of this as I have lived/worked with and suffered first hand the assumptions of western men and women that a certain man, because he cares about his appearance, his hygiene, his body, is gay. And in Europe it is very difficult to find a heterosexual man who is clean, who is well groomed, does not smell of sweat, and has a well maintained physique. Don’t get me wrong, there are always exceptions with every norm in everything. But I am talking about the majority.

And these men and women no matter what corner of the world they go to, they always carry their “scale” to measure “gay-ness” of people around. Most do not understand Asian culture, Latin American culture, North and South American culture and judge men from these lands with the same scale. According to my observation the North American population has been the non-European people most inspired by this European mindset. However, it is still less common to come across a heterosexual man in the US who is smelly, dirty, and shabby like European heterosexual men.

The most common things that will make Europeans think that you are a gay man are:

1. You care for your physique, exercise regularly, do not shy away from showing it off.
2. You use fragrances on a daily basis.
3. You shave or groom your facial hair regularly.
4. The hair on your head (if you have it) is well maintained or shaved off.
5. You often click pictures of yourself.
6. You do not make funny faces while appearing in photos.
7. You shave or groom your body hair.
8. You don’t behave like a dog in heat when you see an attractive woman.
9. You do not have a girlfriend.
10. You do not indulge “openly” in sexual affairs with women.

Now there are other criteria too. And certainly there must be many I am unaware of. But the above mentioned ones have been used to judge me (I am not gay) and many friends and acquaintances of mine who I know are heterosexual. Well, European homophobes, if you are reading this, try to understand that other cultures do not fear homosexuality like you do. And what about bixsexuality? How would you mark the bisexual men? And now that you have reached the end of this write up/rant/analysis, go ahead and take a bath. It won’t really make you gay.

— Rishiraj

Standard
Brooding

Distant Diaries Part 01

Morning, unknown day, some time in the late eighties:

Mother holds me from the arm pits. Raises me high and lies down on her back. There is a smile on her face. My gaze is fixated at the mole on her left cheek. I am euphoric.

Evening, unknown day, some time in the late eighties:

Streetlamps are passing from the view slowly. It is a bit dark. Everything is clean, different. Everything is Christian. Elizabeth gifts me a gum. Mrs. Thomas asks me if I like it. I sense sadness in her eyes. I will have no idea of the cause till years later.

Afternoon, unknown day, some time in the late eighties:

I am running among the trees at home. All is green and lush. The wind is strong. I have a day off from the school. Father is about to come. I am happy.

Afternoon, unknown day, some time in the late eighties:

My cousin and I, we, are sitting back to back and studying in the garden of the home. Mother is by our side. All is safe. All is sure. All is ecstatic.

Evening, unknown day, some time in the late nineties:

I am running by the streetlamps. It is a bit dark. Everything is not Christian anymore. It is raining heavily. Somewhere in the distance someone is playing Moby’s theme of James Bond, something strange in that small town.

— Rishiraj

Standard
Brooding

NOBEL AND DEATH

Literature is not my cup of tea. It has never been. Or so I am forced to think when I see the people who really are famous for either their literature or their love of it. Literature as I see is the thing what some nerdy, intelligent looking, spectacled people do in closed circles of themselves that other people like us will never be able to enter. Or understand. Even most of the conversations with people who “do literature” are kind of incomprehensible for me. I feel like an idiot after those conversations. Most “outsiders” like me think that literature is about reading and writing, but on such a high level that we can never reach or even touch. I also read and write. But my writing is not worth reading and my reading is not worth mentioning. They are both negligible and cheap. And chaotic. I have read very few short stories and even fewer novels. So that makes me a man who is looking at the stadium wall from the dark alleys of slums while our lady literature is playing her game within, in the spotlight, before thousands of her admirers and spectators. Most of what I have read is poetry. And that too never caring about any detail, any popularity, any hidden meanings, any esoterism, any of those things that those literary folks talk about in literary circles. I have read poetry. And I have read it in the dark. Not braille. But see… I have read poetry when I couldn’t keep myself from crying for hours and could find solace in nothing else but verses written by someone. I have read poetry for keeping myself from killing people who wronged me. I have read poetry on the brink of committing suicide in order to convince myself against doing it. And let me tell you I have read poems half that I never read complete because the first three lines stopped me from breaking somebody’s face. I have read a verse here, a verse there, not caring about the meter or rhyme, or even what the poet “wanted to say” because I read what I wanted to read. I have read cheap songwriters choosing them over Shakespeare in moments when that seemed necessary and I have cried over youtube recitals of Shakespeare for hours and hours. So I am not a man of literature. I have no authority of speaking about it. And hence, without that authority I speak what I have to.

This year Bob Dylan won the Nobel prize of literature. The people of literature didn’t like it. He says nothing deep enough to win such a prize when there are deeper people in deeper circles of literature expressing much deeper stuff. I don’t know what that means. I have read in the past one or two writers who won the Nobel of literature. These writers were good. Such use of language! Such activism in the society! Such “natural poetry” that whatever they write “scrambled eggs” or “red on the breakfast under the table” is poetry. And these people said nothing to me when I was alone wrestling with my demons. But Bob Dylan did. Bob Dylan spoke to me despite my being an idiot who knows nothing of literature. I, the man who punches walls when gets enraged in the dark loneliness of his mind. I, the kid who screamed with arms raised above his head for hours just to be able to express something. I heard Dylan speak to me. Without belittling me for living in the “slums around literature”. I think they made a mistake when they gave the prize to Dylan. People like him deserve no prize. They live in our hearts. In the hearts of us all who look at the walls of the stadium. Another such figure was Leonard Cohen. Cohen was the voice I was hearing while dressing up in the year 2002 before leaving for the treatment of my “possibly terminal” illness. Cohen was the voice I heard in so many dark moments that it became the impetus of my own voice. I learned what was poetry from people like Dylan and Cohen. I know not those glasshouse poets who are heard and understood by other glasshouse poets like them. I, the outcast of the stadium where literature plays its big game, look on as Dylan gets a Nobel, and Cohen dies… I look on as “real poets” cry over the wrong choice of the candidate for the Nobel and stay silent at Cohen’s death with whom for me one pillar of the stadium collapsed. The stadium that I will never enter.

  • Rishiraj
Standard
Brooding

In spite of all the insults, all the suffering, all the despair, all the torment, we keep falling in love because it gives us a taste of divine. It is the only situation in which another becomes more important than oneself. And hence, despite our age, our physical condition, our maturity and/or our shortcomings we end up being subjugated by such an emotion, which when we see in others, we criticize, laugh at, poke holes into, and try to belittle. Love is our connection to the beyond. Unfortunately, this is either known by the great seers or by the ones in love. Everyone else is like some “deaf person seeing someone dance to music” as described by Nietzsche.

  • Rishiraj

DANCE TO THE DEAF

Aside