A LETTER OF MANY TRUTHS

My dear, perceptive reader, perhaps I have been too liberal with the words musings or thoughts. Perhaps what goes through my head are not thoughts after all, perhaps they are merely thoughtlets, stray clouds that pass across the blue sky of consciousness. Perhaps you think me pretentious and stuck up. On the other hand, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you even like me a little. Perhaps by virtue of my letters to you, for that is what this address holds, my letters to you, you have formed a picture of me. Perhaps the picture you formed is accurate, perhaps it isn’t. Either way, I must thank you, my dear reader; for you have read the outpourings of my soul, and stuck by me no matter what kind of drivel I subject you too.

You see, that is the beauty of the letter, that sheet of paper on which there is a real script, a real hand, in real ink. It leaves a lot to the imagination of the reader, to construct the writer out of naught but that sheet of paper. While dealing with a letter, you must treat all on that sheet as fiction, and all in your head as reality. What was the writer thinking when he wrote that letter? Was he thinking about you, its grateful recipient? Was his mind wandering across plains uncharted? Look at the strong hand, the words fluid. Surely the writer was in good health. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he didn’t want his reader to worry about him.

A letter is that medium which allows dreams to come closer to reality, for what is reality? It certainly isn’t one fixed, immovable, stolid object. Indeed, it is fluid, like the clay of a kindergartener, molded to suit ones tastes. Your reality is shaped by the tint of your eyes, by your hopes, your dreams, and your memories. And if a letter causes your memories to change, to come closer to your dreams, then that is the way life should be. What happens when you are confronted by the fact that your dreams are…just that..dreams?? We live after all in a sea of perennial hope, and life is richer for a shattered dream than no dream at all.

One may say that in today’s digital world, with instant messaging at ones fingertips, we have no need for the institution of the letter. We may know all about the one with whom we converse in a matter of minutes. To such, I say, perhaps you miss the point. This is not about knowledge, but about that which sustains us all, our imagination. IM is too clean, too sterile; it doesn’t inspire one’s imagination the way a letter does. Have you never dreamt when you were a little kid?? Never dreamt of your life that shall be, of the people you shall meet?? Well, here is your chance to merge that dream with the people you did meet. A little indulgence in fantasy never hurt anyone.

But this is not an exhortation to dream big. It is one to dream small. Dream about what should have been, not what is. Dream about the next person you want to meet. Dream about how an old friend you haven’t seen in ages would be like now. Dream about what you would say when you found the person you know you want to spend the rest of your life with. Dream about that person from your past, whom you wish you hadn’t hurt, or about that girl to whom you wish you’d said more. Dream about your fiftieth birthday, and who you want to spend it with. Dream about that day when you are eighty, when a chess game is all you crave for, a chess game with a friend, a friend who once, wrote you a letter.

Dream about me. My letters to you contain a wealth of information about me. My dear reader, you and me, we have a past. Do not forget it. If I ever hurt you, my dear reader, forgive, but do not forget, and be assured I won’t either. If I ever delighted you, treasure that memory for ever. Let your memories of me get mixed up with the way you wanted me to be. Bring this image of me into your present. Take it with you into your future. This is my legacy to you.

So, my dear reader, this, and all that came before, and all that shall come are my letters to you. It is a letter of truth, certainly. But that truth is for you to see as you wish. Read them, and form your construct of me. Make me a prince, or make me a pauper. Make me a poet, or an ignoramus. Mold your memory of me to any form you wish, for that part of me which I’m surrendering to you by means of this letter, that part of me in your head, is for you to do as you please. And send me your letters, so that I may do the same. Rejoice in the fantasies of the mind. But tarry awhile, and ponder this, dream free, for your dream is your own, and none else can shape it. It is yours and yours alone. Until next time, my dear reader, fare thee well!!!

THE WORD UNSPOKEN

My dear, perceptive reader; I was watching 'The Wonder Years' last evening and one episode in particular inspired me to pen down my first piece of verse in a long, long time. Now, i realize it isn't anything great, no rhyme, no meter, just vers libre, but i believe it says something.

Poets write, bards sing
Men from world over come… come to hearken
For that is the power of the word written
It can and does make gloomy rooms undarken
And you, my lad, strapping and young
Where goes you now? Partake you not
of words that drip like honey from their tongue?
Nay, say you? the sun is for souls unfrittered?
Words are fair, indeed…
Of rainbows and clouds they sing
But what knoweth they of the heart
That like a chime bell rings
Words brighten a room, say you?
Perhaps you speak the truth
But what, ask I can the word do
That a soft hand on the back cannot?
Leave I my heart in the frigid air of winter
Warm it certainly your words do not
Life is but a tapestry, words the dye
But look, look at the patterns beneath
And for my part say I,
Blow out the candles, let the room darken
And let me hear in the night the word unspoken.

Until next time then, goodbye, my dear reader.

SELENE’S BOW

My dear, perceptive reader, I come back to you today with an incident, an anecdote, if you will, which set off a rather…….shall we say, unusual chain of thought within me.

About half a week ago, I saw one of the most beautiful sights of my life, a lunar rainbow!! The light of the moon differentially refracted by the mass of the clouds framing her face, creating a ring of colours, like a halo around a saint, only this was no ordinary saint I saw that day, assuredly, it was a bearer of the passion.

But, unfortunately, I had on me at that time, no way to capture the moment. So, trudging back to my room, I put out my feelers by means of that most loyal of friends, Google!! On a whim, I searched for rainbow paintings, and found not a few, but absolutely NO paintings with a lunar rainbow as the artists muse. So I asked myself, as I ask you now, my dear reader, why the lopsidedness? Why are the bursts of vibrant colour considered the sole prerogative of Helios, who cries rivers of gold? Why is Selene (Luna of the Romans) relegated to a backseat, her display of colour considered merely an aberration, something adorable, no doubt, but yet not grand or worthy of immortalization through the hands of an artist? Why must this fairest of the gods; pale maiden with the very stars as her freckles on her fair visage, sister of the Sun, mistress of the silver chariot, dispeller of the dark, temperamental as a teenager and yet mature and consistent as a matriarch, why must she be marginalized thus? This favorite of many poets, especially love poets bathes the world with her silvery light, especially beautiful when it caresses the water of a brook, bringing the feeling of romance. It is said that Selene's moon rays fall upon sleeping mortals, as her kisses fell upon her love, Endymion.

Why do we express awe at the sun and its majesty and yet treat the moon as naught but a toddler, to be coddled but yet not taken seriously? All this does is expose a larger malaise in society, our inability to break free of the bias of the collective consciousness. We form our opinions based on the opinions of our fathers and are very reluctant to discard and/or change them.

To be very honest, I am afraid of the sun. The idea of so much power in the hands of something so temperamental, so unstable terrifies me. And yet, on the other hand, Selene like a mother comes out and coddles me each night. Even on the nights she is absent, I still feel her presence, and know she is watching over me and smiling. Her power is subtle, a far cry from the blazing infernos of her brother Helios, and yet it is no less strong. She is, after all, the mistress of the waters. From her immortal head a radiance is shown from heaven and embraces earth; and great is the beauty that arises from her shining light. But then one wonders, why is she not accorded the same status in the Pantheon as is her brother? Is it just a lack of fear, a narrowness of perspective? Why, my dear reader, does one not realize that the light of the moon, while just as useful as that of the sun, poses no threat at all to us. It is a benign light, a light born of the smile of a lovely lady, a fair goddess. And yet, she looks down upon us and weeps, but even in her weeping she gives to you, my dear perceptive reader, her “Rivers of Silver”.

BELLUM OMNIUM CONTRA OMNES

My dear, perceptive reader, one of the immortal classics of socio-political literature is Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes, written in 1651. The purpose of this post is solely to discuss the aforementioned phrase, famous today perhaps in a context different from that which Hobbes originally intended. Literally translated, it means ‘The war of every man against every other’. Hobbes intended it to refer to the concept of civil war, and how a strong governmental figure was required to counter these particular urges of man. I shall add a twist to the interpretation, and use it to discuss the concepts of Darwinian evolution and the eternal battle of idealism vs. realism.

Most believe the concepts of Darwinian evolution to be the ultimate expression of anthropocentrism, and thus it is consciously rejected by many ecologists, deep or otherwise. On the other hand, phrases such as ‘for the greater good of the species’ give middle aged couch potatoes and emotionally repressed housewives a warm glow in the belly. It is a comfortable thought, is it not? Unfortunately, the reality is as far removed from this as the earth from the sun. To quote again from Hobbes, ‘The life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short’. A human thinks first ONLY of himself, for himself. Here, we see a shift from anthropocentrism to egocentrism, in a manner of speaking (I know the parallel is not exact, but it is the best I could come up with). Even those few ‘enlightened’ souls (note the inverted commas) who claim to put society over their selves are only deluding themselves. No one, and I mean no one, is going to act for the greater good if it harms them. It’s just not done. Not only is it impossible, but quite frankly, it is inconceivable. This is the proverbial ‘Tragedy of the Commons’. Once more, I am certain I am in for a load full of protests from all quarters, but I believe I owe it to myself.

My dear reader, I’m fairly certain that by now, you have figured out how I plan to extrapolate the argument to the idealism vs. realism debate. Nevertheless, I shall take the liberty of boring you a little further, more for my own benefit than yours. Idealists seem to believe that life is a bed of roses, devoid of thorns, of course. They actually believe that faith can move mountains. However, using a truncated form of Hobbes again, ‘The life of man is solitary’. Each man follows his individual path in life, independent of any and all others. And, considering for instance, India herself, that’s more than a billion paths. Now, as any statistics student would easily tell you, the larger the cardinality of any sample space, the more consistent the statistical mean will be, more immune to the minor deviations introduced by the vagaries of individuals. My point is this; the mean path which, in turn, is the path of the entire country, is invariant, regardless of the actions of any person. This is what sociologists call ‘Social Inertia’, and in a society the size of our country, that inertia is immense!! While we have all the power to choose our own actions and influence our own fates, the same is not true for the whole. More on this, you my dear reader must have already seen here.

With this, my dear reader, I shall take your leave for now. I hope I have impressed upon you the wisdom of Thomas Hobbes and the seeming futility of idealism (note that I mentioned ‘seeming’, more on that later). As always, I look forward to your views on the matter. Farewell… until the next time we meet!!

A BREACH OF COURTESY? A PARADIGM SHIFT?

My dear, perceptive reader; I come back to you today with a short post about a little anecdote. Earlier today, as I was walking out of the classroom, I failed to notice a lady acquaintance of mine. Well, to cut a long story shot, she hailed me back and after a few polite exchanges, we said our goodbyes. No big deal, say you? Perhaps. But one point struck me. A few decades ago, in the Victorian Era, it would have been considered a heinous breach of courtesy to ignore a lady, no matter how concerned you may be with other, pressing matters. And yet, here, it was brushed aside as though it was nothing.

Perhaps my judgment is warped by the fact that I read too many novels by Victorian authors when I was younger, but those little niceties, quaint and outdated as they may be, have always appealed to me. As I cycled away from the aforesaid encounter, the delayed realization struck me!! Something had definitely changed. But what was it? Was it me? Or is it society has ‘evolved’ sufficiently to ignore such common courtesies? Is this the outcome of the ‘Neo-Hellenistic’ revolution?? Am I alone in having a problem with the turn of events?

With that thought, I leave you, my dear, perceptive reader. As always, I invite you to form your own opinions, and request you to share them with me.