Journal entry - September 7th, 2014.

The night is still. The only lamp in the room glows and burns in a pencil thin flame, and the room is clad with a beautiful sadness. I am reminded of distant times when I lit candles with my mother and sister, sitting quietly around the warmth of the flame; there was a certain lovely intimacy about it all - the frequent power cuts, the candles, the dim, dancing lights you could see in every house on the street; so beautiful and dark the streets would get, and the dim candlelight from each home -  eerie, yet reassuring in a distant way..a sign of life in its essence - pure, uncorrupted by the mechanical, the routine, the familiar. 

I interrupt my thoughts to open the bottle of ink laying on my table - the familiar sound of the metal cap brushing against the glass in the pristine silence brings back memories distant and forgotten...vague..these memories, they seem inseparable from the writing process itself. I start writing, guided by the light of the lone lamp. The night is cold, unseemly of late spring. These words flow out on to the paper, as if uncensored by thought.

The light from the lamp 
Burned tall; a blue crimson flame.
The wick was parched, as was the mind
A searing intensity I held in my heart. 

A strange beauty lay in the air,
a cold night, late in Spring.
I lay there on soft, soft Earth,
She holding me in her bosom
And taking in the air so sweet, so pure,
I wondered, what a strange mystery it is,
to breathe?

Flicker on did the little lamp,
a gentle breeze did blow,
so tall, these shadows, like Goliaths,
did readily dance at Her will.
I lay there watching with ceaseless intent,
the swaying of the Shadow and wondered,
what a strange mystery it is, to behold?

And it seemed the night got quieter still
Save the flickering light from my lonely lamp,
seemed a blanket there was cast,
so pregnant with darkness, so utterly still
Nay, not the stillness or silence of isolation,
of desolation; but silence of great depth,
great fullness, and beauty.
'Twas the silence that gives life to the manifest.
My breath grew shallow, and I wondered,
what a strange thing it is, to listen?

As I lay there in my Mother's arms,
watching these mysteries in great delight,
their infinite beauty sinking deeper, 
the mind was as quiet as the night itself.
My little lamp was running dry,
and I knew it was time to leave.
A last little flicker, and the flame had burned out.
My eyelids grew heavy with an abiding peace,
silent witnesses to the first ray of the morning sun,
my weary eyes closed to a lasting repose. 

Do you play not to lose, or for the love of the game?

22nd June, 2013.

As I sat watching the NBA finals, something came to mind seeing the world react to the NBA finals – the heartbreak shared by San Antonians (and sympathizers) when the Spurs sunk game 6, and the joy (and ensuing trash talk) shared by Miami fans when the Heat cinched the title – do we play games (sports) for the pleasure of the game, or do we simply play to win?

As superficial a question as this have initially seemed, the more and more I thought about it, the deeper it seemed to get – I tried to find the answer to my question with an open mind, trying not to get too judgmental, whatever the answer, because whatever the answer, it would shed some light on who I am – rather, what particular set of compulsions or actions define this part of my personality. 

Alright – so playing to win. Most of my life, in most of the things I’ve done (like I said, the answers I found didn’t necessarily restrict themselves to sports) – I’ve done to “win”. So when I play a game with the intention and objective to win, what happens? Well, what happened to the Spurs in game 6 with 5.8 seconds to go? They gave the game their everything, but when they smelled the finish line, when they (probably, almost certainly, no matter with how small a part of their mind) started fantasizing about lifting that trophy, they softened. Hesitated. What if I make a mistake, taking this jump shot, or making this play, and so on and so forth. Then you recede, don’t give it your all – then, against all your wishes, you lose the game anyway. The losing team doesn’t care about any of that, they’re in there giving it their all. And they won, didn’t they?

When you play to win, something within you stops you from giving your absolute fullest to the game. And nothing, absolutely nothing other than giving a game your everything, will give you a shot at winning. Do you see the irony in this?  You play to win – so you become completely aware of everything you do in the game : when your mind isn’t completely in the game, and is in fact thinking about what to do and what not to do, you’re finished. Even if you win, it won’t be enough for you. 

Let’s say you don’t give a rat’s ass about winning the game – and you just play. Play your heart out. If you win, you win. If you lose, you lose. But you lose knowing that you couldn’t have done it any differently! When you play just for the hell of it, just for the love of the game, whatever the outcome of that game, it doesn’t matter to you. I find this just ever so subtle and beautiful – try this the next time you’re in a pickup game, playing whatever – even if it’s a game of bowling or curling you somehow got roped into. Play it like a kid, give it your absolute everything. Lose yourself in it – you will see that you enjoy the experience on a very different level. I’ve seen this. 

I’ve played sports in my life – tennis, cricket, basketball, what have you – always with the aim of winning. It was frustrating, every single time, knowing that I had more, and that I was somehow holding back. That’s the difference between the man who plays every possession like his life depends on it and the man who plays every possession with the aim of dominating the opponent. The difference is that one way is a beautiful way of living, the other is an ugly abomination, even if you have the world’s adulation.

Losing isn’t fun when you play to win. Winning means nothing when you play for the love of the game. That’s the beauty of it. 

Journal Entry, December 17th, 2012

Life will knock you about in the most unexpected of ways. You may think it’s all smooth sailing. The experience of life is what you make it – either you can take these blows and hide deeper within your shell, or you can stand up and reorient. Reorient yourself, so your life is as effortless as is your very breath. To live and to live intensely is the only purpose of life – not money, not fame, not people, friends, family, or all the crap that you surround yourselves with. When was the last time you did anything with intensity? I know I certainly haven’t had as much intensity as I did when I was four, falling repeatedly from my bicycle and scraping my knee off with every fall. I know certainly haven’t had as much intensity as I did learning my mother tongue, or learning my first words, or learning how to walk. Somewhere along the road, the intensity of life lost its expression, to be overshadowed by layers and layers of what I call my personality. This personality seems more inhibits me than defines me. Somewhere along the road, I made assumptions upon assumptions – assumptions so weak they would crack at the slightest tremor – assumptions which are apparently credited to holding my life up. When did I start doing things with expectation? What expectation did I have as a child, learning a language or learning to ride a bike, learning to throw a cricket ball? That I wanted to become an orator like Lincoln, a rider like Armstrong or a bowler like Alan Donald? I just did things. There were no expectations, and no fear of consequence. Why is it that we can still count on things we learned as children? It’s the purity of simply doing something with complete involvement and intensity. If only we spent as much time simply doing whatever we do with total intensity as we do worrying about what we like and dislike, we’d be a far joyous generation that we can even hope to be right now. The whole damn planet is going about finding out “what you want and what you like”, when what you like is in and of itself a collection of garbage from your surroundings. In essence, you and me are just carrying around unfulfilled promises and dreams, and slapping a new coat of paint on them, making them our own.

What story will your life tell?

Who will you remain after you draw you last breath? A conqueror of nations, a hero, a lover, a coward, a liar? What legacy do you leave behind, other than your possessions and your riches, that fall to the floor at the drop of a hat?

Did you ever give someone so much love that you didn’t care for reciprocity? Did you shed a tear in the wake of human suffering? Did apathy take over, or did you act? Did you bring misery to the ones around you, or did you make their living experience a little more pleasant?

Will people remember you by the empires you built? Or will they remember your sacrifices so someone else could? Are you content with being the storywriter, working to his heart’s content behind closed doors, or do you want to be the actor, that plays the part, bathed with glamour and spotlight?

Are you willing to be quietly radiant, like the sun, regardless of gratefulness or acknowledgment? Are you willing to acknowledge your ignorance of and your irrelevance to this cosmos, and embrace the humility that comes with this affirmation?

Are you willing to work without clamoring for the fruits of your labor and live life without expectation?

http://www.thehindu.com/life-and-style/metroplus/the-patriot/article863344.ece

What story, after curtains, will your life tell?

Message in a bottle

My dearest love. I think of you always. Your smile, your laugh, your eyes. You taunt me in my dreams, an angel of warmth, my shield against my darker self – so close to me. I reach for your hand, and you are gone, just as you came. I fear daylight; with each piercing morning ray, I awaken to my reality. The torturous routine begins – I try desperately to unbind the shackles your absence bound me by. I cannot shut out the deafening silence you left behind.

My dear, sweet, woman – whose visage was the only one my eyes sought in a crowded room…your mischievous smile, the innocent lock of hair that so gently swept across your eyes, the only hand that could hold my sway, when I was locked in eternal conflict with my own mind, the only bosom I could rest on when the world wore me down – what on Earth possessed me to leave your side?

My heart, my love, my soulmate. Was it Fate that led you to me, and Her cruel hand that drove us apart? Every lash delivered on me, every moment of agony and every ounce of anguish I feel, I consider Just retribution to every Tear you felled on my account. It is your Love that binds my every nerve and sinew on this island of Perdition.

I lay here, night after night, the sounds of the ocean my only symphony. I may never see you again, but this much I vow – though my body be broken, I will hold you in my heart so tightly…though I may die, my memory of you is indestructible.

My grace, my comfort, my everything…I wish you well, always.

Yours forever.

If we must...

I see a humanity without pain, hunger, greed or war; without fear, hate, disappointment or violence; without sorrow, discord, deceit, or death.

But if we must be painful, let us know the pain of ignorance;

If we must be hungry, let us hunger for wisdom;

If we must make war, let us make war on apathy;

If we must be greedy, let us insatiably desire selfless service;

If we must fear, let us fear a world without love;

If we must hate, let us hate injustice;

If we must disappoint, let us disappoint the naysayers;

If we must be violent, let us be violent, nay, passionate, in our work;

If we must weep, be those tears shed in the name of our brethren;

If there be discord, let it lead to ingenuity;

If we must be deceitful, let us cheat death;

And if we must die, so be it in the pursuit of a better tomorrow.

You have *five* unread messages.

Aah. I really feel like writing something serious today. Probably something deep and philosophical – something that will make my readers stop dead what they are doing, and think.

I open my laptop, power it on , curse the multi-core processor for being slow, and wait. Finally. The home screen shows up, I eagerly type in my password and crack my knuckles. Man, this is going to be a good post. I finally get a few hours alone, no noise, no distractions.

I launch Chrome. “Most Visited” – gmail, facebook. Aah…tempting. Just a few minutes to check my wall, maybe. The newsfeed floods my screen with posts – news articles, memes, pictures, some one liners, more memes, dumb opinions, some more memes. 3 notifications, wonder who. The thing about messages from long lost friends who find you on facebook is that there’s no such thing as a quick hi – I am in the middle of a rather happy reconciliation with such a friend, when I notice a little red light going on and off out of the corner of my eye. Not now. I realize I’m now giving programmed responses to  this chum of mine, my mind being more preoccupied with who could be messaging me on my smartphone.

Aah..I can’t take it. I do a quick butchering of the English language with a brb to my friend, and unlock my phone. Again, a volley of notifications flood the tiny screen of my phone – new emails and chats. I might as well have told my long lost facebook buddy to fuck off, I realize. This new tributary of distractions was going to take me a while to meander out of. I see a few emails from work – priority one. I take my time to type out replies, and move on to some personal emails. A sale on RayBans, an hour left to get a pair of Aviators for less than a hundred bucks. Damn, I need my credit card. I put aside the laptop and fish for my wallet. I find a note sticking out of it, hastily scribbled on a postit – Renew Library books. What books, I cannot remember. Maybe next time I need a reminder to read the damn books. I put my phone aside, making a mental note to reply to those chats on my phone.

I renew my copies of Time Management for Executives and Think and Grow Rich from the library website on my laptop, and close the tab. My facebook tab has its cursor still on “brb”, and it’s been over forty minutes. So much for reconnecting with my long lost friend. Giving up on that relationship, I pick up my phone again and catch up with my chat notifications. I’m just about to move on to the sunglasses sale when a calendar notification pops up – “Manager your life – Step 1: Write down time goals for daily activities” – one of the dumb reminders my past self has naively set for me from that Time Management book. That guy never learns. I dismiss the reminder with a condescending smile.  The facebook newsfeed on my laptop scrolls down with new updates from my favorite television show, I notice on my periphery. An hour or so later, still confused about the nature of the smoke monster, I realize I’m hungry. I get a sandwich and take a bite, when the bright glare of the mid afternoon sun hits me square in the face. My sunglasses! Shit. That dumb tv show just cost me a hundred and fifty bucks. Even as my phone starts blinking again,  my irked brain starts to see a pattern here.

Each distraction had branched off into a new one, and another, and another. I realize I am so far from what I set out to do that it is impossible for me to even try to allocate time for anything anymore. These distractions were making me dumber and less productive than a five year old. I don’t think I have ever had to set this many reminders for anything in my life when I was younger, and I remember learning a lot more and interacting with a lot more people. It slowly strikes that the constant barrage of distractions costs me dearly.  Not just in terms of money, time and friends, but possibility. The possibility of seeing something through to the end and reveling  in that joy.

My thoughts are interrupted by a reminder from my phone. “Write blog post.” I smile to myself and dismiss the reminder. Maybe tomorrow, then.